Post by Deleted on May 2, 2021 22:49:31 GMT -5
Changes come.
It was a lesson that she knew all too well.
Trigger Warning:
This promo may contain depictions of violence, sexual assault, substance abuse, and brief nudity. Censorship may vary depending on your streaming provider.
::: 6/10 Studios Presents :::
MML.2021.009/J - REUNION
- April 21st -
'Here I lay, still and breathless...' were the words coming from the speaker of Magdalena Lockheart's phone. The hauntingly hollow echoey reverberations in the opening beats of Mike Shinoda's remixed version of "Passenger" by Deftones didn't sound all that different underwater.
As we see her, she was bare, down to the plethora of ink and the vast, varying scars of her skin. The stories were all there, the cover of the book pulled back and the pages folded wide open for ease of view. Her mako-infused chaos emerald eyes were staring upward at a fixed point among the nicotine-stained ceiling tiles in some ratty, outdated motel bathroom located somewhere between Indianapolis and wherever it was she was planning on going to next.
When our view is widened, we see that she was flat on her back in a bathtub, her silvery locks splayed in the water, soaking in what little soap that was responsible for the patchy swaths of bubbles surrounding her naked frame. The sudzy brine enveloping the lower-half of her body left Maggie in no immediate danger of drowning, yet lying there among it as she was, she was barely breathing nonetheless.
If you could see past the fuzzy, pixelated censor squares you'd see her chest rising ever so slightly, and falling at about half that pace. You'd watch as the angle that you've been given would trace its way down her body, towards her navel, where'd you catch a one-time-only glimpse of some of her tattoos that many had not seen before.
...and you would notice that while some of her tattoos have scars marring what was once flawless, painstakingly hand-drawn work; you'd also notice a scar from the base of her stomach going downward where the tattoo that had been put there was placed as a cover-up.
It was the only such type of its kind.
Immediately switching our focus, on the tile floor next to the porcelain tub sits an orange pill-bottle on its side; white oblong tablets spilled out around it and the safety cap to that bottle that sat about an inch or so away. What we can see of the label reads:
MAGDALENA LOCKHEA-
VICODIN HP 10MG/30-
TAKE 1 TABLET BY MO-
FOR SEVERE MIGRAIN-
A short distance from that is another container, a 750ml curvy glass bottle of Patrón Silver. While the bottle remains upright and the unique rounded cork stopper still in place, it's immediately clear that this bottle is at least as empty as the bathtub is, if not a bit more. Had she been hurting? Were the migraines coming back?
As the song continued to play in the background, Maggie's lips parted with a gaspy breath. "He's in my head," she murmured, never once breaking eye-contact with the ceiling. "He's in my head," she repeated, this time there was a sense of assuredness and defeat in her tone. She sighed. "He's in my head," she whispered a third time. She closed her eyes and sank herself deeper in the tub, and that's when the music... stopped.
Maggie would have reacted more strongly if she hadn't drank herself into a chemically-induced stupor. She barely cracked her eyelids just enough to see the outline of a woman standing over her at the edge of the tub, her arms folded in regret. She peered down upon Maggie's naked form with glowing green eyes through the holes of an iron mask. She spoke only one word to Maggie but said it in deep, commanding growl:
"Pathetic."
- The Morning of April 21st -
"Miss Magdalena Lockheart's house,
this is Gary Morrison speaking."
"Hello, is Magdalena there?
I'd like to speak with her please."
I'd like to speak with her please."
"No, I'm afraid she's unavailable at the moment.
But if you'd like you can leave a message.
May I ask who's calling?"
"This is her Doctor - Doctor Gordon.
I need to talk to her as soon as possible.
She's not answering her cell."
I need to talk to her as soon as possible.
She's not answering her cell."
"Oh, well, in that case she's probably still on the road.
Why, is there something wrong?"
"She left the Coliseum in a hurry last night,
and failed to perform her standard concussion test.
As far as I know it doesn't seem like she made her flight back to Baltimore either."
and failed to perform her standard concussion test.
As far as I know it doesn't seem like she made her flight back to Baltimore either."
