03. Warrior Rising

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YANKTON INDIAN RESERVATION, SD
[●] REC

The shot faded in from black to reveal an office. The oak paneling of the walls was a stark contrast to the cherry wood desk and matching, crowded championship cabinet that sat to the left in the background. Directly behind the desk was a picture window that overlooked the Blood and Salt Combat training facility, which was still easily visible through the obstruction the black leather office chair occupied by Sarah Roberts provided. She was leaned back, her elbows resting on the arms of the chair while her fingers met over her stomach and threaded together.

"I hadn't said anything yet, because I wanted the proof here, in Project: Honor, to back it up."

Sarah paused in an attempt to organize her thoughts. Aside from a newly-furrowed brow, her face largely remained chiseled with a stoic focus.

"I'm a woman of my word. I told everyone I'd walk out the winner Jonny C and Jay Vaughan with or without Jay Jones' help. I told you I was going to make up for past mistakes and walk out of Bloodbath as the number one contender to Zane's Warrior Rising Championship. Right now, that puts me at two for two. Right now, that means I do exactly what I say I'm going to do. Ever since day one when I put my name on the dotted line, I knew I was going to have to prove myself again just like I've had to do every time I've stepped into a ring under a new banner, and I knew If I called my shot right off the bat that no one was going to listen until they saw it for themselves."

She paused once more, this time for dramatic effect. Her stony demeanor started to crack, revealing a smirk right beneath its surface.

"Zane's not going to be any different than Jonny C and Jay Vaughan, or the seven other people I was locked in a cage with at Bloodbath to even get the chance at the strap. I've survived my trial by fire here in Project: Honor and now - now I get to put my hands on what's rightfully mine. That belt - the Warrior Rising Championship - was meant for combat athletes like me, Zane. That belt calls to competitors looking to set a trend; no bullshit, no frills, just the fight. That's my trend, Zane. Every time I step into a ring, into an octagon, win, lose, or draw, everyone leaves remembering my name and my match. The reason why guys like Dickie Watson is still Grand Champion and how guys like Colton Saint can fudge the championship defense stipulation and send you - the woman who should rightfully be the X-Factor Champion as we speak - home with some sad little fucking trophy that means nothing just goes to show that competitors like 'em will stay at the top of their rickety-ass pedestal so long as they either have someone hold it in place for 'em or they come up lucky by the skin of their teeth is going to stay as Project: Honor's average until someone shuts these fucks down and put 'em in the ICU. If this company's going to have a prayer of seeing real, viable competition I promise you Zane - it won't be while you hold that belt. Take a look at this cabinet back here."

She unhooked her fingers for just long enough to point at the championship cabinet tucked in a corner. The camera followed her lead and zoomed in, showing various MMA straps and trophies all glinting with the shine of a fresh polish (which they totally had before the crew showed up to film). The shot remained on the cabinet to allow everyone to take note of every last piece of metal in it. Then the camera pulled back, returning to its original shot.

"Truth be told Zane, you and me aren't so different. We both started training as combat athletes when we were young, spent most of our lives fighting not just because we love it, but because we need it; it's what keeps competitors like you and me going. We won't quit as long as there's gas in the tank and a few cards in hand to play. That is where that fuckin' buck stops, kiddo. Even after twelve years of doing this, all you have to show for it is two straps and a lame trophy given to you by some chickenshit who ducked forking over what he rightfully lost and that's okay. Even with your early exposure to the business and all the experience that comes with it, you're immature. You need to grow up before you're able to fill the kind of shoes you're trying to step into and maybe one day, you really will be the one to lead the charge - but today isn't the day. You might understand what it's liked when you're duped out of something that should be rightfully yours, but I really doubt that you know what it's like to have your hands on something, be proud of it, then have it ripped out of your hands just like..."

The Deerfield Destroyer freed a hand just long enough to snap her fingers. The wry smirk had made its home on her face and had no intention of leaving anytime soon.

"...that. November sixth at the T-Mobile Arena, you're going to get to tip your toe in that water. See, I might've made mention that the match at Bloodbath was a chance to rectify a failure in my past and while I really thought that was the case, I sat in the Wells Fargo Center thinking about Rage in a Cage and that five man ladder match over a year ago that it was supposed to correct, and it fuckin' dawned on me. Proving to myself that I still could go, that it wasn't time to hang up the boots just yet, wasn't going to be a single match event. It was going to be a marathon and Rage in a Cage was just the first leg. I'm hoping that Grand Championship will be right there at the finish when all is said and done, but I'm looking to that next checkpoint - you, Zane; and before you and me step into that ring, you've got something to consider. I'm forty-two, and I've been fighting to make a living for twenty-four years. You're twenty, with twelve years of experience under your belt. Sooner rather than later, I'm going to be on my way out. I can't keep doing this forever and expect to keep the wheels on. You've got a long career ahead of you, Zane. Is it worth sacrificing all that time, all the possible championships, recognition, and passion to hold onto a belt? Let me make it clear, Zane. While this is just a bullet point on your resume and a reason for the pencil to give you more opportunities, the Warrior Rising Championship is something I'm not just willing to give my career for, but my life. If you really want to hold onto it with white knuckles, you're not going to leave the same way you came in. This isn't a threat, just the reality of what you're heading into on Proving Grounds - your belt, or the longevity of your very young career. I suggest you stay down when I put you down the first time, and move on."

