Gold Saucer

Kabal Proving Grounds

An underground bunker.

The muffled sound of mortar explosions paired quaintly with the blood curdling screams of many soldiers being torn apart by shrapnel echo from the exterior of the bunker.

Helpless. They are helpless because they’re on the outside, away from safety.

Inside, on the other hand, there’s a much more different situation going on.

The half moon ceiling carries a dingy fog to it as the halogen lighting struggles to illuminate the floor. A walking weapon enters the room through the double bolted security door. The subject is male, who stands at about six feet one inch tall and a solid two twenty. His chest is completely bare. His upper body is incredibly cut, chiseled, and ripped. His veins coil around his arm muscles like a boa constrictor as his posture is strong and mighty.

He looks around, surveying and analyzing his surroundings, as he always does. He promptly cracks his knuckles and then his neck before marching over to the closest wall.

He finds himself in the middle of the room with an intense stare on his weathered face. His eyes are locked on black and white printed still images of various wrestlers executing a myriad of moves. His stare is so intimidating and full of focus, which is astounding given the environment.

Suddenly, the same iron bolted door he entered from swings open and an elderly man walks into the room. The elder’s posture isn’t as good but it’s only because he’s old. The geriatric is dressed nicely in a navy blue tracksuit with the name ‘Hark’ embroidered over the left pectoral area. It’s clear he just showered. His white hair is wet and a towel is slung around his neck.

“Oh, hey Nathan, almost didn’t see you there. Of course, you’re back to studying, I see. I could have guessed that,” The old man states as he takes a seat at a nearby table. The elder naturally begins shuffling a deck of cards.

The young man identified as Nathan doesn’t move an inch. He remains visually engaged and laser focused with the pictures taped to the wall the entire time.

“Will you ever put a shirt on? I know you’re a different breed but even the great Nathan Filmix needs to stay warm,” The old man bellows.

Filmix refuses to budge. Even though he’s shirtless, his military cargo pants and boots do a more than good enough job of keeping him prepared for anything at a moments notice. A few more moments of silence pass before old man Hark decides to stand up with the help of the table in front of him. He meanders over to Nathan’s side.

“See that headlock,” the old man mutters between geriatric coughs, “rock solid.”

Finally, Nathan’s gaze departs from the images and over to his aged friend.

“Incorrect,” Filmix drones, “there’s a small crease at the bend of the elbow. Trust me, I know. I’ve been staring at this image for hours. All I need is a split second and a step back and I’d be able to escape the hold damage free.”

Hark looks impressed. He adjusts his eyesight and tries to look more closely at the image.

“Then what would you do?” Hark inquires.

Without hesitation, Nathan smacks his fist into his hand.

“Snap the arm like a twig because I have to let them know I own them,” Filmix responds with a coldness to his voice.

“How do you even see that with how dark it is here, Nathan?” The old man asks with no response.

Instead, Nathan goes back to staring at the wall. His eyes examine every little detail of every little move. There is no need to answer Hark’s pointless question because it didn’t revolve around wrestling.

“Okay, okay, I get it. You’re locked in. You’re one of the lucky ones, Nathan. I know I keep telling you this but you’ve really thrived here at the proving grounds. You’re just about ready to take all you’ve learned and put it into practice,” Hark lectures.

Filmix might as well be in another dimension. He has no time for petty conversation. His eyes are seeing multiple things at once. He sees the lazy leg lock the wrestler has cinched in on the picture in the top right at the exact same time he sees the image of the female wrestlers pulling each other’s hair on the picture in the middle.

“Your stamina is always impressive, Nathan. I will say that,” says the old man as he pats Nathan on the shoulder very lightly before limping over to the couch and taking a seat.

Hark watches Nathan fixate on the wall of photos.

“Go on, tell me another mistake you see on the board,” he asks Nathan.

It takes a second for Filmix to finish his internal thought on whatever he was looking at before he slowly approaches the wall and puts a finger to a photo of a wrestler with an ankle lock applied to their foe.

“There’s too much separation between the wrist and ankle here. I’d snap that limb right off or if I was in it, I’d simply roll right out of it,” Filmix dictates with the most monotone of voices.

The old man laughs, smiles and claps all at once.

“Heh man, I think you might need to get out more. I know I heard the rumors but this is insane. You truly are a wrestling junkie. Don’t forget to eat something. There’s more to life than wrestling,” his mentor reminds, “Wouldn’t want you wasting away at all.”

Nathan shakes his head.

“I won’t. I don’t,” Filmix says, “If there’s one thing you need to know about me, it’s that I take training very seriously. If it has anything to do with wrestling, then I do it. Stringently. Training, eating, sleeping, or recovery, I do it because it all feeds into one purpose.”

The Wrestling Junkie methodically removes an image from the wall and walks over to join the old man on the couch. He hands the elder the photo.

“What’s this?” Hark asks Filmix.

Nathan grins. His muscles shimmer in the lighting.

“Wrestling,” Nathan declares.