I wasn't aware she missed her flight home."
"Have her call me the moment that you come in contact with her.
Okay?"
Okay?"
"Oh, alright, will do."
- The Evening of April 21st -
The storm seemed to follow Maggie along her journey. The windshield wipers of the white muscle car that Lockheart had commandeered were now swaying to the rhythm of the music that was now playing through the stereo.
You already know the song.
It was dark again. Maggie had wasted the better part of a day sobering up after last night's foray into the world of mixing pills and drink. She was clean now, at the very least. The black and white striped patterns of the referee's outfit were gone and replaced with clothes that she actually wanted to wear.
Speaking of, the white dashed lines and the various reflectors on the road seemed to fly along beneath her in their own kind of blur. This was all thanks to an engine that barely hummed as he hurled her eastward down I-70 in a speed surpassing the road's own number with nothing but the cars that she passed along the way and the spray from the tires in her wake.
The faint glow of street lights and the beams from other cars came through to her like starbursts and troubled her with glare. It was painful, she tried her best to focus solely on keeping the vehicle squarely within its lane. But it was getting harder to keep both hands on the steering wheel, especially when every-so-often it felt like someone was trying to pry the medical plate out from under the scar and off of her skull with an old, rusty screwdriver.
Sure, she had the pills - plastic bottle, white cap, in the purse next to her wallet - right there on the passenger seat. But she wasn't about to make that mistake again; not unless she really had to, and it was getting to that point.
It had grown into one of the longest trips that she had ever driven in her entire life without a break. Every so often she'd notice her hand creeping up to the site to the scar on her head, the sharp prodding making her wish that she'd have just taken a plane instead.
"I'm living inside your head rent-free babydoll."
Maggie gasped and jerked the wheel to the right inadvertently as she snapped her head in that direction. For a split-second, in less time than it takes to blink, she could have swore that she saw Don Tirri sitting in the passenger seat next to her, grinning.
"No no no no no-"
She quickly collected both herself and the car, putting the tires back between the lines where they belonged, and was lucky enough not to hit anything in the process. She gripped the wheel tight, almost white-knuckling it as she sharply reduced her speed.
Maggie glanced over again. There was no massive Finnish monster sitting next to her. Just a little studded handbag that never hurt anyone. She reached over and touched it, just to make sure.
She sighed in relief.
Perhaps it was last night's opioid and alcohol cocktail, or maybe it was all of the head-trauma finally catching up to her. Or maybe, just maybe, Tirri really was in her head. After all, that would be a good reason why she left him that black rose. Wouldn't it?
A few more miles passed without incident and finally, Maggie was feeling confident again. But the moment she let her guard down she heard another voice.
"So, where are you taking us?"
Yet this time it was the gritty voice of the woman in the iron mask, a voice she recognized immediately.
Maggie turned again, this time doing a much better job of keeping the car straight and narrow despite moving her head, but she didn't see the woman in the iron mask, no. Instead she saw a little girl hunched over in the leather seat, wearing a tiny polka-dotted Easter dress while clutching a blood-stained stuffed rabbit to her chest. Maggie's jaw dropped at the sight.
The little girl was timid and quiet. She kept herself hunched over and away from the driver.
"Don't worry, little one." Maggie's lips moved and it was her voice coming through, but the words weren't her own. They were the words of a distant memory, playing itself back on repeat, "I'm going to take you someplace safe, alright?"
The little girl clutched her rabbit tighter. The pain on the side of Maggie's head was shooting, stabbing, and burning all at the same time.
She screamed.
Lockheart then yanked the car over onto the shoulder of I-70 and jammed the brakes until the car slid to a complete stop.
Her purse flew off of the passenger seat and spilled down onto the floor.
There was no little girl.
"Hello, may I speak to Amber Caldwell please?"
"Yes, this is she."
"Hi, I'm Doctor Theodore Gordon.
I'm Magdalena Lockheart's primary physician."
"Yes?"
"I have it on file that you are listed here as her main contact.
Is that still correct?"
"Yeah.
May I ask why you're calling?
Is she okay?"
"I was wondering if you might know where she is, actually."
