The Ballad of JayBird and SareBear, Part V: 24601

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~~Monday, October 9th, 2017~~

“Damnit!”

Sarah Lacklan storms into her private locker room with a thunderous kick to the door, the poor wood nearly flying off its hinges. The Firestarter is still in her wrestling gear from the main event of Synergy which concluded just minutes ago, the black and red bodysuit with the firebird in flight across her back. She spins and kicks the door shut, that unfortunate wood shuttering as it jolts into place, and then she leans forward and slams her clenched fist into the door again and again.

“FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!”

A final punch puts a hole in the door, the wood caving under her hand and cutting her as she pulls it back, a hiss coming from her as the wood slices a lean line of red against her pale skin. She sees the lines against her hand and grimaces, shaking her head. She reaches up and pulls her hair from its bun, the platinum locks falling to her shoulders, and presses her head against the door.

“The fuck, SareBear?”

She had failed. Again. She had not taken a pin, had not lost, but she had not succeeded, either. Jet was right: Her career in the Coalition thus far had been one of “almost.” Yes, she had won the WrestleStock Cup, yes, she had come in and surprised everyone. Hell, she had made the Final Four of the Melee, her first ever battle royal! But since then? Wins on Synergy...but not the ones that mattered. Choked out Lucy Wylde on Synergy...then let her get under her skin and make her lose to Magdalena and then to her at In Your Hands. Yes, she had been victorious over some of the best in the company in tag matches...but then lost at Outlast. Sure, it took both Baal and Lucy to do it, but that was simply a pyrrhic victory.

“Who the fuck ARE you?”

She rubs her head against the door, feeling the grain, lost in thought. Was she the badass fighter who was traveling across the world in the spirit of her father? Or was she some 19-year-old girl out of her depth, as many people thought?

“Who am I?”

Sarah straightens and turns, her entire posture emoting an intention to get the hell out of the building, but she stops cold, her eyes locked onto the owl mask she had left on the counter. How the Court had gotten into the private locker room that her money and influence afforded her, she would never know. She was impressed by them, impressed by their ability to manipulate the company as a whole and play master to the puppets of the roster. Her father would be happy with them. Well, before he manipulated them into working for him, anyway. She had a lot to learn before she was as good as he had been in that regard.

Sarah walks forward and picks up the mask. Why had they left it for her? What were they trying to tell her? Were they recruiting her? Were they warning her? The mask was specially made for her, that much was clear. Red irises in the dark eyes, black wings extending out to the sides, the tell-tale signs of both her albinism and fashion statements. What did they want?

“Who I am?” she asks the mask. Holding it in her right hand, she brings her left to her right shoulder and, taking a grip with nails lacquered black and painted with small flames, she rips the sleeve of her bodysuit away, the sound of the tear filling the room. The image of her father’s old white mask, the tattoo an even brighter shade of white than her naturally pale skin, stood out to her. Red eyes looked at her legacy, at the mask which had terrified many people over the years, that had ended careers and caused a revolution which became a compound of followers, and then to the specially made mask from the Court.

“Who am I?”

She stares at the mask for a long time. Minutes? Hours? She couldn’t tell. But when she left the building, her head full of a memory, the owl mask was carefully tucked away in her gym bag.

The Ballad of JayBird and SareBear, Part V: 24601

~~Saturday, December 3rd, 2016~~

The world is right today. Sarah is home, her head in my lap, that old copy of Les Miserables in her hands. I love her hands. Thing fingers. Small. She makes me feel like my skin is on fire when she touches me. She hasn’t REALLY touched me in a long time. It seems like years since we fucked. Maybe it has. I want it so bad.

“Who am I?”

Her voice makes me shiver. I have been hearing that voice since we were little and it haunts my dreams when she is gone. All I want is to hear her say my name. In passion. In love. In need. In everything. The whole world could be ours if I could just get her to sit still for a moment.

“A stinky-butt.”

Ours has been a relationship of casual annoyance for many of those years. Had fun as kids, did lot of stuff as young teens, and now I hardly see her. Good to still be able to jab, though. I grunt as she jabs her elbow into me.

“I’m serious, tardhead. Who am I? Like, in this part of the book, Valjean has left his life of crime and made something of himself, right? He found the One Lord God, created a business, and become Mayor. Not even Javert recognizes him this time, since there has been such a physical and spiritual change in him, and he’s obsessed with him.”

I know what it is like to be Javert, I think. Sarah as read this book a thousand times, and sometimes I think that her whole red and black thing comes from it, but I have only listened to the musical with her. Which sucked. She is into some real shitty things. I tried reading it once, but all the street names threw me off, and FUCK that chapter on Waterloo. But I know that Javert chases after Valjean for years, running into him time and again, but never quite capturing him. I know how he feels. Sarah has been gone most of the last three years and I have only caught glimpses of her, and none of those glimpses had meant much or gotten him anything. This was the most physical contact he had had with her in a least a year.

