Post by Ana Somnia on Apr 7, 2024 23:36:05 GMT -5
V.
“BLOOD SOAKED SALVATION”
W.C.A. FIGHT CLUB.
DENVER, COLORADO.
THURSDAY, APRIL 4th.
6:43 p.m.
“BLOOD SOAKED SALVATION”
W.C.A. FIGHT CLUB.
DENVER, COLORADO.
THURSDAY, APRIL 4th.
6:43 p.m.
About 45 minutes before the sun will set here in Denver, Colorado, the Mile High City savors the moderate temperature. The tail end of winter has been harsh across the United States, but Denver has been lucky enough to avoid the rawest of its elements of late. Outside, it’s in the low 70s fahrenheit, but within the confines of the walls of W.C.A. FIGHT CLUB the air conditioning has the facility bordering on frigid, just the way the owner likes it.
Even with the diverse array and expansive volume of athletes training inside the world-renowned combat sports facility, the humidity is well under control. When it comes to this establishment—like most things associated with EHWF HALL OF FAMER ANA SOMNIA—“under control” is a thoroughly unsurprising characterization. It is inside this very training center we now find the Pound-for-Pound Most Potent Professional Athlete on the Planet. She is clad in a white pair of mid-top Nike Court Royale 2s with white Nike socks, a blood red pair of compression shorts, a black, slightly oversized W.C.A.F.C. sweatshirt, and a black Forge beanie. As per usual, she also sports arterial red lipstick.
When we find the Last Empress, she is standing by one of the large windows lining the façade of the building. She peers contemplatively through the glass, her gaze falling upon the street outside as daylight begins to dwindle. Her arms are folded before her, her weight predominantly sitting at the front of her hips, a slight anterior pelvic tilt applied to stand more comfortably. Like the aforementioned humidity in the building, Ana’s breathing is controlled and subtle. Her expression is visible upon her reflection on the glass; there isn’t much to the expression, however. Deep in thought, she appears somewhat stoic. Soon, though, she draws a breath in through her nose and her eyes flick ominously to meet the refracted eyeline of the lens of the camera. She turns around and squares herself to the camera without unfolding her arms.
“There is Russian proverb,” she says, “Mama used to tell me when I was little girl. She used to tell me ‘О женщине судят по ее делам, а не по ее словам.’ A woman is judged by her deeds, not by her words.” Her eyes narrow slightly before she continues. “Too often in this sport, athletes do not have enough deeds by which to be judged. Too often in this sport, athletes are more talk than substance. But sometimes? Sometimes lack of deeds can serve as deeds enough for judgment. Sadly, this is case for Brianna Rissi, Casey Holliday, and Naomi Banks.” Contempt permeates Somnia’s expression for a moment. “When I left EHWF and left sport, I believed I was doing so leaving sport in capable hands. I believed lessons I taught and examples I made would make athletes I left behind stronger. I believed this would make them wiser. Mistakenly, I believed this would help them become equal to task of upholding and representing sport in my absence, triumph of meritocracy I had devoted my life to building.” She shakes her head, a small sigh escaping her lips. “Instead, these athletes became nobody’s nightmare. They became triumph of mediocrity. I take this as personal affront. I take this as insult. I take this as invitation… nyet... as desperate plea to return to rightful place as guiding hand of industry… rightful place as Iron Fist of industry.” Unfolding her arms for the first time, Ana extends her right hand in a fist wound so tight her knuckles blanche. “For me to do this, athletes like my opposition at Final Destination must be brought to heel.”
“While these women should serve as Final Example, their defeat is merely first step.”