"Wait, you mean to tell me she's missing?"
"She stormed out of the arena two nights ago and stole a rental car."
"And you're just now telling me this?"
"As far as I'm aware she never went to the airport and so far hasn't yet made it back to her residence either.
I'm afraid that she might be a danger to herself or to others-"
"Yeah no shit."
"They think that she may have left the city heading east,
so my best guess is New York, either to see you or-"
"She's... ugh... she's not coming to see me. No. Definitely not."
"Then maybe it's someplace else.
I'm thinking it's someplace that may be familiar.
Did the two of you ever go on any vacations or-?"
- The Early Hours of April 22nd -
The white pony car hummed as it came to rest in a nondescript parking lot in a spot away from the hovering streetlights.
The side of Maggie's head was killing her.
After slamming the car in park, she reached down for the purse on the floorboard of the passenger side and popped open the pill bottle without fear or remorse. The pain was just that bad.
"You never answered my question," said the masked woman's voice, though Maggie was having none of it. "Where exactly is it that you are taking us?"
Maggie swallowed a pill dry and rested her forehead down on the steering wheel.
"Why do you deny me?"
"Oh would you please shut-"
Maggie rolled her head just enough to peer over at the passenger's side. What she saw was unexpected, as it made her shoot right back up with her eyes wide.
There was a man in mid-50s, thick, stocky build, with a long full beard of fuzzy brown hues and shards of gray mixed in that made him look more at home in the mountains or mounted on a Harley-Davidson. She recognized him right away but she knew that it couldn't actually be him.
She knew it because she knows that he's dead.
"Jimmy?"
"Oh hey there squirt," he said affectionately with a warm smile that made her forget about the pain. "It's been a long time, huh? How's life been treating ya? Are things still going good with Aunt.... uhh..."
"Mary?"
"Oh hoo, right. Aunt Mary. I knew it was something biblical. So uhh, is everything going okay? You sell any more drawings lately?"
Maggie peered down at her shaking hands. She could feel the tears stinging the corners of her eyes. How could any of this be real? She wondered. For a moment she almost thought she was wearing a polka-dotted dress again.
"No Jimmy, I haven't done a sketch in years."
"What? Why not?" He asked in shock. "You're a damn fine artist, Lily. I wish I had the money just to give you so that you could go to art school. It's amazing what you can do with a pencil, little one. I swear."
But all Maggie could do was weep, and shake her head.
"I haven't drawn anything since my hands-"
Maggie knew what happened to them, what caused them to start to shake uncontrollably. But she knew why Jimmy didn't know, and knew why he could never know.
She landed on her neck awkwardly in a barbed-wire steel cage match about a year after Jimmy died.
"Well, you'd know what I'd do if I were you?" Jimmy went on as if she hadn't said anything at all about the injury, "I'd get in good with one of them tattoo parlors, meet some other artists and show 'em what you can do."
Jimmy didn't have any clue that Maggie went to a tattoo parlor. She got in "good" with an artist, just as he said, who then took her in as an apprentice. Jimmy didn't know that it all led to Maggie one day opening up her own shop out in Inwood, the Paper Street Tattoo Company, on the corner of third street just under the Metro bridge.
"There's good money in it," he instructed her with a chuckle, "Haha, trust me, I'd know. Maybe one day, who knows? I won't have to be spending hundreds on touch-ups, hell I'd even let ya do a whole new one on me, too!"
Maggie laughed through the pain as she dabbed the droplets away from her eyes. The rain was coming down on the windshield a bit harder now.
"You sure you got room for more ink there, Mister Jimmy?"
"Oh, for you darlin' I'd have 'em all removed just so you could start over again." He comforted her with his bright smile for one final time. "I'd do anything jus'ta give you a life worth living. I always figured that it was the least that I could do... after... well..."
Maggie closed her eyes, because she knew that he couldn't stay. She could feel him slipping away again, like he did all those years ago.
Nathan James "Jimmy" Cristion died in a North Carolina state prison facility a little over a decade after pleading guilty to the crime of manslaughter.
It was his blood that stained that stuffed rabbit.
