Whatever it takes.
Jul 27, 2023 20:10:01 GMT
Post by Persona Non Grata on Jul 27, 2023 20:10:01 GMT
Pedro Gonzales wakes up at five in the morning every single day.
It's a habit he's cultivated over the years through the various amounts of training he was put under by equally varied trainers. Wake up, put on some clean (or semi-clean) boxers, and brew coffee. For a half hour each morning, he allows himself to ease into the day by enjoying the temporary peace and quiet of the apartment while sipping his bitter bean juice from his WORLD'S GREATEST DAD mug. The mug itself being a gag gift from a masked menace and his furry friend never really stops him from appreciating it.
An hour later, Persona Non Grata opens an eye and silently curses out the sun as it peeks out from his blinds. He shuts the outside away, takes a shower to scrub off the debauchery of last night, and grabs a clean mask hanging haphazardly from a small clothesline. Masks can get musky if you don't wash them and given that said mask and the burden it carries is his entire identity, he attempts to take care of them. PNG nudges Mestizo with his foot until the strange little gremlin gives what could easily pass for a grumble in response.
Mestizo slowly emerges out from his fetal position with a hangover and, more often than not, a slip of paper stuck to his person containing a phone number. Talent scouts attempting to either get him to be their dog or scam him, drunk crazy people wanting to bang him, or something much more dangerous. None of them get a call because despite growing accustomed to human life, this menace keeps trying to eat every unoccupied cell phone within a five mile radius.
And now, breakfast. Bacon, eggs, and toast. It is here that Los Rebeldes begins the day proper on a lonely kitchen island. The inevitable calm before the storm.
"Another day, another promotion, another tournament to prepare for." Pedro voices his thought process allowed, talking to no one in particular.
Even if the others wanted to form words of their own, they don't. They can sense the implications in that sentence. It's not the first time they've done this. In trying to find a place (or multiple places) to find their footing, they have inserted themselves into tournaments. The routine was always the same. A promotion dangles shiny tag titles and says "fight for these". And because there is always a need for tag teams, they open the whole thing to everyone with a pulse. They train for it, prepare for it, and usually get defeated within the second match. Just enough to beat the bottom of the barrel, but not much else. It's understandable. They aren't established yet, but…
"Something about this feels different." Pedro wistfully chews on a strip of bacon. "This feels like an actual test. Two young teams on equal footing in Round One. If Strike 2 Kill is more solidified than us, it isn't by that much. They wander nearly as much as we have and they've done it longer than we have. That makes them more aimless. Even the thumbs up by Mark Storm doesn't change that."
PNG scoffs at the very idea of the placebo effect of Your Hero and Mine. Yes, he's a name and his approval can mean something. Yet ultimately, it all boils down to the ring and what happens there. He slices into the yolk and devours it. Mestizo--who has already scarfed down his meal--carefully steals a strip of bacon.
"But we can't underestimate them." The man once known as Mexico City's Favorite Son swallowed a bite or two of his own aborted poultry and charred bread. "Watson and Richardson are tough to beat and flow with each other easily. They are relentless and they won't be afraid to make us tire ourselves out. Which is exactly why we can't let that happen."
Pedro and Persona Non Grata share a look. The opposing sets of eyes mirror each other. It's a different kind of conversation, one that stands in defiance of words. It also isn't the first time they've had it. It most likely won't be the last. Two men made out of half-baked ideas and vapor-like whims exhumed from their graves. It's the first time for PNG and the latest of the string for Pedro. Fate brought them here and for better or worse, it's their job to make the most of it. The Successor has a brutal legacy to resurrect and the Leader has himself to resurrect. Neither one could revert into the men they used to be, nor could they come back to the place they were born and raised in.
(Sure, they could live in a Mexico City. But never theirs. There is a difference.)
Eventually, the conversation ceases in the way it does. Echoing nods before the contacts broken.
"Cueste lo que cueste."
PNG's eyes widen for just a moment. That was usually his thought. The words floating out of the younger man's lips shows that he's learning. It shows that he is actually letting go of what was. This realization causes a slight swell of pride. It's rare to be a part of someone's growth. Both of them smirk as they look back down to their plates.
…wait. Where's my bacon?
The boys briefly lock eyes again before pushing their seats aside and glaring at Mestizo. The maybe-Ewok hastily stuffs all the crispy pork strips in his maw, giving innocent puppy dog eyes.