“Do not mistake these words for overlooking capabilities of these women,” she says, the slightest shaking of her head accompanying the sentiment. “I recognize talent and will give credit where credit is due, no matter how little credit this may be. There is reason I felt comfortable leaving sport in hands of women like Naomi Banks.” Not prone to concession, this remark is slightly surprising coming from a woman as notoriously self-centered as the War Whisperer. “For all of her words—and there have been many—эта сука has engineered many deeds of note. She earned her opportunity, this opportunity I gave to her. She earned this opportunity to show world what she could do outside grasp of my Iron Fist. But what did she do with this opportunity, hmm? Nothing. If we are to judge Naomi Banks by her deeds and not by her words, then her judgment is death.” During a brief pause following the utterance of this sentiment, Ana’s upper lip twitches resentfully. “I once believed she could have place in New Age, in future of sport. I once believed she could accomplish this; I believed she could reach loftier ambition in my wake. Instead, she must fall behind me like everyone else has. Every step of my wake is charred ground, and she will be no different—because she has proven she is no different.”
“I will go to ends of earth to secure future for sport.”
“Who stands in my way does not matter,” she says. “This has never mattered and this will never matter. I am burdened by purpose of greater importance than any individual. My loftier ambition is unfathomable by суки cut from same cloth as women like Casey Holliday. This is woman who has built career upon foundation of words, not of deeds. I have no respect for this. I have no respect for this woman.” Somnia shakes her head, the corner of her mouth curling as if she’s preparing to spit on the floor in a demonstration of her disdain, though the spit never comes. “This is not athlete I had in mind when making decision to leave sport over one year ago. Athletes I had in mind, their reputations were not gossip. Their reputations were fact. For athlete like Casey Holliday, reputation is just words.” Somnia’s open left hand billows out from her jaw for emphasis. “She believes sport owes her something. She believes sport will deliver unto her her loftier ambition because of her potential. But potential no longer means something once you reach grandest stage. Potential no longer means something when you must share ring with connoisseur of combat such as myself.” She flicks the pad of her thumb along the bottom of her top two front teeth, a Russian gesticulation. “If we are to judge Casey Holliday by her deeds and not by her words, her judgment… is death.”
“Champions are made by their deeds, not by their words.”
“I can admit Brianna Rissi is not without deeds,” concedes the Devil Herself. “In my absence, she unified my EHWF Global Championship with Divine World Championship. This is no ordinary feat, I can admit this. But she did not defeat Ana Somnia to do this. She did not defeat Ana Somnia to earn what she has done to brand I built with my bare hands. She did not defeat Ana Somnia to deserve what she did to Chaos, to EHWF.” Again, the Slavic Submission Specialist shakes her head, her tone growing more and more scathing with each passing syllable. “She believes she is cut from different cloth than her kin I have already defeated. She believes she is fit to serve as hand guiding sport into future, into New Age. She believes she is future of sport. Her pride will prove her downfall.” Somnia folds her arms back together before her chest, her eyes narrowing as she presses her tongue against the inside of her bottom lip and pushes her bottom jaw forward for a moment. “I can respect effort to do things her own way. I can respect effort to dismantle past structures of sport and rebuild foundation in own image, as this is what I have spent lifetime doing. But this endeavor is what I respect. What I do not respect is that these structures of sport, this foundation she has worked to dismantle? They are creations of my own. What I do not respect is woman behind these efforts. What I do NOT respect is THIS DISRESPECT! I do not take kindly to disrespect.” Her tone is far more of a snarl now than anything else. “Brianna Rissi—more so than Naomi Banks or Casey Holliday, more so than Remi Skyfire or anyone else on Chaos roster—has to her name many deeds. But she has to her name far more words than she does any deeds. And if we are to judge her by her deeds and not by her words, her judgment is DEATH! ALL of their judgments are death! Because when championship is on line, when future of sport is on line? When you step into ring with Undisputed? When you step into MY ring?”
Somnia does not care that her volume has grown prominent; everyone in the building knows her temperament and knows her passion. She maintains her vigilant eye contact with the lens of the camera as she inches closer and closer. Soon enough, she stands so close to the camera that we can more effectively appreciate her mint green eyes, though they currently burn with the wrathful intent of a Necessary Evil. She parts her blood red lips and gives utterance to her final, guttural threat.
“NO ONE SURVIVES!”