"Where the hell is she Morrie?"
"I-I don't know, Amber. I thought that she might-"
"Might what? Come see me?
After what happened last time?
Are you kidding me right now?"
"I was just sayin-"
"Ugh."
"Do you think maybe she went to the parlor?"
"No. I checked."
"Are you sure?"
"The shops closed now anyway.
Been boarded up for months.
Paper Street shut down with the pandemic."
"Even with her sending y'all money?"
"Yes, Gary.
Hard to keep a business running with exactly zero customers.
Nadette didn't have a choice."
"Oh, that's horrible.
I'm so sorry.
What did you do?"
I'm so sorry.
What did you do?"
"Look, that's not important right now.
Finding Maggie is.
I know that she said that she grew up in North Carolina somewhere...
Charlotte, I think.
Did anybody bother checking there?"
"I don't know.
I'll make a few calls.
Any idea where in Charlotte or-"
I'll make a few calls.
Any idea where in Charlotte or-"
"I'm not sure.
She never really talked that much about it."
"Alright Amber, I'll see what I can do."
"You still haven't answered my question."
The rain was pouring down now. Maggie could barely see where she was going, let alone read what any of the road signs had to tell her. Seated next to her in the car was the woman in the iron mask.
"I know who you are," Maggie finally replied, the fear of the woman's presence a lot less striking now. After seeing all of these visions and hearing all of these echoes from her past, Maggie figured that she'd be just as well just going along with it. "I think you can take off that mask now."
"Pssh. You only think you know." The woman sneered. "For all you really know, Actress, I could be nothing. But in any case, I am what's been living inside your head..."
"Lemme guess," Maggie blinked as she tried to find the exit ramp between furious wiper blade swipes and the pounding of falling water smacking the car roof, "rent free, right?"
The steel-faced woman glared across the car at her.
She chuckled sardonically.
"What do you think you'll see when I take off this mask?" She asked. "An echo... A reflection, perhaps?"
"You know you're the reason why I ever got into this shit," Maggie responded as she flicked on her turn signal and started inching over to the next lane. "Auntie Mary and I used to sit down and watch 'CWA - Sunday Night Assault' on an old tube TV in the living room. It was the only violent thing she ever did let me watch, but she did it because she knew I loved you..."
Maggie glanced over at the steel hiding the woman's face.
"You're the one true Jenova," Maggie said matter-of-factly. "You're Lucy Wylde."
"Ahh," The masked woman almost seemed taken aback by her candid response. "Well then I guess there's no need to reveal myself to you any further... since you think you already know my secret."
It was awkward talking to her like this. Sure, Magdalena had figured out by now that this wasn't the real Lucy Wylde, (or Johnson as she was known by back then,) but for all intents and purposes, Lucy was the reason that Magdalena Lockheart started fighting in the first place.
But then again, Lucy didn't don the mask until years later, until well after she had married another young CWA star who at that time was going by the name of-
"It's alright," Maggie replied with her focus more on the road than her not-really-real passenger. "I think I've had all I can handle with other people's secrets and what they're willing to do to keep them."
Jenova laughed again. This time at Maggie's use of 'other people'.
"So are you going to tell me why you stole a car just to drive yourself out to a-?"
"If you're inside my head Luce, then you should already know."
"I do already know, Mags," She countered strongly. "Which is why I don't understand why you continue to deny me."
Just as the woman finished, the sharp pain in Maggie's head returned. It was a migraine brought on so suddenly and so sharply that for a brief while there, Maggie had feared that an artery had burst.
Clutching the side of her head with one hand, clutching the steering wheel with the other, she had no other choice but to relent.
"I need to get to the bottom of this. I need to get to the end of it-" she said between grunts, "I'm sick and tired of not knowing who I am or knowing what I should be."
"Oh, but you do know," the passenger offered, "You just don't like the answer. You like to think that it contradicts with your little world view. Like you couldn't possibly take on the mantle or the black legacy because of some fictional moral high-ground you only think you uphold!"
The angrier the woman got, the worse the pain became, until it was all almost too much to bear.