That little shit.
It's a habit he's cultivated over the years through the various amounts of training he was put under by equally varied trainers. Wake up, put on some clean (or semi-clean) boxers, and brew coffee. For a half hour each morning, he allows himself to ease into the day by enjoying the temporary peace and quiet of the apartment while sipping his bitter bean juice from his WORLD'S GREATEST DAD mug. The mug itself being a gag gift from a masked menace and his furry friend never really stops him from appreciating it.
An hour later, Persona Non Grata opens an eye and silently curses out the sun as it peeks out from his blinds. He shuts the outside away, takes a shower to scrub off the debauchery of last night, and grabs a clean mask hanging haphazardly from a small clothesline. Masks can get musky if you don't wash them and given that said mask and the burden it carries is his entire identity, he attempts to take care of them. PNG nudges Mestizo with his foot until the strange little gremlin gives what could easily pass for a grumble in response.
Mestizo slowly emerges out from his fetal position with a hangover and, more often than not, a slip of paper stuck to his person containing a phone number. Talent scouts attempting to either get him to be their dog or scam him, drunk crazy people wanting to bang him, or something much more dangerous. None of them get a call because despite growing accustomed to human life, this menace keeps trying to eat every unoccupied cell phone within a five mile radius.
And now, breakfast. Bacon, eggs, and toast. It is here that Los Rebeldes begins the day proper on a lonely kitchen island. The inevitable calm before the storm.
"Another day, another promotion, another tournament to prepare for." Pedro voices his thought process allowed, talking to no one in particular.
Even if the others wanted to form words of their own, they don't. They can sense the implications in that sentence. It's not the first time they've done this. In trying to find a place (or multiple places) to find their footing, they have inserted themselves into tournaments. The routine was always the same. A promotion dangles shiny tag titles and says "fight for these". And because there is always a need for tag teams, they open the whole thing to everyone with a pulse. They train for it, prepare for it, and usually get defeated within the second match. Just enough to beat the bottom of the barrel, but not much else. It's understandable. They aren't established yet, but…
"Something about this feels different." Pedro wistfully chews on a strip of bacon. "This feels like an actual test. Two young teams on equal footing in Round One. If Strike 2 Kill is more solidified than us, it isn't by that much. They wander nearly as much as we have and they've done it longer than we have. That makes them more aimless. Even the thumbs up by Mark Storm doesn't change that."
PNG scoffs at the very idea of the placebo effect of Your Hero and Mine. Yes, he's a name and his approval can mean something. Yet ultimately, it all boils down to the ring and what happens there. He slices into the yolk and devours it. Mestizo--who has already scarfed down his meal--carefully steals a strip of bacon.
"But we can't underestimate them." The man once known as Mexico City's Favorite Son swallowed a bite or two of his own aborted poultry and charred bread. "Watson and Richardson are tough to beat and flow with each other easily. They are relentless and they won't be afraid to make us tire ourselves out. Which is exactly why we can't let that happen."
Pedro and Persona Non Grata share a look. The opposing sets of eyes mirror each other. It's a different kind of conversation, one that stands in defiance of words. It also isn't the first time they've had it. It most likely won't be the last. Two men made out of half-baked ideas and vapor-like whims exhumed from their graves. It's the first time for PNG and the latest of the string for Pedro. Fate brought them here and for better or worse, it's their job to make the most of it. The Successor has a brutal legacy to resurrect and the Leader has himself to resurrect. Neither one could revert into the men they used to be, nor could they come back to the place they were born and raised in.
(Sure, they could live in a Mexico City. But never theirs. There is a difference.)
Eventually, the conversation ceases in the way it does. Echoing nods before the contacts broken.
"Cueste lo que cueste."
PNG's eyes widen for just a moment. That was usually his thought. The words floating out of the younger man's lips shows that he's learning. It shows that he is actually letting go of what was. This realization causes a slight swell of pride. It's rare to be a part of someone's growth. Both of them smirk as they look back down to their plates.
…wait. Where's my bacon?
The boys briefly lock eyes again before pushing their seats aside and glaring at Mestizo. The maybe-Ewok hastily stuffs all the crispy pork strips in his maw, giving innocent puppy dog eyes.
That little shit.