Ready or not.
Jun 16, 2023 2:11:16 GMT
Post by Persona Non Grata on Jun 16, 2023 2:11:16 GMT
Once upon a time, in one version of Mexico or another, there lived a man.
This man was once a blazing star in lucha. He had comic books and even a few movies under his belt. He wasn't the biggest star in his circles, for there were others that were faster or flashier than he. However, he was notable enough to be somewhat of a household name. Back in those days, he was known as Persona. It was as good a name as any for the giant. The mask he wore made his face a void so he could be the man he chose to become. He remained faceless so he could mold himself into the Emperor of Gold; a man that could either ruin your day or salvage it by his will.
Then age and injury took their toll. Before long, the might of Persona was shattered by newer luchadors and the man had no choice but to step aside. As time would pass, his mythos would fade into history as a dream that the world of lucha could recover from. No longer would they have to deal with destruction dished out by their gilded god. And he didn't like it. Not one bit.
He started looking for a successor. Most in his position would pass the mask down to a family member of some sort. But he was an orphan and if there were any children made from his many one night stands, he never knew about them. Some days, he would go to his old friends' wrestling schools and watch them. Otherwise, he would rely on his own scouts to search high and low to find somebody worthy to take his throne. Many would come. Most failed. The few that had potential grew tired of his ways and would go elsewhere.
Then one night, a scout whispered in his ear about a pretender. This pretender wasn't in the ring, but in the underground fight pits that many down on their luck brutes would get into for a little bit of money. What was interesting about this particular fighter is that he was wearing a replica of the Emperor's own mask. The man was not amused at the prospect of this person tainting his image (or lack thereof) with meaningless bloodsport. In his fury, he chose to go to the pits unmasked and stand amidst the crowd. With any luck, maybe he could get close enough to stab the bastard…
That was the plan until he saw the pretender fight.
The mask was a cheaply made replica and it had been patched and sewn together with whatever could be found. It must've been a ploy to keep the crowd's interest in the chaos. But despite the hassles of reduced vision, it did nothing to stop the young fighter. He was a merciless brute with a desire to see his opponent bleed suffer. He was relentless and could take the punishment. Most importantly of all, this pretender was not an idiot. He knew when to strike and with how much force.
In other words, he was perfect.
It took some convincing. Yet ultimately, the man and the pretender walked side by side out of the underground, never to return. Years passed. Together, they would hone in the younger man's strengths and strive to convert his weaknesses into something much more workable. As far as the elder was concerned, he was going to make absolutely certain that this one would survive everything thrown at him. The younger had already accepted erasing his entire history in favor of this task. All they had to do was keep heating and beating the raw steel of youth into a perfect weapon.
Unfortunately, the one thing they didn't have was time. Cancer would slowly weaken the once mighty Emperor into a flimsy shell of what he once was. With his energy slipping away, he would have to unleash his adopted progeny out into the world sooner than he would've liked. Underneath a full moon on that final night, he would trade his underling's silver mask for his own gold and gave his blessing for the new Emperor to find his own well earned throne.
Ultimately, it wasn't the disease that fell the old man. Fate, in its own sick way, spared him suffering on a deathbed by causing a disastrous earthquake instead. It seems strange to think of being crushed by what used to be your house as a blessing. Yet the fact that it happened quickly and he chose to stay inside the crumbling estate on his own terms helps the strangeness pass.
Which brings us to today.
Persona Non Grata sits in a private jet with his phone in his hand, scrolling out of boredom more so than anything. Being a mute masked man on a commercial flight would be more trouble than it's worth. As far as he's concerned, if there's going to be trouble, it should benefit him with a fight, a title belt, or some cold hard cash. He's not picky on which one he gets. It would be even better if it was all three. Mestizo is curled up and asleep for this flight, a blessing in its own right given his annoying and feral nature. He is a part of the package and though he is bothersome, he can also be quite useful. Especially in the glitzy yet tainted landscape of Las Vegas.
As the plane begins its descent, a text message pops up.
Vuelvo a casa, hermano.
He laughs and types up his own response.
¿Por qué no vienes a Las Vegas con nosotros? Sería mucho mejor que estar sentado en tu habitación todo el día.
The bump of the plane landing jostles Mestizo awake who snarls briefly at the disruption to his sleep. From the void, PNG rolls his eyes and snags the ewok-looking thing by the scruff.