"What do you want me to say?" Maggie snapped back, almost pleading. "That watching you wrestle was a mistake? That drawing sketches of you was a mistake? That idolizing a woman who was going out there week after week and kicking ass with the men - that I was wrong for being your biggest fan when I was 8?"
"You never wanted anything to do with fighting until they..."
The scar on her lower abdomen.
The one, the only one, kept hidden...
The one covered up afterward by a tattoo.
Maggie remembered that night like a flash of lightning had just bolted through the clouds and came crashing down with roaring thunder through the windshield of her stolen Mustang.
"You were never a fighter, Maggie. You were an artist." The woman's demeanor had completely changed. "You act like you don't remember the real reason why you changed so suddenly and so drastically, but you do. You remember that night. Your brand new tattoo parlor had just opened up, and business was unusually good. You went out that night for a few drinks to celebrate. I'd say you got careless, but it wasn't your fault. You just didn't know any better, did you?"
"Stop it. Shut up." Lockheart gripped her head on both sides. She let the steering wheel go free. "I'm not doing this anymore-"
"How were you supposed to know that Jimmy gave his life for you, hmm?" The masked woman taunted. "That if Jimmy didn't run with that little girl as far away as possible, and hide her someplace safe, that they'd come back for him AND her?"
"I said shut up-"
"You didn't know that they'd found you, after what, twelve years of having gone successfully missing? You didn't even know you were hiding. But they couldn't just leave you alone, no. They had to finish the job. God knows that there's some truths out there worth killing for. If only you would have known how to fight back then... heh... two thugs wielding knives in a dark alley would have been a piece of cake-"
"SHUT U-"
"Isn't that right, Jenova?"
The woman reached up and peeled off her mask.
But it wasn't Lucy Wylde underneath it.
It was Magdalena Lockheart staring back at Magdalena Lockheart.
- Destination -
By the time Maggie had finally gotten the car to where she wanted to go, she was no longer sure of what day it was, not that she even cared in the slightest anymore.
After a long drive full of passengers that were "inside her head", the wheels of the stolen car had finally come to rest. The scene was that of a cemetery, and in the context of a professional wrestling promotional video, was about as hackneyed as a Don Tirri tweet, but sometimes it is what it is. The rain had finally subsided, and the car stood perched on some windswept rolling hills in suburban Baltimore, Maryland. Despite the dour sight of granite and marble obelisks stretching out (seemingly) as far as the eye could see, it was otherwise a pleasant day. Bright aqua blue sky, goldenrod sunrays kissing the cotton candy wisps of white, fluffy clouds.
Lockheart meandered away from the car over toward a gravesite that she had only visited once prior. She was checking her phone - first time doing so in days to be precise. Who knew that one little stunt would have everyone in the world worried about her?
"Hmm," she thumbed through the various messages and alerts. "Even Amber called. Go figure."
Her head wasn't hurting anymore, at least for the time being anyway. She figured that was enough considering she was expecting at least one last visitor.
Engraved on the tombstone she came to rest at was the name of:
CJ WYLDE
May 14th 1980 - December 23rd 2020
Maggie sighed as she looked up to the heavens. She threw her arms up as if to say, 'well, here I am.'
"You do realize that you can't blame Lucy for everything." A man's voice came through to her as though it had come from the wind itself. "That's not how legacies work."
As if right on cue, she saw him step out from behind a tall mausoleum. The view was striking to her, and odd, because except for watching him on TV, she had never seen him walk before.
To her, she had come to know him best as the man barely clinging to life. He was stuck in his own body, weighed down and tortured by a severed spinal column that rendered him effectively useless in anything but experiencing excruciating pain day after day after day. She was used to seeing him lying in that damn bed that was set up in his study; skin with no real flesh with which to hold its shape. A living, breathing man who had decayed almost down to his bones.
But out here he looked... happy. He had clearly taken the form of his most exuberant self, all groomed up and dressed as though he were ready for a night on the town. His auburn eyes matched the color of the cigar he had perched on the corner of his mouth.
CJ approached Maggie and they both met each other half-way, which placed them standing right overtop of CJ's own grave.