With this, she bares her teeth, her head slightly tilting forward so she can peer up through her furrowed brow. The corner of her mouth twitches animalistically before she presses her lips back together and offers a foreboding and nefarious smirk. Nodding emphatically, the Last Empress snickers and our scene mercifully fades to black.
“I feel my heart blister, a thousand ashes christen this skin. I feel my fists curl, God held to the ground and bludgeoned, beaten to fucking death. Oh my goddamn, to stand above my lord with hands covered in blood-soaked salvation.”
— Boundaries
Even with the diverse array and expansive volume of athletes training inside the world-renowned combat sports facility, the humidity is well under control. When it comes to this establishment—like most things associated with EHWF HALL OF FAMER ANA SOMNIA—“under control” is a thoroughly unsurprising characterization. It is inside this very training center we now find the Pound-for-Pound Most Potent Professional Athlete on the Planet. She is clad in a white pair of mid-top Nike Court Royale 2s with white Nike socks, a blood red pair of compression shorts, a black, slightly oversized W.C.A.F.C. sweatshirt, and a black Forge beanie. As per usual, she also sports arterial red lipstick.
When we find the Last Empress, she is standing by one of the large windows lining the façade of the building. She peers contemplatively through the glass, her gaze falling upon the street outside as daylight begins to dwindle. Her arms are folded before her, her weight predominantly sitting at the front of her hips, a slight anterior pelvic tilt applied to stand more comfortably. Like the aforementioned humidity in the building, Ana’s breathing is controlled and subtle. Her expression is visible upon her reflection on the glass; there isn’t much to the expression, however. Deep in thought, she appears somewhat stoic. Soon, though, she draws a breath in through her nose and her eyes flick ominously to meet the refracted eyeline of the lens of the camera. She turns around and squares herself to the camera without unfolding her arms.
“There is Russian proverb,” she says, “Mama used to tell me when I was little girl. She used to tell me ‘О женщине судят по ее делам, а не по ее словам.’ A woman is judged by her deeds, not by her words.” Her eyes narrow slightly before she continues. “Too often in this sport, athletes do not have enough deeds by which to be judged. Too often in this sport, athletes are more talk than substance. But sometimes? Sometimes lack of deeds can serve as deeds enough for judgment. Sadly, this is case for Brianna Rissi, Casey Holliday, and Naomi Banks.” Contempt permeates Somnia’s expression for a moment. “When I left EHWF and left sport, I believed I was doing so leaving sport in capable hands. I believed lessons I taught and examples I made would make athletes I left behind stronger. I believed this would make them wiser. Mistakenly, I believed this would help them become equal to task of upholding and representing sport in my absence, triumph of meritocracy I had devoted my life to building.” She shakes her head, a small sigh escaping her lips. “Instead, these athletes became nobody’s nightmare. They became triumph of mediocrity. I take this as personal affront. I take this as insult. I take this as invitation… nyet... as desperate plea to return to rightful place as guiding hand of industry… rightful place as Iron Fist of industry.” Unfolding her arms for the first time, Ana extends her right hand in a fist wound so tight her knuckles blanche. “For me to do this, athletes like my opposition at Final Destination must be brought to heel.”
“While these women should serve as Final Example, their defeat is merely first step.”
“Do not mistake these words for overlooking capabilities of these women,” she says, the slightest shaking of her head accompanying the sentiment. “I recognize talent and will give credit where credit is due, no matter how little credit this may be. There is reason I felt comfortable leaving sport in hands of women like Naomi Banks.” Not prone to concession, this remark is slightly surprising coming from a woman as notoriously self-centered as the War Whisperer. “For all of her words—and there have been many—эта сука has engineered many deeds of note. She earned her opportunity, this opportunity I gave to her. She earned this opportunity to show world what she could do outside grasp of my Iron Fist. But what did she do with this opportunity, hmm? Nothing. If we are to judge Naomi Banks by her deeds and not by her words, then her judgment is death.” During a brief pause following the utterance of this sentiment, Ana’s upper lip twitches resentfully. “I once believed she could have place in New Age, in future of sport. I once believed she could accomplish this; I believed she could reach loftier ambition in my wake. Instead, she must fall behind me like everyone else has. Every step of my wake is charred ground, and she will be no different—because she has proven she is no different.”