The old man looks intently at the photo Nathan just handed him. It’s a picture of a gladiator. The wrestler captioned has a physique simply unmatched. There’s a big gold belt around his waist and the most intense look on his face. The old man studies the pose before he looks up at Nathan.

“Wrestling?” Hark repeats.

“Wrestling,” Nathan confirms.

MGM Grand

Flashbulbs, glitz and glamor. It’s Vegas. Not the exact place The Wrestling Junkie wants to find himself yet here he is, sitting in the back of his arranged ride from the airport. Of course, to his left is none other than Coach Hark, who is dressed for a 1920s ball with a pinstriped suit and matching hat on. Hark leans over to Nathan.

“We’re heading to PRIME right now. Got the call from them no more than a week ago,” Hark directs.

“It’s all I need,” Filmix snidely replies.

The vehicle finally pulls up to the curb as close to the MGM Grand as possible. It’s an absolute scene with paparazzi, celebrities, fans and talent all converging on the area. Nathan gazes through the tinted passenger window and can’t help but sigh. He doesn’t care for any of the spectacle. He’s here to wrestle and win. Plain and simple.

“Hey driver, can you get us any closer?” Hark yells up front.

All the driver does in response is shake his head no.

“Looks like we’ll have to wa-” Hark’s voice gets cut off as Nathan is already exiting the vehicle.

It takes the old guy a second to catch up with his pupil but when he does, both men notice how they’re standing on the outside fringe of a large gathering. They don’t say anything to each other. They don’t need to. The environment speaks for itself. This is PRIME. This is for real. This is the big time.

“Excuse me, sir, but I’m with security and I’m doing ID checks, so if you don’t have a pass, which I don’t see on you, then I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” A random security guard instructs the duo.

Nathan doesn’t move a muscle but Hark interjects.

“Yeah, we’re talent! We’re with PRIME! We got an invitation,” Hark has no choice but to shout over the festivities taking place.

Filmix’s eyes remain locked on a huge banner gently wavering in the breeze right in front of the main entrance. It says ‘PRIME ALMASY INVITATIONAL’ on it. Taking in the entire scene gets Nathan pumped as the security guard busts out a clipboard and pen to verify their identities.

“Okay, so you say you’re talent? Can I get your names please?” The guard inquires.

“My name is Hark. Nelson Hark and I am the coach and trainer for this fine specimen of an athlete, Nathan Filmix. I’m shocked you don’t know who he is,” Hark’s voice trails on.

Hark continues exchanging credentials with the security guard as Nathan zones out. Everything else around him, including Hark conducting business, becomes nothing more than a blur.

The letters.

PRIME.

That’s what has his eye.

He doesn’t care about the fanfare and pageantry. His eyes quickly shift to see if there are any other wrestlers around but it’s too hard to tell. There’s a podium with someone hyping up the crowd but everything is a rushed mess.

“Hmmm,” Nathan murmurs to himself.

There’s an image of a warrior carved into the podium. It’s of a strong looking individual with long flowing hair.

“Almasy,” Filmix connects the dots.

His eyes shoot skyward at the tall leaning MGM Grand building and brightly lit casino.

“Gold saucer,” He remarks again near silently.

Nathan’s eyes narrow. He tilts his head back to a normal level as if rejoining reality.

“Got you guys right here,” The guard confirms, showing them their names.

“At the bottom of the list?” Hark asks as he points.

Hearing this sucks Nathan in. He looks down. He notices his name beside Anna Daniels.

“Yeah, Nathan is ranked fifteenth in the Ignatius Lisieux bracket,” The guard tells them.

The information takes a moment to permeate but once it does, Nathan becomes visibly agitated. With his breathing heightened, Hark knows it’s time to step in.

“Does this man not know who I am?” Filmix questions for anyone willing to answer.

Hark tries to calm The Wrestling Junkie.

“Now, now, I’m sure there’s some kind of mistake? There’s no way you are actually ranked fifteenth,” Hark assures as he turns to the security guard, “As for you, you’ve done enough for today, thank you.”

However, before departing, the guard offers them a manila envelope with trembling hands. The sheer fear of getting decked in the face is imminent.

“Take this. You’ll want it. It has all your matchup and schedule information in it. Oh, and we’ll need you by the casino in a few minutes. Camera crews will meet you there. We’re doing interviews to promote the re-opening of PRIME,” The security guard can’t get the words out fast enough before darting off.

Hark radiates an ugly stare at those around the duo as they make their way to the front of the casino, manila envelope in hand.

“That is such disrespectful seeding, Hark. I am legitimately pissed off now,” Filmix mutters to his elder as camera crews catch up with them.

Before he knows it, Nathan is bombarded with cameras of both the video and picture variety. Bulbs flash in his eyes which irritates him as if he were King Kong on a New York stage exhibit. Multiple microphones get shoved in his face.

“How does it feel to be in PRIME?”
“What are your expectations coming into this tournament?”
“You’re a relative unknown on my stats sheet. What do you bring to the table that’s different?”
“How far do you think you can go in this tournament?”
“Will you be selling any t-shirts!?”
“The competition is fierce. Are you up for the challenge?”
“What’s your first impressions of PRIME?”