"So, whaddaya need, kiddo?"
The breeze passed between them and Maggie noticed how it seemed to make CJ's hair sway. CJ seemed to be looking back, too, as if he were watching the strands of Maggie's silvery hair briefly hide portions of her face.
"I didn't come here to blame Lucy," she stated as she took a step closer to him. "For months I've been going out there and getting my ass kicked just so I could find out who I am."
"Oh really?" CJ took a strong drag and hurled the smoke out amongst the breeze. "Come to any conclusions yet or...?"
Maggie took another step closer to him. Now they were face to face.
"I came here to blame you."
Wylde stood as still as a monument, frozen by her gaze.
"I did what you wanted. You needed to die. Against every fiber in my being and all of my better judgment, I pushed that damned button. I killed you, just like you asked."
CJ shrugged.
"Lemme guess, you're having regrets." He scratched his head innocently. "You know, if you are, I guess that is on me. And I would apologize too -- if I weren't too busy being so fucking grateful that you quite literally put me out of my misery."
"YOU HAD NO RIGHT-"
Maggie shouted, her words echoing throughout the hills.
"If you needed to die so fucking badly, then you should have CALLED YOUR FUCKING WIFE!"
Maggie shouted again as she stepped even further closer to him. CJ tried to back up as if he were in the way. But Maggie kept stepping until she passed right through him, dropping down to her knees as she shouted at the real CJ Wylde who was resting somewhere six-feet below.
Tears were falling from her eyes like raindrops as she pounded her fists into the dirt at the foot of his gravestone.
CJ stood and watched as Maggie repeatedly thrust her fist into the ground. She just kept punching as though he could feel it.
"I know."
CJ knelt down beside her, and spun to press his back against his own gravestone.
"You're right. You're absolutely, one-hundred percent, correct. You didn't ask to be... Jenova. You didn't ask to put the burden of my life on your shoulders. You were vulnerable, in a helpless spot, and I was too much of a coward to let Lucy see what I had become in those final days-"
Maggie wiped her eyes as she looked over at him.
"I'm not Jenova."
"Oh, sure you are." CJ clapped back dismissively. "You became Jenova irrevocably in the exact moment that you flicked my killswitch and watched me die. Sure, you hesitated. Fine. You knew if you did it there'd be no turning back... but you did it anyway. And hey, I say good for you."
"I only did it because you were suffering."
CJ took another puff before tossing his cigar on the ground. It wasn't real anyway.
"Well, if it's that simple, then why are you here trying to beat up a ghost?"
Maggie's nostrils flared.
"The ghost had it coming."
"Ahh, now there's the Jenova in you that I've been waiting to see."
CJ stretched his arms over his head and relaxed himself against the etched marble.
"Look, I'll tell you a little story, but it's only from my perspective. By the time Lucy ever first put on that mask and started coming after me, I was under the impression that it was because her grief had gotten to be too much. I hurt her. I did that. Me. I tried to push her away because I thought in the end that she'd suffer less. But I couldn't have been more wrong. In the end, I forced her into a choice. She couldn't love me and hate me at the same time, so, something had to give."
"That's when she became Jenova," Maggie replied as she looked him in the eyes, "still has nothing to do with me though."
"It's called reconciliation, kiddo," CJ said with a sigh, "and it's a fundamental law of nature. When you push things, or people, past their limitations, something always has to give. It doesn't always make sense. In the end it just has to be... acceptable."
"I understand that. But when you pushed Lucy to that point; when you hurt her, she wanted to hurt you back," Maggie added softly with her head hung low, "I'm not her. I don't want to hurt anybody."
"Oh horseshit," CJ sharply scoffed. "You've been wanting to hurt people... or at least this one particular person for years."
"Which person? You?"
"Oh boy." CJ facepalmed. "Maggie, you're a good kid. Nothing would have made me more proud than to have had the opportunity to raise you and train you myself, but well... that was never going to be the case."
"You didn't answer my question..." She replied, sounding eerily familiar to herself in a low, raspy tone.
CJ looked up to the sky.
