"I don't know you, Travis, and you don't know me." A match strikes in the dusk dimness, glowing the same orange and yellow, making it look for a brief moment as if its illumination casts on everything in frame; the chair the man sits on, the metal paneling of an RV behind him, the dirt ground and sparse dry grass underfoot. A pipe is lit, drawn on to start the tobacco mix glowing in ember, match flame snuffed between calloused fingers. "Neither of us have anything in this company, really. Both of us came here to be part of this tournament, at least initially. Which does make me wonder what Australia means to you.
"An awful lot of people seem to have signed up for this tournament representing countries that they seemingly have no connection to. I mean, tell me what the sam hell Elijah Copeland has in common with China? Does he just relate to the nouveau riche narrow upper class there enough to disregard that he's probably never been there? Does Demetrius Lane have some far off Filipino ancestor? And what's your deal? You allegedly hail from Virginia, right? That and being associated with Matthews and Barrett over on Dystopia's all I know about you so far."I grew up on Navajo Nation and Mescalero reservations. I didn't just come here because there was an open tournament and a cash prize; I came here because that prize could do a hell of a lot for the reservation I'm representing. I came here because most people watching don't have any damn idea of what the reality of reservation life's like, and this? This gives me the opportunity to dish out a little bit of education."How aware were you of the Navajo Nation sovereign state before now? Because it's actually bigger than ten states in this country. That big, and yet thirty percent of homes on the rez don't have running water, many of those also without electricity. Thirty percent basically living like third world countries. And that was before the virus hit. As bad as it was in New York, reservation infection rates are the highest per capita of anywhere in the United States. There's charities out there trying to help, but it'd still take more than 700 million dollars to get everybody out there hooked up with safe tap water and sanitation and the solar panels to run it. That's more than I'll make for this by far, but it's still a damned start."The pipe was raised back to his beard-clad face, flare of embers highlighting the strangely shaped white patch white patch in the side of it, the white flick cutting up through one eyebrow. Not the yellowish color you usually got with some kind of bleach, nor the shape; it was a natural anomaly that he didn't see fit to hide.
"I don't know you, Travis Levitt. Maybe you're stronger than I'm estimating, or hell, maybe I'm already overestimating. We'll find out come Sunday, and one of us will pick up one of the four wins we need to go to the semifinals in this thing."And remember, folks. Nothing Is True, Everything Is Possible."Fade to black.
Never mind me, I'm a waste of your time.
Never gonna fit in the box that you need,
And I can read between the lines, yeah.
Gather your friends and wave your gun in my face,
But I will use my voice.
Whether you like it or not,
One day soon,
It's gonna fall back on you.
No more lies,
We're gonna break right through,
Like it or not.
If we can't talk about it, we'll just keep drowning in it.
Give me credit or not, I give and I give a lot.
But don't you speak for me,
No, don't you speak for me.
"I saw that video you put out, you really representing here in this big wrestling tournament?" The rez-accented drawl of a girl not far out of teen years came through the phone line, along with a bit of static. It happened, even in these days of 5G, given both parties were out in the boonies more often than not.
"Ayup," came the terse reply on his end, feet kicked up on the couch-bench built into the interior of the RV as he leaned back on the arm. His held a tinge of the same drawl, faded with time away.
Laughter pealed through the line, and he could picture his sister with her head thrown back too easily.
"Oh my gawd. You really gonna donate the check if you win? Half the people here think you're skinwalker, naaaaayyy. You ain't even been back since what, Christmas?""Tell ma I'll be heading back soon. Though quarantining both ways will be tough. And oh, that I'll have a friend along.""A friend, huh?" Her gum popped, and he could picture her chomping on it like a piece of juicy gossip. "Is this friend a giiiiirl?"
"Actually, yes." he said dryly, not letting her bait him in with the tease.
"Is she pretty? Is she native?""Yes, and no," came the terse reply.
"You'll have to judge for yourself when she's around. Just pass it on, 'kay?""'Kay. And niichii... good luck."
Six Months Ago...
