Ascension, Part III The Feelz Zone (FSociety)

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Presenting the Lacklan Saga Story of:

Ascension, Part III

The Feelz Zone

~~Tuesday, September 20th, 2016~~

"Why is it so hard to tell the truth, Father? Why can you not tell her how you feel?"

Please do not do this, Sarah.

"It is more complicated than that, Daughter. There are things you do not understand, things you cannot yet comprehend."

"Then tell me!"

Her eyes are furious. This cannot be happening, not after all the steps I have taken.

"The Path-"

"The Path teaches the Ultimate Truth, Father!"

She will not let me get a word in. Please do not do this, Sarah.

"The Path teaches that we embrace ourselves as we embrace the Light. The Path teaches that we be honest with who we are, that we love who we are, that we accept everything we are meant to be. That we do not allow others to dictate who or what we are. Do you turn from the Path now? You of all people?"

"Of course not. I-"

"Then why can you not tell Nikita how you feel?!"

That is it. My walls fall. I snap.

"Because I refuse to make her bridal gift a widow's shroud!"

Damn it all to Hell. Her eyes go wide, seeming intense furnaces set in a field of white snow. My own eyes go wide behind my mask. My hand begins to shake.

"You have been hiding something from me, Father. I WILL have it now."

Her voice is low, words coming slow. She has learned much from me about how to get answers, about how to draw out emotion. Please, Sarah.

"In the words of my Godfather: Cards on the table, Old Man."

I am so sorry, Selena. I have tried so hard to save our daughter the pain I shall cause. I have tried so hard. Kept many things. Held back so much. I shake with the effort of it, I quake with the fear of what the truth shall cause. I cannot do this. I have neither the heart nor strength.

Jean.

Not you as well, Selena. Please.

You must, Jean.

I cannot hurt her so.

Would you rather she find out the day the Creator brings you to me? Would you rather she hate you? For the eternity that she may well live? Hate her father for not trusting her, not believing she was strong enough for the truth? Worth the truth?

...............

...............

You are devious, Beloved.

It is for the best, Beloved.

I would rather cast myself into the Lake of Fire itself.

And so I tell her. I tell her of how while the cancer may have begun in my skin, it had spread to the most important parts of my body. How it has taken over my lungs, my throat. How my kidneys have begun to fail. How I can feel it destroying me from the inside out, how I am in constant pain. How my time is short. How I look forward to the Light's Embrace, how I long to be free of this world. To be without pain, or fear, or doubt. How I cannot in good conscious or faith tell Nikita Dolore how I feel. How I cannot present a wreath of thorns for her to wear. Even if she would have me, how I cannot force her to take on black so soon after taking on white.

Her face falls. I never hurt you, Selena. I never made you cry or weep or fear. I never knew what your face looked like in pain, for even the day you died you were a portrait of serenity and faith. But this? This tortured visage before me? Surely this must have been how you would have looked. Our daughter is so beautiful, Beloved. Your high cheekbones, your swan's neck. 'Tis as if the Creator had frosted your skin and given you rubies for eyes.

That face is in pain. She does not cry. I am not sure she is capable of tears anymore. But I know a silent scream when I see one.

Forgive me, Beloved. I fear I have broken our daughter.

May I burn in Hell for it.

---

* * * * * * * * * *

---

~~Sunday, January 8th, 2017~~

Eyes burst open in the darkness. Impossibly red irises blaze in contrast. Shoot up and forward, lines of red streaking.

Sarah Selena Lacklan breathes heavily as the sheet falls from her naked body, a slight sheen of sweat coating her entirely. Ragged breaths as those red eyes search around. Where was she? When was she? Why the darkness? Why-?

Her eyes find the man-shape laying next to her in the bed and the night comes back in a rush. Victory. Celebration. Drugs. Alcohol. Sex.

Her breathing slows as she closes her eyes, a hand coming up to rub at her forehead. She was NOT back on that thrice-bedamned day in September when she learned the secret her father had been hiding, that not only was his cancer worse than he said it was, but that he had only months to live. She was NOT reliving the hell of her whole world crashing down, of her strong and proud father admitting that he was going to die soon, die before he would see her wed, before anything. NOT going through that fucking nightmare again.