"There's no easy way to say this. That night, in that alley, those guys... they probably should have killed you. Not because you would have deserved it. I just think what they did do to you was far, far worse."
CJ turned to her. He tried to place his hand on her back.
"They took everything from you. They treated you like you didn't matter, like you had no right to exist. And ever since that day you've been fighting, trying to get that moment back, as if there's some fight out there you could possibly win that would ever amount to a redo."
He knew about the scar, the one beneath her belly button. He knew about the knife, the torn clothes, and the blood that they spilled.
"No, I don't fully understand, but I do know who Magdalena Lockheart is. I know that she's been hurting herself for years... fighting to find meaning and hope in a life she feels like she already wasted ever since that one horrible nightmare of a night."
"You don't know anything about-"
"I know Maggie thinks she's doing the right thing because she thinks her life is pointless now. I know Maggie thinks that she'll never be good enough because they cut her so deep that she'll never be able to be a mom."
CJ stood up, and looked outward among the sea of marking stones, just saying aloud what he knew about her was almost too overwhelming for him.
"But Magdalena Lockheart isn't always right you know."
- Promotional -
"You said that you wanted to see the real Magdalena Lockheart."
As we fade in, we see the Level Up Final Boss Champion in front of the rear entrance of the Indiana Famer's Coliseum leaning back on the hood of her white Mustang. She's still in street clothes, but she's clearly come prepared as she has her rolling luggage standing on the pavement beside her and the big gold belt strapped around her waist.
Her eyes are hidden behind a pair of mirrored sunglasses which reflect the vibrant hues of the sunset in the distance. She appears relatively relaxed considering what's at stake in this very building in just a few hours time.
"You said you wanted to experience the real me; that you wanted to find that fire that burns beneath my eyes. So here we are. It's just us now. It's your trip, and this time I'll be the passenger. In just a little while, you and I are going to pass through the hallways of this building until we finally meet in the ring. It's been two long months but finally, one of our fifteen minutes of fame is going to be up. "
"Time flies and things change. Two months ago at EXP4 I came out to deliver what was set to be my champions speech. I was going to thank the fans, and send a message to 'all the boys' in the back. If you wanted a shot at what I had just fought my ass off to achieve, all you had to do was ask. I was only in it for the fight and to prove that I could be among the best of us, and I figured being the Final Boss was a good start."
"But then you showed up, Don Tirri. Your first act was to interrupt me, to shit on a moment that I put my life and soul on the line to achieve. You see, it really was all downhill from there. You could have told me that it was just a joke or some lighthearted ribbing when you faked like you were going to punch me in the face. Maybe I didn't understand you or perhaps I didn't take it the right way, but I always had the feeling that it was less of a playful hazing and more like you were just out there to save face."
"I have a theory, that you had already decided long before EXP4 and even Last of Us that you were never going to respect me regardless. Perhaps from the moment that you first ever laid eyes on me. But whatever. All I know is that night you made it your mission to 'punk' me on my stage in the moment that I earned and I don't know why. Maybe it was because of the fact that I excelled where you failed and that went against all of those nasty, hateful, hurtful things you said about me. Maybe it's because, with my actions, I shoved it all right back in your face like I said I could."
"But the jokes on me, right? Cause a part of me thought that I had done enough at Last of Us to at least earn some modicum of your respect. I should have known that something was up when you kept talking about my appearance that night or bringing up my tattoos on twitter. Yeah, I remember it all. Mr. Truth Teller, the anointed Patron Saint of Bullshit. You used to call me bland and basic all the way up until those labels didn't quite fit me anymore. Then, suddenly, poof, gone. Just like little Nicky. Funny part is, I know I'm not the only player in this game with ink in my skin, and I know you know that cause Lex has two full sleeves worth of work and you haven't said a fucking word to him about his. So I knew back then it was personal."