One after another after another, the questions from reporters are rapidly fired. Filmix is stunned, if not overwhelmed. He’s certainly not used to this amount of attention. He’s used to training. He’s used to fighting. That’s it. He doesn’t care about anything else and, therefore, his answers are…

“Wrestling.”
“Wrestling.”
“Wrestling.”
“I’m here to wrestle.”

One reporter gets impatient with the withdrawn nature and responses of Nathan Filmix so they step up.

“Uh yeah, can you elaborate on that please?” The reporter shouts, “In all honesty, you’ll probably get knocked out in the first round.”

Again, there’s that impulsive twitch convulsing from Filmix’s temple. He’s trying to keep his cool but it’s tough when being out of his element, in addition to being poked and prodded by media dummies.

“That’s enough. I’ll field the questions now,” Hark steps in, as that’s why he’s there.

Hark casually hands Nathan the manila envelope before answering the pointless media questions with more depth. Once again, it’s as if Nathan gets sucked into another realm. He opens the envelope and pulls out a solid stack of paper. His eyes analyze every single detail.

<<<<< SCOUTING REPORT >>>>>

Name: Anna Daniels

Height: 5’7”

Weight: 135

Alias (If Applicable): The Muse, Time Lord

Wrestling Style: Lucha, High Flying, Striker

Note of Significance: Multi-time champion, deadly competitor

Strengths: Small, agile and cunning. Anna will not hesitate to down her opponent with a myriad of dazzling moves. Her opponent must stay on their toes if they have a chance to survive as she is known to work at a breakneck pace. The well-traveled, worldly athlete is capable of both an aerial barrage as well as a sound striking based approach. It is advised to not attack Anna from behind because she will more than likely sense it coming. Look out for her jabs, springboard shining wizard, 720 DDT and her devastating finishing moves, Interrobang (Brazilian Kick), Dark Side of The Moon (Cobra clutch choke), and Oncoming Storm (Double underhook brainbuster).

Weaknesses: Anna has been known to lose focus in the ring from time to time. These moments of ‘euphoria’ are openings she leaves her opponents to seize control and momentum. It should be noted that these moments are fleeting, if not brief. Capitalize on these when presented, otherwise get on the defensive as Anna tends to recover quickly. Just from a scout’s observations, Anna can also take one too many risks in the ring. Her speed is sound but it almost seems like she’s moving too fast at times. Slowing down the pace is definitely not something she is all about.

Nathan’s Breakdown: There’s lots to like here. There’s also lots left to be desired. Sure, Anna might be considered small by measurables but those are only stats on a sheet. I will not underestimate someone based on their size alone. She’s a speedster in the ring who likes to take risks, right? I have all the information right here in front of me to beat her. I will ground and pound her into oblivion. I don’t care if the crowd hates it. I’m going to stick to my deliberate strategy because I’m doing this for me. I’m here to win, after all. I happen to excel at mat-based wrestling anyways so that’s where we’ll start and that’s where we’ll stay. Anna won’t get off any explosive plays on me because I’ve scouted it. I’ll know it’s coming. The ropes will be my aid during this match. If I can keep her barricaded up against them and keep the space between us to a minimum, then I can capitalize on my game plan. Either that, or keep her in the middle of the ring. Though, if I do, I have to ensure I continually body her. She cannot escape my grasp because at any moment, she can ascend the ropes or turnbuckles and unleash her best offense on me. In other words, shut her down with ugly, slow, deteriorating offense. I will break her will and maybe her face too. Is she lethal in the ring? Can she live up to The Wrestling Junkie’s standards? Let’s find out.

***

“And that’s what we think! Any other questions?” spews Hark.

Just like that, Nathan snaps back into reality. He realizes Hark has more than handled his own with the reporters. The crowd is much more sparse than it was before his eyes glued themselves onto the scouting report. One lone reporter remains standing by with their camera crew.

“Yes, I have one last question for Nathan, if you don’t mind,” The reporter asks cautiously.

Hark turns to the side and notices Nathan isn’t reading anymore.

“Go for it, if you dare,” Hark warns.

The reporter approaches.

“I think you have the potential to be a force PRIME, I really do. You could be a bracket buster. I’m not sure. It all remains to be seen. However, my question is, how can you promote PRIME in one sentence?” They ask before placing a microphone at his chin.

Nathan looks around.

He takes it all in one last time.

The festivities. The craziness. The legions of people all gathered in the same place for the same reason. He separates his lips.

“Wrestling,” Filmix says defiantly.

Hark smiles, then chuckles. He bursts out into a full out, uncontainable, maniacal cackle.

“That,” Hark slaps Filmix on the back, “is why he’s called The Wrestling Junkie!”

Nathan Filmix and Coach Hark don’t linger a second longer. They depart to their hotel room where their strategy and preparations for the inaugural Almasy Invitational Tournament awaits.