She opens her eyes, the contrast of colors again seeming to create twin portholes into a raging furnace, and forces herself to take better stock of her current position, forces herself to be in the here and now and not back there and then. She feels the silk sheet against her bare legs, the material nearly electric against the smooth skin. Feels the coolness of the red vial nestled between her breasts, the coolness rising up her collarbone and round her neck due to the silver chain which held it. Feels the heat emanating from the Shaolin Monk laying next to her.

Her eyes turn to that shape next to her, the chiseled face away from her, his bare back facing her. That back, as well muscled as every other part of his body due to a lifetime of rigorous training in the arts of Kung Fu and Zen, possessed several new scratches, angry lines of red brought by her own perfectly manicured nails. A happy smile borne of greedy possession tries to make its way to her face but the anxiety of her dream chases it away: That fucking nightmare likes to haunt her at her happiest times, no matter how much DRIVE she takes to act as a barrier.

Legs turning away from Blasted Monk, her feet touch the carpet of the hotel room, giving her a little more permanence to her situation. She stands, being as graceful as she can as to not disturb her lover, and glides away from the bed, not bothering to cover her nudity. She makes her way in the dark to the bathroom and, once she the door is closes, flicks on the light. Eyes narrowing in protest to the sudden intrusion of brightness, she finds herself in the mirror, red eyes staring back from a porcelain face of beauty.

That she was beautiful was not up for debate. High cheekbones, a slender neck, plump lips of ruby, expertly maintained brows. Hers was the face of a demon when angered, a judge when challenged, an angel when pleased. She was everything anyone expect of someone known as the Blood Princess or the Princess of Pain; everything, and so much more. Her red irises and pale skin tone hinted at a rare condition that few would believe if they were told, and fewer still would accept.

A small smile does come to those ruby lips then, slipping past that fucking nightmare, tips of white fangs peaking out as they are wont to do. There were a few who understood and accepted, a few who took her as who she was and maybe even loved her for it. Her friend Kenzi, of course, but even moreso than her, was Monk.

Her head turns to the side, towards the man sleeping in the bed outside that closed door. Monk had not only accepted who and what she was but had encouraged it. He had accepted her forwardness without pause, even with the very real threat of destruction by her father, should he not approve. He had even surprised her with that monumental holiday in Eastern Europe to spend time with her "kin." But even with all that acceptance and openness, she just could not let someone in so completely, and fucked up their relationship.

She was able to admit that she had fucked it up. Not even a week into them being an "us," she had been too secretive, too afraid to be wholly honest. And when he questioned her about it, when he challenged her, she overreacted and attacked. The "us" was gone. Now they were here, in this hotel room, but they would go separate ways in the morning. Him back to toying with those two hoe-bags, her back to her throne. Kenzi's hope for a litter of "Shaolin Vampire Ninja Babies" once again just a happy joke.

Her eyes return to the mirror, two sets of red eyes staring at each other.

Did she love him? She was afraid to say, both because she could not possibly know the answer and because she was deathly afraid of what that answer might be. Love was not something to which she was accustomed. She had had her fair share of lovers, of all shapes and sorts and sizes, but love had never been a part of it. She was royalty, the daughter of the Voice of God, the Pillar of Light, and she had neither the time nor temperament for such an endeavor. But something about Monk was different. What was originally the complicated flirtations with a man destined to be knocked out by her father with a Roaring Elbow, their relationship had escalated quickly to that holiday and then what was basically his accidental declaration of devotion after a particularly nasty concussion.

He had called out to her in those moments, though he did not realize what he was doing, drawing pictures of her from his hospital bed. If it was possible for her heart to melt...it did. She found herself squarely in the muck and mire, the trap, of what her best friend Sams referred to as "The Feelz Zone." She simultaneously hated and was enthralled by the feelings coursing through her when she was near him. And here they were...again...at least for the moment.

Her gaze into the mirror lowers away from her own eyes, maybe in fear of seeing the emotions held within, and instead find themselves going downward over her body. Hers was a mixture of strength and femininity, commodities inherent from her parents in true balance. She was her mother's height, that is to say short, only breaking the pane of five feet by a few inches, with a pleasing curve to her hips, but with a surprising amount of muscle in her legs and glutes, her shoulders and chest. Her father's natural build for bodybuilding had been passed to her, as well as the work ethic he had instilled in her, making her a strong and heavy 140 pounds.