“I will go to ends of earth to secure future for sport.”
“Who stands in my way does not matter,” she says. “This has never mattered and this will never matter. I am burdened by purpose of greater importance than any individual. My loftier ambition is unfathomable by суки cut from same cloth as women like Casey Holliday. This is woman who has built career upon foundation of words, not of deeds. I have no respect for this. I have no respect for this woman.” Somnia shakes her head, the corner of her mouth curling as if she’s preparing to spit on the floor in a demonstration of her disdain, though the spit never comes. “This is not athlete I had in mind when making decision to leave sport over one year ago. Athletes I had in mind, their reputations were not gossip. Their reputations were fact. For athlete like Casey Holliday, reputation is just words.” Somnia’s open left hand billows out from her jaw for emphasis. “She believes sport owes her something. She believes sport will deliver unto her her loftier ambition because of her potential. But potential no longer means something once you reach grandest stage. Potential no longer means something when you must share ring with connoisseur of combat such as myself.” She flicks the pad of her thumb along the bottom of her top two front teeth, a Russian gesticulation. “If we are to judge Casey Holliday by her deeds and not by her words, her judgment… is death.”
“Champions are made by their deeds, not by their words.”
“I can admit Brianna Rissi is not without deeds,” concedes the Devil Herself. “In my absence, she unified my EHWF Global Championship with Divine World Championship. This is no ordinary feat, I can admit this. But she did not defeat Ana Somnia to do this. She did not defeat Ana Somnia to earn what she has done to brand I built with my bare hands. She did not defeat Ana Somnia to deserve what she did to Chaos, to EHWF.” Again, the Slavic Submission Specialist shakes her head, her tone growing more and more scathing with each passing syllable. “She believes she is cut from different cloth than her kin I have already defeated. She believes she is fit to serve as hand guiding sport into future, into New Age. She believes she is future of sport. Her pride will prove her downfall.” Somnia folds her arms back together before her chest, her eyes narrowing as she presses her tongue against the inside of her bottom lip and pushes her bottom jaw forward for a moment. “I can respect effort to do things her own way. I can respect effort to dismantle past structures of sport and rebuild foundation in own image, as this is what I have spent lifetime doing. But this endeavor is what I respect. What I do not respect is that these structures of sport, this foundation she has worked to dismantle? They are creations of my own. What I do not respect is woman behind these efforts. What I do NOT respect is THIS DISRESPECT! I do not take kindly to disrespect.” Her tone is far more of a snarl now than anything else. “Brianna Rissi—more so than Naomi Banks or Casey Holliday, more so than Remi Skyfire or anyone else on Chaos roster—has to her name many deeds. But she has to her name far more words than she does any deeds. And if we are to judge her by her deeds and not by her words, her judgment is DEATH! ALL of their judgments are death! Because when championship is on line, when future of sport is on line? When you step into ring with Undisputed? When you step into MY ring?”
Somnia does not care that her volume has grown prominent; everyone in the building knows her temperament and knows her passion. She maintains her vigilant eye contact with the lens of the camera as she inches closer and closer. Soon enough, she stands so close to the camera that we can more effectively appreciate her mint green eyes, though they currently burn with the wrathful intent of a Necessary Evil. She parts her blood red lips and gives utterance to her final, guttural threat.
“NO ONE SURVIVES!”
With this, she bares her teeth, her head slightly tilting forward so she can peer up through her furrowed brow. The corner of her mouth twitches animalistically before she presses her lips back together and offers a foreboding and nefarious smirk. Nodding emphatically, the Last Empress snickers and our scene mercifully fades to black.
“I feel my heart blister, a thousand ashes christen this skin. I feel my fists curl, God held to the ground and bludgeoned, beaten to fucking death. Oh my goddamn, to stand above my lord with hands covered in blood-soaked salvation.”
— Boundaries