“But Valjean finds out that Javert has someone in custody and about to go on trial...for Valjean’s crimes! He THINKS that he has the REAL Valjean, but we all know that the mayor is really him, right? So at first Valjean is all ‘Sweet! Now I am scot-free and this crazy policeman will leave him alone forever, right? But then he starts thinking about how God would never forgive him for letting a man be punished in his place.”

She holds up the book and shows me the pages.

“Hugo goes on and on about how Valjean has to debate on the tenants of being free versus being, like, damned to hell, right? If he admits to the truth and saves the criminal, then tons of people would lose their livelihood and the whole town would lose out, not to mention the whole life of hard labor thing. But if he DOESN'T admit who he is, he commits multiple sins of bearing false witness and condemning someone basically to murder. In the end, he realizes that being true to himself, and God, matters above all else.”

She set down the book and looked up at me, those red eyes piecing.

“So...who am I? Am I the daughter of the great Jean-Paul Lacklan or not? Am I supposed to destroy the world or just be the socialite who stays at home and gets into politics and marries some senator’s son?”

I try not to freeze as she says this, but cannot help it. Marriage. She was supposed to marry ME. She was supposed to be MINE. But I have seen her with other people, men and women, and that goddamn chink who she brought to dinner at Thanksgiving. Lord Lacklan treated that chink like he was family. Was he Sarah's boyfriend? She had never had one of those. Not even me.

“I am thinking about turning pro next month. Father is retired now and Nikita thinks that I am ready. I would love for Father to be able to see me wrestle before-”

She pauses. She is strong, but the impending death of Lord Lacklan is hard on her. It is hard on all of us.

“...before he joins Mother at God’s side. And so I ask myself...who am I? Do I leave all this behind, leave the compound? Do I fight the world?”

She grows silent and looks back at her book.

“What did Valjean choose?” I ask her. I see the corners of her mouth turn up as she smiles.

“He went to the judge and told him who he was. He chose to be a man worthy of God’s grace.”

She nods, probably more to herself than me.

“I think it is time to show the world who I am.”

I hold her tighter, hoping that she realizes how much easier life would be with me there. I want this so bad...can taste it...that I will do anything to get back to what we were.

Anything.[/font]

Hello, Deimos.

Do you know who I am? Do you know the vlogger and musician? The fashion designer and dancer? The singer and piano player? The leader of the revolution? The red and black?

I am all of these things, Sir. I am the one who goes into enemy territory and wins, as well as the one who defends her home term and challenges those around her to be better than themselves. I am the one who is the center of the whirlwind of change within one company, the standard fighting a veteran for the championship in another, and straight-up dominant in a third.

But here? In the Coalition?

Who am I?

You have said yourself who and what I am, words which have echoed that of Somers, Baal, Wylde, and Morgan. Possibly the greatest “almost” in wrestling. All the talent and upside but little of actual success to her name. Winner of the matches for padding records but not for taking home the championships, winning for pride but never for glory.

I wish to change that, Sir. I wish to show everyone in the Coalition who I am. Or I should say, remind them of who I am. Am I the person who gets in needless pissing matches with Magdalena? Am I the person offering hugs? Am I the person being cheeky with Eden whilst bullying Killian? Am I the person to be afraid of for a moment...but dismissed over time?

Two things, Sir:

One: You were high on my list for Outlast. Truth be told, even if it is just us two chickens here, but I wanted Magdalena as my first choice. Mind you, it would have simply been for the fuckery of making her team with me and fight Lucy, but it would have been freakin’ awesome. My second choice was the embodiment of chaos himself, Ichabod. And my third? You. You observe and are a veteran, qualities I appreciate and even admire. Unfortunately for you, you are also the type of veteran wrestler who, in their youth, may have bested me, but as we both already seen, you cannot do so now. Regardless of how I wanted you on my team, and had to go with Plan Q by the time it was my turn to draft, the outcome of Lacklan vs. Deimos II will be no different than our first encounter.

Two: I almost wish to apologize for what is going to happen to you on Monday. Mind you, I am no Tolson who says that I shall end your career or maim you or straight-up murder you in the ring of an athletic contest sanctioned by the state athletic commision, but I CAN say that I am going to hurt you very badly. Not because I dislike you (see the above point), but because I have a need to remind everyone in this company who I am.. I need to remind everyone what I stand for and of what I am capable. And, as the booking as placed you in front of me, that means I will have to begin by hurting you. The story would have had this beginning regardless of who I was booked against; indeed, had it been Liv, her tiresome promo titles would not have saved her from an ass-whipping. Had it been Rydell, his tiresome promo scenarios would not have saved him from an ass-whipping. Hell, had it been Baal, his hole-filled armor of mystery and manipulation would have not saved him from that ass-whipping. As such, your quiet observation will not save you from me reminding everyone just who I am.

And that person?

Who am I?

Legend.

I will not stop.