Red eyes cascade down her slender neck to beefy shoulders. Should she start her body art now? Father had been...less than supportive...regardless of how many tattoos he had. But she was a wrestler now and assuredly her first tattoo would be a fine celebratory gesture. She had thought about her father's masks, both the old white and the new black, maybe one per shoulder, a showing of both balance and disparity.

Eyes go down her chest, past pert breasts, to a stomach featuring a 4-pack of abdominal muscles. Her father had always cautioned her that her sweet tooth would always fight her desire for a perfect set of abs, but she could not stave off cake pops to save her life. Sweet Mother Mary she loves cake pops! Not having a full set of visible abs was a price worth paying for the Heaven-sent mouthfuls of deliciousness.

Eyes slide to those pleasingly wide hips, down to that small crevice of pelvic and hip bone. A smile comes to her lips as she thinks about a possible tattoo to go in such an intimate place. "Dangran," though in the traditional Chinese characters. "Sure," as Monk would say. She wished...ALWAYS WISHED...that he would show a touch more enthusiasm for her wiles than his customary "Sure," but there it was, nonetheless.

Eyes down thighs full of corded muscle, where the majority of her weight was carried, down to well-rounded calves and feet which have been the subject of so many fetish sites, those phenomenal pedicure still in place. She would certainly have to custom that salon again when she next visited Kenzi.

A noise in the other room makes her jump slightly, a creaking of the bed, a shuffling of a body. Had Monk woken up? Eyes flash back to the mirror, her temporary attempt at avoiding the pink elephant coming to an end. That man in the other room. Sharing her bed in this hotel. Happily escorting her to her big wrestling debut. Did she love him?

"You are a pansexual vampire, Sarah," she says to the dark, her Londoner accent heavily apparent in the soft "ahh" sound in pan. "What need do you have for love?"

The mirror does not respond. It simply stands there to reflect her, to hold up the truth, whether or not she liked it. Shaking her head, blonde hair scented of honey and almonds swaying, and turns from the mirror. Flicking off the light, she opens the door and heads back into the room she is sharing with Monk, slipping back into the bed, the silken sheet pulling back over her body. She lays in the dark, forcing sleep away to avoid that fucking nightmare for as long as possible, and listens to the steady breathing of her mate. Ponders the concept of love, of The Feelz Zone, and gets more and more worried that she is, despite all her best efforts otherwise, well and fully trapped.

---

* * * * * * * * * *

---

It has become apparent to me that there are a few misconceptions about me. A few misunderstandings. A misquote here, a blatant lie there, jealous bitches gossiping elsewhere. The usual for someone like me, I suppose. Everyone trying to get up and over on the Princess of Pain yet no one able to stand tall and face me square. So allow me to fix one or two of those misconceptions.

See, some moron online asked the DUMBEST question the other day in relation to my whole "zomg i am ze match" schtick:

"What if your match doesn't light?"

To use language that even MelReav will understand, I was all "Dafuq did I jus' read?"

See, this utter imbecile brought into question the validity of my divine providence. But that providence, truly bestowed by the Divine Himself, is never at fault or in question. I AM the match. I AM the Light itself. My father was chosen by God to save this business, and by extension the world, by healing their wounds, by bringing them to Him. But in His infinite humor, God bestowed a life, a Path, full of trials and tribulations before my father. A life of trials which would make even Job sit back and say, "Dude...like...woah."

But there was a reason why God gave my father those trials. There was a reason why he burned him, scarred him, injured him. There was a reason why He took his parents away when he was young. There was a reason why He took away his beloved and, nearly 20 years later, gave his heart to someone who did not want it. There was a reason why so much of his life was filled with pain. Because God needed my father to be hardened, to be strong, to be able to withstand the affront of sin so heavy in this sport. He needed my father to be able to do the most important thing in the history of the world.

He needed to be strong enough to raise me.

And now I am come.

You guys are so fucking screwed!

Did you see me?! Like...holy amazeballz3000, right?! I kicked the literal SHIT out of those two nameless/faceless pieces of trash, just like I said I would, and made one of those bitchass losers tap out. THAT is reality. THAT is the here and now. THAT is setting this world on fire and razing this business to the ground.

Though speaking of my match........

1): You are welcome, MelReav! 1-0, buddy!

And...