"But yeah, you talked big shit back then and ended up a bigger flop in the match than the Ghostbusters reboot. Then a few nights later you were back on the stream with excuse after excuse after fucking excuse. You talked like me winning the Last of Us was just a stroke of luck on my part, and maybe you're right about that in some ways. But you act like I didn't spend the first five minutes of the match getting headbutted by the legendary thick skull of Jack-fucking-Michaels a hundred thousand times. You act like my nose wasn't broken, my forehead split, and the rest of my face swollen in those first five minutes when you barely lasted five minutes total. You acted like I didn't go through pure unadulterated hell, over an hour of pure torture, and yeah, that's like spitting in my face. You act like everyone else just beat themselves up and I waltzed my way into being the first Final Boss."
"Listen here shitbrick, everything about what I accomplished that night was earned, unlike this title match you bullshitted your way into. The real hard pill to swallow here is that all of us wanted to be the Last of Us that night but the girl you thought wasn't anything special was the only one that did. Others came close, some were just one or two strokes of 'luck' away. But you weren't even in that category, Don. You weren't even in the ballpark. I know because I was there. Bert lasted longer than you and he was piledriven onto the concrete an hour before that, so whatever. Don't bullshit me about the chaotic nature of clusterfucks when that night you just clustersucked."
"But we don't talk about that anymore, 'cause ever since then in just three short matches you tripled your entire win total. I get that you're the challenger, whether I agree with it or not, and by god, you've had an impressive two-months going from Bert to Goat in no time flat. The Tirri-train is all hyped up and right now it's set to bowl through me tonight on sheer momentum alone... and that's all perfectly logical to anyone who lacks a brain. EXP4, You talked shit and pinned my partner in a multiplayer match. Great. EXP5, we get another rando multiplayer and boom, you pin my partner again. Wow, amazing. Two in a row? Somebody should get you a green power glove! ...or a lottery ticket, if we're going with luck as an excuse. Then two weeks ago at EXP6 you main event against the number one ranked Antonio Ricci and you somehow managed to beat him too with a little help from a steel folding chair and a shot to the little Riccis. Finally, for once, even I'm impressed."
"But to turn that around on me, someone who has never been pinned and never submitted since day one in Level Up... to act like pinning my partner's shoulders down to the mat while I'm stuck on the apron somehow gives you an edge against me in a one-on-one fight is mental gymnastics at its highest form."
"But I can't change the fact that the record books say that you've beaten me twice. The only thing I can do is raise the bar for what it means to be the Final Boss around here. And tonight, herein Farmers Coliseum, I may not have the advantage of momentum but what I do have is the knowledge that I won't be standing on the apron watching helplessly or wearing ref stripes when the final count is called. So far, when it comes to defeating me personally, forget about you, the entire roster at large still hasn't found the cheat code. But sure Don, you've got a chance, you can be Level Up Final Boss by the end of the night. Just do something no one else here has done before."
"I'll give you credit though, Don, you've done everything right since EXP4. You've gotten inside my head and you've forced my hand. You think you want to fight the real me, but this whole time I've been fighting to try to find out who it is that I really am. And the irony here is that, if it weren't for your constant poking and prodding, if it wasn't for you trying to live inside my head rent-free I might not have never made it to this point."
Maggie reaches back and unclips her title belt from her waist.
"Jokes on you because you and I both know you're a desperate man. Or at least you were desperate until you finally won a few matches, and got a little full of yourself. Time's still running out though and you still look at me like I'm your best chance at ever winning a world-tier championship. That's fucking hurtful, Don."
"You think you need to be the Final Boss because you seek validation. Validation for a life-long career that's just missing that one last little checkmark.
"But I'm a true champion, Don. I never needed to be this, or any other title to validate myself or any claim that I've made. You want it? Come take it if you can. But this isn't a fight anymore. It's war. It ends when I say it ends. You walk away if and only if I decide to let you walk out of it at all. Then, and only once that I decide that I'm satisfied, I might have you sulk your haggard ass back to Reno where your heart really lies and where you claim to belong."
"You've been living inside my head, yes, and congratulations on achieving that. But I'm Magdalena Marie Fucking Lockheart... having shit on my mind is something I'm quite used to. And I hate to inform you this, but, the space was never 'free', the rent's already well past due."
"It's time to pay up, Don. Tonight you go one on one with Jenova's Black Fucking Legacy. Look at what you just made me do."