The world doesn't care if you're ready or not. Nor should you care about the world's readiness.
This man was once a blazing star in lucha. He had comic books and even a few movies under his belt. He wasn't the biggest star in his circles, for there were others that were faster or flashier than he. However, he was notable enough to be somewhat of a household name. Back in those days, he was known as Persona. It was as good a name as any for the giant. The mask he wore made his face a void so he could be the man he chose to become. He remained faceless so he could mold himself into the Emperor of Gold; a man that could either ruin your day or salvage it by his will.
Then age and injury took their toll. Before long, the might of Persona was shattered by newer luchadors and the man had no choice but to step aside. As time would pass, his mythos would fade into history as a dream that the world of lucha could recover from. No longer would they have to deal with destruction dished out by their gilded god. And he didn't like it. Not one bit.
He started looking for a successor. Most in his position would pass the mask down to a family member of some sort. But he was an orphan and if there were any children made from his many one night stands, he never knew about them. Some days, he would go to his old friends' wrestling schools and watch them. Otherwise, he would rely on his own scouts to search high and low to find somebody worthy to take his throne. Many would come. Most failed. The few that had potential grew tired of his ways and would go elsewhere.
Then one night, a scout whispered in his ear about a pretender. This pretender wasn't in the ring, but in the underground fight pits that many down on their luck brutes would get into for a little bit of money. What was interesting about this particular fighter is that he was wearing a replica of the Emperor's own mask. The man was not amused at the prospect of this person tainting his image (or lack thereof) with meaningless bloodsport. In his fury, he chose to go to the pits unmasked and stand amidst the crowd. With any luck, maybe he could get close enough to stab the bastard…
That was the plan until he saw the pretender fight.
The mask was a cheaply made replica and it had been patched and sewn together with whatever could be found. It must've been a ploy to keep the crowd's interest in the chaos. But despite the hassles of reduced vision, it did nothing to stop the young fighter. He was a merciless brute with a desire to see his opponent bleed suffer. He was relentless and could take the punishment. Most importantly of all, this pretender was not an idiot. He knew when to strike and with how much force.
In other words, he was perfect.
It took some convincing. Yet ultimately, the man and the pretender walked side by side out of the underground, never to return. Years passed. Together, they would hone in the younger man's strengths and strive to convert his weaknesses into something much more workable. As far as the elder was concerned, he was going to make absolutely certain that this one would survive everything thrown at him. The younger had already accepted erasing his entire history in favor of this task. All they had to do was keep heating and beating the raw steel of youth into a perfect weapon.
Unfortunately, the one thing they didn't have was time. Cancer would slowly weaken the once mighty Emperor into a flimsy shell of what he once was. With his energy slipping away, he would have to unleash his adopted progeny out into the world sooner than he would've liked. Underneath a full moon on that final night, he would trade his underling's silver mask for his own gold and gave his blessing for the new Emperor to find his own well earned throne.
Ultimately, it wasn't the disease that fell the old man. Fate, in its own sick way, spared him suffering on a deathbed by causing a disastrous earthquake instead. It seems strange to think of being crushed by what used to be your house as a blessing. Yet the fact that it happened quickly and he chose to stay inside the crumbling estate on his own terms helps the strangeness pass.
Which brings us to today.
Persona Non Grata sits in a private jet with his phone in his hand, scrolling out of boredom more so than anything. Being a mute masked man on a commercial flight would be more trouble than it's worth. As far as he's concerned, if there's going to be trouble, it should benefit him with a fight, a title belt, or some cold hard cash. He's not picky on which one he gets. It would be even better if it was all three. Mestizo is curled up and asleep for this flight, a blessing in its own right given his annoying and feral nature. He is a part of the package and though he is bothersome, he can also be quite useful. Especially in the glitzy yet tainted landscape of Las Vegas.
As the plane begins its descent, a text message pops up.
Vuelvo a casa, hermano.
He laughs and types up his own response.
¿Por qué no vienes a Las Vegas con nosotros? Sería mucho mejor que estar sentado en tu habitación todo el día.
The bump of the plane landing jostles Mestizo awake who snarls briefly at the disruption to his sleep. From the void, PNG rolls his eyes and snags the ewok-looking thing by the scruff.
The world doesn't care if you're ready or not. Nor should you care about the world's readiness.