2): Hey #FSociety Bookerman.......I see what you did there ;-)

Also, Mister Bookerman, I am glad to see that you saw my message to you and gave me a challenge befitting my station. The mere idea that I would be in another OBLIGATORY MULTI-PARTICIPANT MATCH BECAUSE WE HAVE TOO BIG OF A ROSTER is, in a word, silly. Now, Mister Judas may not exactly be at the level of Greggory "I'm too good to say hello to my internet friend Sarah" Tyson, or Ally "too high up the mountain to notice that my internet friend Sarah freakin' debuted in her own damned company" Morrow, but at least he's a dude who was at least somewhat of a title contender.

Something which needs to be made clear is that I am NOT here to make friends. Yes, I have made one or two in the recent months, but friendship is NOT what I am looking for. I am NOT looking for a boyfriend or girlfriend. I am NOT looking for some close-nit group of coolio cats to hang out with and go on whirlwind adventures and share stories and traveling pants.

I am here to fuck people up.

Oh, I will certainly take minions, should they present themselves. I already have a couple in Dallas, after all. Should someone in this company decide to thrust themselves down upon the floor, prostrate before me, and beg me to lead them, beg me to shine the Light upon them and bring them to God's good graces, I shall. I shall ascend to the Red Queen soon enough and will happily take any amount of groveling peasants. But! That is not my goal, not why I am here.

Fucking up people is.

I fucked up that Skittles dipshit. I made that two dimensional mountain man tap out.

This? This thing I get to do to Judas? This should be fun.

---

* * * * * * * * * *

---

~~Tuesday, January 10th, 2017~~

DING!

Kenzi Grey:

The Blood Reavers!

Sarah rolls her eyes as she sees the latest text on her phone. Regardless of how many times she had told Kenzi that, no, she and Melissa Reaver would not be a team, it was a one time thing, it would never happen again, the movie star just continued to enthusiastically send her possible team names. This was the original name she thought of and had suggested it just about every hour on the hour for the last day.

DING!

Kenzi Grey

#TeamBiscuit!

Okay...THAT one made her smile.

Dressed in her customary black and red, the Blood Princess sits inside what could only be described as the most PURPLE airplane in aerial history. The Lacklan private jet, a balance of space for her accompaniment of guards yet small enough to fly very fast, was the pride of the Lacklanland Fleet. Black exterior with the brazenly purple interior known for her father's colors, the seats were plush and comfy, the amenities world class. Her best friend Samantha sits across from her, their seats facing, the brunette beginning again on a conversation they have had several times since Sarah's successful debut.

"Are you guys back together?!"

All Sams had to ask about was Monk. Not Sarah kicking the ever-loving shit out of Young and Skinner. Not flying through the air like a bird in that massive plancha. Not the surprising chemistry she had with Melissa. Not making someone tap out with her sensei's finish. Nope. None of that. Just whether or not she and Monk were together again.

DING!

Kenzi Grey

Team SareMel!

"You know what they say about true love!"

Sarah cannot help but shake her head as the jet makes its way across the country and back towards their homeland. It had been a busy few days for her, with her best friend and companion along for much of the ride, though behind the scenes, of course. Sams was no athlete! But Sarah? She had been in Canada for her debut with #FSociety on Sunday, had spent the night and a part of the following day in that same province with the Shaolin monk, had flown to Dallas today in order to drop some dumb bitch on his head, and now was finally headed back home to rest and spend time with her father.

DING!

Kenzi Grey

Power&Privilege!

"Ya know, my Ma knew your Ma and she says that yer parents loved each other."

Neither one of her friends would stop their assaults on her principles. Kenzi insisting she and Melissa could dominate the #FSociety tag division. Sams insisting in the power of THE FEELZ. Ugh. The Feelz sounded terrible. Felt terrible, too.

DING!

Kenzi Grey

The S.S. Cuddle Twins!

What the-? Was Kenzi high?

"And yer Da loves Nikita, I bet..."

Her best friend natters on and Sarah loses herself in her thoughts. She and Monk had not spoken to each other since they boarded their separate planes on that tarmac in Canada. Not a text, not a tweet, nothing. She HAD had words with The Nose, a member of Kenzi's Kentourage, words which made her realize that she could finally admit to fucking things up with Monk that first time around. He had had questions about her whereabouts and she responded by attacking. Well, she wasn't used to people putting up a fight with her! It wasn't natural! After all, her entire life had been filled not only with servants supplying her every want and fulfilling every desire, but an entire compound, a virtual town, lauding her from the moment of her birth as the Light Incarnate, the person destined to raze the world with God's Light. It was only natural that she should fight Monk if he even thought about questioning her. Right?