Perhaps he had seen her before tonight, in a couple shows he worked around the Northeast.
Always in a tag team, always with a giant has-been with an ugly, scarred up mug. Grimm, real name Bill Griner, had a famous streak back in the late-90s...a mass of muscle and blood lust, with a walking mouth next to him. The walking mouth was well-known in the business, but not well-liked. Ed Johnson and Grimm had been working together for two decades now, rarely taking any time off save for injuries here and there.
It was weird, seeing a pretty little thing like her paired up with those two.
She had opened the show with her massive tag team partner and from a few botched moves, it was easy to tell she was a rookie. She worked hard though, despite her small stature. The mouth that managed both of them talked a damn good game, but she got the wind knocked out of her by one of their opponents’ clothesline. Another walking mass of muscle that didn’t hold back anything and wrestled stiff as a fuckin’ board.
She had hit the mat hard, prompting a shout of protest from her partner before she was rolled up for the three count.
The crowd cheered the winners, fan favorites obviously, as Grimm jumped down from the apron and pulled her out of the ring by her boot.
He might've seen her before tonight, alright, perhaps that was what the feeling of familiarity was. But she hadn't struck a chord like she had tonight. It made him pace. It was like something caught between the teeth that couldn't be found to be freed, or an itch that had no one place on the body. Something right out of reach. Later, when she was sitting up at the very top of the bleachers to watch the rest of the show, it hadn't resolved.
He kept mentally digging for it, even though he should be preparing for his own match later against another big hoss, sure to be a bone-bruising collision. But her people could leave any time. Their match was over, after all, though he didn't think they'd gotten their pay envelope yet. Then it could be gone forever, a window of time missed.
When he sat down a couple feet away on the bleachers, he could've gone through that 'hi how do you do my name is' script that
moniyaw seemed so attached to but always felt like such an awkward foreign social jig for him to mime. He could've just blurted out the word that'd settled in his mind and seen what look came over her face-- it wasn't as if the weird itchy vibe had given him any context for the word after all. And worst case scenario was that it was something that wouldn't make sense to her till later anyway and he'd just be that crazy Indian blurting out gibberish, which wasn't much worse than most viewed him anyway. But instead...
Instead he set his eyes on what she was watching.
"That blonde kid is going to break his neck coming off the ropes one day if he doesn't watch it, hn?" It was an opening of sorts.
Maggie pushed the hood of her jacket and shrugged, glancing his way before back to the match.
“Probably--still learning myself, so probably yeah. He’s not watchin’ what he’s doing. Bill would smack me senseless if I was that careless again.” One hand came up to rub at her chest again. That final clothesline had been like being taken down by a 2x4. It was a dull, thudding kind of pain now.
She turned her eyes back to him,
“Aren’t you in the main event later?” Something about him just felt off, but no alarm bells were going off in her head. Maggie didn’t see any reason to move or put space between them. Not that she wanted to move. She was sore as hell, but pain was the price of glory as Bill was so happy to remind her every chance he got. Her father and his client would never leave the business. Grimm was a decade past his prime, but this was his lifesblood and he’d do what he could for a kid who had nowhere else to go.
"Ayup," slid out, the two syllables managing to drip with rez dialect.
"He ain't gonna take much to beat. This crowd ain't gonna be happy about it, though. Probably better to beat street after it's done, 'fore my tires get slashed. Crowds at these smaller shows can be like that." If his card position put him above talking to her, he wasn't feeling it. He spurned social agreements like that usually, and really, bigger than inter-wrestling politics was his place as outsider. As other. Not that it bothered. He wore it like he usually wore the wolfskin coat that was currently sitting backstage. It was a bit too warm for it, which usually didn't stop him, but then he didn't need the armor it usually brought beyond its more utilitarian use.
The reason he was here circled back in his head, and he cleared his throat.
"So humor me a moment of being a magical Indian here, but I get these... well, this time it's a word. Does 'blackbird' mean anything to you?"Maggie furrowed her brows, confused to the reason he’d even struck up a conversation with her and moreso—
how did he know?