Post by Maylis Malpais on Dec 15, 2022 11:51:38 GMT -5
The color drained from her knuckles as her grip on the ropes tightened. She gritted her teeth, lips curling into a frown as sweat poured freely down her beet red face. Her legs shook and spasmed as she forced her knees to her chest, feet dangling above the ground outside the ring as if she were playing the most convoluted game of The Floor is Lava ever conceived.
Frankly, Maylis Malpais looked ridiculous.
Her hands trembled; her grip faltered. With an exasperated huff, she let go and landed feet first on the floor below. Shaking her head, she groped wildly for her phone and stopped the timer she'd had running. The shine of the screen in the darkened gym made her wince. 53 seconds, give or take.
"Recommence," she hissed, scaling the ring apron. In a blur of motion, she reset the timer, tossed her phone to the side, and clutched the ropes once more. Her hands — red, raw, and rope-burned — seared as she kicked her legs out and her body dangled once more, suspended mere inches off the ringside floor.
She clenched her eyes shut tight as the tape split and the rough fibers of the exposed rope dug into her flesh. A sharp pain radiated from her ribs as she drew a sharp inhale. The liminal blackness behind her eyelids flashed red. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Her lungs burned.
Her eyes snapped open, the world around her awash with the blinding flash of the ringside cameras. The roar of the crowd echoed in her ears, not quite loud enough to drown out the thuds and crashes on the canvas behind her. She shot a glance over her shoulder to witness the ongoing war in the ring — a blur of swinging limbs and constant motion. She gulped, adjusting her grip on the ropes as her slick hands threatened to give way at any second.
With her eyes glued to the ongoing carnage, she couldn't help but notice the way the combatants carried themselves; each the conquering hero of their own story.
"That's their first mistake," she muttered to herself, breathless.
"What is?" asked an unfamiliar voice.
Maylis' eyes snapped open once more, jarred from her daydream. The gym was suddenly illuminated, and before her stood a diminutive, hawkish man in a wool suit. Her breath hitched, her grip faltered and she stumbled as she hit the floor.
"Je suis déso—" she began before correcting herself. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to trespass; are you the owner?"
The man's lips twitched noncommittally.
"Who are you?"
"Someone with a vested interested in what you have to say, Ms. Malpais."
She winced at the sound of her name.
"So go on, tell me: what's their first mistake?"
Maylis drew a deep inhale, forcing a smile to her face. "Their first mistake is thinking something like CruiserHavoc is something to be conquered. Everyone from the favorites to the long shots are dreaming about the people they're going to personally eliminate, the records they could shatter, how it'll feel when they finally bring into reality what they've dreamt of this whole time.
"But how does the saying go — 'the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry'? There's too many variables, too much left up to chance to coronate oneself before the bell even rings."
A sly smile dotted the man's thin lips. "Some would say you can't possibly hope to win if you don't have confidence you can."
Maylis blushed.
"And overconfidence gets you killed. You have to respect the circumstances you're dealt. This isn't a match you conquer, or dominate. I'm not practicing keeping my feet from touching the floor to outclass or embarrass the competition. I just see this for what it is — a match you survive.
"And I think the rest of the field is focusing too much on being the killer than avoiding being the victim, Mister…"
He grimaced. "Please, let's not be too formal. You can call me Conrad. Mr. Dukes is my father's name."
He offered his hand to Maylis, who reached for it despite her apparent trepidation.
"I'll be in touch."
Frankly, Maylis Malpais looked ridiculous.
Her hands trembled; her grip faltered. With an exasperated huff, she let go and landed feet first on the floor below. Shaking her head, she groped wildly for her phone and stopped the timer she'd had running. The shine of the screen in the darkened gym made her wince. 53 seconds, give or take.
"Recommence," she hissed, scaling the ring apron. In a blur of motion, she reset the timer, tossed her phone to the side, and clutched the ropes once more. Her hands — red, raw, and rope-burned — seared as she kicked her legs out and her body dangled once more, suspended mere inches off the ringside floor.
She clenched her eyes shut tight as the tape split and the rough fibers of the exposed rope dug into her flesh. A sharp pain radiated from her ribs as she drew a sharp inhale. The liminal blackness behind her eyelids flashed red. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Her lungs burned.
Her eyes snapped open, the world around her awash with the blinding flash of the ringside cameras. The roar of the crowd echoed in her ears, not quite loud enough to drown out the thuds and crashes on the canvas behind her. She shot a glance over her shoulder to witness the ongoing war in the ring — a blur of swinging limbs and constant motion. She gulped, adjusting her grip on the ropes as her slick hands threatened to give way at any second.
With her eyes glued to the ongoing carnage, she couldn't help but notice the way the combatants carried themselves; each the conquering hero of their own story.
"That's their first mistake," she muttered to herself, breathless.
"What is?" asked an unfamiliar voice.
Maylis' eyes snapped open once more, jarred from her daydream. The gym was suddenly illuminated, and before her stood a diminutive, hawkish man in a wool suit. Her breath hitched, her grip faltered and she stumbled as she hit the floor.
"Je suis déso—" she began before correcting herself. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to trespass; are you the owner?"
The man's lips twitched noncommittally.
"Who are you?"
"Someone with a vested interested in what you have to say, Ms. Malpais."
She winced at the sound of her name.
"So go on, tell me: what's their first mistake?"
Maylis drew a deep inhale, forcing a smile to her face. "Their first mistake is thinking something like CruiserHavoc is something to be conquered. Everyone from the favorites to the long shots are dreaming about the people they're going to personally eliminate, the records they could shatter, how it'll feel when they finally bring into reality what they've dreamt of this whole time.
"But how does the saying go — 'the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry'? There's too many variables, too much left up to chance to coronate oneself before the bell even rings."
A sly smile dotted the man's thin lips. "Some would say you can't possibly hope to win if you don't have confidence you can."
Maylis blushed.
"And overconfidence gets you killed. You have to respect the circumstances you're dealt. This isn't a match you conquer, or dominate. I'm not practicing keeping my feet from touching the floor to outclass or embarrass the competition. I just see this for what it is — a match you survive.
"And I think the rest of the field is focusing too much on being the killer than avoiding being the victim, Mister…"
He grimaced. "Please, let's not be too formal. You can call me Conrad. Mr. Dukes is my father's name."
He offered his hand to Maylis, who reached for it despite her apparent trepidation.
"I'll be in touch."