DING!

Kenzi Grey

Two Girls Who Totes Get Along!

Oh yeah. Totes.

"Ya said he's a great kisser. He still a great kisser?"

Heh...kissing. Sarah cannot help but touch the red vial hanging from its silver chain and nestled between her breasts. That fucktard who she dropped on his head earlier today? It was his blood in that vial. Dirty peasant pressed his dirty peasant lips against hers. Last time he would ever do that! And...oh boy...did she have plans for him...

DING!

Kenzi Grey

Too Hardcore for a Short Tag Team Name!

"Do his abs still taste like cream and strawberries?"

Oh boy, did they. Sarah made sure to give Monk's abs extra attention the other night in the hotel. And yesterday morning. And in the afternoon in a random broom closet in the airport right before they boarded their planes. That didn't mean she loved him, or anything. Nope, not all all. Just an infatuation. An infatuation she could not keep her mind off. Right?

DING!

Kenzi Grey

The Tru-Heel Alliance!

DING!

Kenzi Grey

The Kentourage..............Part Dos!

Sarah can only sit back in wonder as her two friends continue their endless assault, the plane streaking its way back home to her father. Was she stuck in the Feelz Zone? She prayed to God it was not so.

---

* * * * * * * * * *

---

Wow. You are just-

Just-

.............

.............

Just terrible.

Like...money, right? You and your name mean money? What does that even mean? Like...you show up and fatcats start busting our their wallets? Old ladies give you their pearls? The Fed starts printing? Bookers immediately sign you to ERMAHGERD PHAT $$$$ contracts? Right. Sure. Totes believeable.

Listen dearie: You are pretty. Nice tats. Clean face. Pretty. But money? Bitch, please.

I...quite literally...sit upon a throne. Legit. Its soft and comfy and, if you listen close enough, you can still hear the whimpers of the slaves who built it for me when I turned 14. THAT is money. THAT is power. All you are is an amateur that is pretty enough to have a few "daddys" take care of him. Oh...sorry...he's your "manager," right? Sure thing, toots. Manager.

Now, I am not going to come here and say something like YOU IS THE SUCK AS A WRASSLER and any such nonsense. You may not have walked out of the last show with a freakin' DOMINANT win like I did (You're welcome, MelReav!!!!!), and may well have even gotten your bitchass shoulders pinned for three. but I know better than to allude that you are THA SUCK. I've seen your matches; I've watched tape. I've been watching #FSociety shows the whole time its been around. Student of the game, ya know? God's Avatar and all that. So I *know* you have victories in this company. I *know* you have beat people.

What I AM saying, though, is this:

Your wins do not mean shit.

Could not do any better than a DQ against the dude with the dumbass name. Amber "totes the #2 gypsy in the fed" Richards. That straight-up sissy Harris.

Not exactly the gold standard.

Of course, my competition was not quite the greatest in the history of forever or anything, but did you see the way I kicked the shit out of them? Amazeballz3000, right?!

Your victories? Not so much. Freakin' DQ.

Now, this might be the part where you respond with something like YOU YOUNG WHIPPER SNAPPERS TALKIN' BOUT WIN STREAKS! LESS THAN A FOOTBALL SEASON! ZOMG!

Again, bitch please. That person harping on her record and title wins would take all of three seconds to knock you the fuck out. And then probably paint the canvas with your blood using her tongue.

Ally's pretty hardcore like that.

But guess what? Even though I like Ally? Even though we're, like, the twin sisters of British snark?

She is below me. Her hardcore kickassocity is barely the surface of mine. So just imagine what I am going to do to you if you decide to fuck with me.

Reality is that I am here to fuck people up and you are the next poor bastard on my list. Someone asked me recently what my obsession was, what drove me. I told them it was a tie: Fulfilling God's vision of a pure, clean wrestling world...and putting dumb bitches in their places. And at the next #FSociety show I get to do both in one shot.

The fire is coming, Judas. No amount of cover or sunscreen is going to help you. No amount of huddling in fear is going to save you. I am the match.

-Sarah Selena Lacklan