Sarah stood from her desk, made her way to the camera, and shut it off. With that, the shot faded to black.

YANKTON INDIAN RESERVATION, SD
[●] REC

As soon as that little red light disappeared, so did the smirk she carried through most of the video. A hop, skip, and a jump later and she found herself slumped in the swing on her front porch. There was a tightness in her chest that dissipated when she watched the breeze roll through the tall grass out on the plains; a tightness that returned at the sound of a familiar voice.

"You haven't been answering my calls."

She closed her eyes and took a deep, slow breath. Regrettably, that particular soothing exercise did nothing to relax her.

"What do you want, Steve?"

Her eyes came open to see Stephen Kingston - Blood and Salt Combat's accountant - standing on the second step of her porch, peering at her through a pair of bifocals that didn't sit well with the "middle age man trying to recapture his youth" outfit he put together.

"Stephen."

His correction was dripping with a snide venom. This was clearly not the first time he had to issue that amendment. He lifted his hand and waved a folder back and forth.

"I wanted to go over the projections for the rest of the quarter. I found some expenditures we could cut back on that wouldn't compromise the quality of the facility or earn you a one way ticket to Auditville. I think you're going to be very happy."

The flat expression on Sarah's face had turned a bit dour the longer Stephen spoke, which didn't go unnoticed. He lowered the folder and looked over the top of his glasses at his employer and (he'd never admit it) friend.

"Are you good?"

Stephen completed his journey onto the porch and opted to lean himself against the railing opposite Sarah. He took his glasses off and hung them out of view on the collar of his shirt, which was covered by an infinity scarf (I wasn't kidding about the "middle aged man trying to recapture his youth").

"I don't know. Just think I'm a little nervous."

"About the match?"

As gloomy as the expression on Sarah's face was, there was a shine of frustration that flashed across her eyes. Her chest grew even tighter.

"Yes, about the match. I'm starting to think my downward trend started with that L I ate in that ladder match and there's no way to pull up. Like I'm going to choke as soon as I step in the ring again, like it's a given that I'm going to fuck title matches up from then until I retire. I mean, I thought I squashed that feeling after Rage in a Cage but I feel like that monkey's still on my back and won't let go for nothing."

Her gaze fell past Stephen and remained fixed on the wide open space behind him.

"You're not okay."

"No shit Sherlock. We-"

As she spoke, her eyes moved back to Stephen. She was surprised to find a wide-eyed look of shock on his face in place of static unimpressed demeanor he usually retained. Though that wasn't as surprising as the sharp pain that suddenly seemed to spread to her extremities while her chest tightened to the point where it was a struggle to take a breath. She wanted to ask Stephen for help. She wanted to scream, but she couldn't. Hell, Sarah couldn't even stand if she wanted to since the world started to spin. Stephen was already in the process of making a call.

"I think my friend's having a heart attack. Her address is..."

Sarah didn't get to hear the rest before the light faded out. When she came to, it was in a hospital bed. Leads went from her chest to a monitor, her finger was trapped in an O2 sensor, and a deflated blood pressure cuff was wrapped around her right bicep. Hazy glance around the room revealed Stephen and Delilah sitting in a pair of chairs placed in the corner of the room.

"Holy shit, you're awake."

Delilah happened to look up from her phone just as Sarah had made eye contact with the pair.

"She's up, dummy."

Not only did Delilah pass the news along to Stephen - who was nose deep in a book - verbally, but it came with a slap upside the head as well. He passed her a stare that might as well have been daggers while he closed his book. Delilah pulled her chair up to the bedside. Stephen preferred to stand.

"The fuck happened?"

"Well, Steve here..."

"Stephen."

Delilah ignored Stephen.

"...called me from the car and told me you were on the way to the hospital, but you were probably going to die from the heart attack before you got there.

Delilah's focus briefly turned to Stephen, who was either unaware or purposely ignoring the murder ones coming in his direction. Sarah shifted in the bed in an attempt to sit up, but didn't have it in her.

"Heart attack?"

Of course that would happen before a title match. Delilah waved Sarah's concern off, which only minimally eased Sarah.

"The doc already came in and said your enzymes and shit check out. He asked us a few questions though."

"About?"

"'Bout you bitch. How you live, what you do for a living, all that shit."

"They're fairly certain it was a "cardiac event brought on by stress", but they said they wanted to run some more tests after you came to."

Stephen even made sure to use air quotes for the definition of Sarah's condition. She wanted to comment, but couldn't. Instead, she let her eyes wander around the room while she digested that information and started her own internal interrogation; what set her over the edge, what could she have done to prevent it? After a few minutes - which felt like an eternity - she had no exact answers, though she had an inkling that the sudden success she had come into and the opportunity to shed a weight that'd been on her shoulders might have come into play. Something did come to mind that she felt had to be expressed out loud.

"Look, whatever it is, don't say a fuckin' word to the office. Not at least until after my match."

Though Zane would most likely never find out, Sarah did, in fact, may have come close to dying for the Warrior Rising Championship. She wasn't going to let this black cloud keep her from finally put her worries of whether or not she still "had it" to bed.