jacksonattack
League Member
(Refer to Axion's sign-up form RP for context.)
Production assistants, gaffers, camera team members and even some talents are swarming in the backstage of tonight's ULTRATITLE arena. The scene is raucous. How one can focus or keep their calm in this harem of tense nerves and distractions is impossible to know. Most probably don't, and are simply putting on their best "excited" facade to keep their head above water.
Steve "Axion" Jackson wades through the hectic atmosphere, clad in faded jeans, a hoodie underneath a tattered leather jacket and earbuds dangling out from under hood. He occasionally glances at a passerby or a directional flyer for ULTRATITLE, as Overkill's "Ironbound" blasts through his headphones at a volume that could damage his ears. He eventually makes his way to the sign up table, where traffic seems to have slowed. He's not late. He's on time. His time. He doesn't bother to pull out his headphones, or even turn down his music for that matter, as the staffers manning the table stare blankly and trade skeptical looks. Axion eventually looks towards them after he's signed the appropriate dotted lines and flips them his ID.
Axion: ... Says I'm donor, but that's for car accidents.
The staffers look back at him after checking the ID and form and begin to mouth words of confusion, but Axion just smirks to one side of his mouth, picks up his ID and turns away. He heads back in the direction he came, his smirk immediately leaving his face after a quick burst of amusement, and sees another directional sign pointing towards the locker room. He gives it a moment of consideration... a moment longer than most would give to the most routine or obvious of decisions. He notices a carpenter leaving a nearby one-occupancy bathroom situated between an eletrical closet and a janitors room, and immediately recognizes that to be the real "locker room" he's looking for.
Axion opens the door to the restroom and calmly closes it behind him. He places his bag on the floor, and takes out his headphones and stops his music. He gazes at the mirror for a brief moment after settling into the tight quarters of his personal dressing space, and slicks back his brown hair, tucking it behind his ears. He begins to undress, baring the myriad tattoos that have eaten up dozens of hours of his life. The tattoos are his real clothing; the articles that truly represent him. The themes of good and evil are obvious; angels and demons, skulls and flowers, weapons and sparrows. A large eagle grasping an axe and a scroll adorns his chest, and on his throat is a piece featuring a weathered banner with Latin text, reading "actus valet quam verba." Axion stands naked in the cramped, featureless room, and his eyes return to the mirror. He takes a long, deep, pondering breathe... and exhales slowly.
Axion: Why would I ever be nervous?... This is home. This is where I thrive. To hell with those who don't get it... I'm not here for them. This is for me and for the sake of satisfaction and prestige. I've earned this... too many bruises, scars and headaches... walking back out of here would be cowardice...
Axion turns and sits on the sink, and begins taping his feet. He puts on his socks and slides on his white tudo trunks, which are adorned on the backside with two eerie axes crossing hilts. He tugs on his boots, methodically lacing them up. The taping of his hands and knees is next, and he shows his experience in preparing himself on his own. He eventually pulls on a blank black tank top with white trimming, and returns to the mirror.
Axion: You belong here. Out in that ring... that's when all the sh*t from back then goes away. This is it, Steve. Get your ass in gear and take what's yours. It's about action and what you do out there, not these clowns, not the opponent. It's over the moment you step in, cause you've already won. Rise above everything, and claim your f*cking prize.
He breathes heavily into the mirror, inches away from it's surface. His brow is beginning to sweat and his stubble stands on end. He's beyond ready, beyond focused. He collects his clothing, iPhone and street shoes, packs them into his duffel bag, and takes one last deep breathe before opening the steel restroom door. Harsh fluorescent light floods into the tiny room, and he exits, slamming the door behind him.
Production assistants, gaffers, camera team members and even some talents are swarming in the backstage of tonight's ULTRATITLE arena. The scene is raucous. How one can focus or keep their calm in this harem of tense nerves and distractions is impossible to know. Most probably don't, and are simply putting on their best "excited" facade to keep their head above water.
Steve "Axion" Jackson wades through the hectic atmosphere, clad in faded jeans, a hoodie underneath a tattered leather jacket and earbuds dangling out from under hood. He occasionally glances at a passerby or a directional flyer for ULTRATITLE, as Overkill's "Ironbound" blasts through his headphones at a volume that could damage his ears. He eventually makes his way to the sign up table, where traffic seems to have slowed. He's not late. He's on time. His time. He doesn't bother to pull out his headphones, or even turn down his music for that matter, as the staffers manning the table stare blankly and trade skeptical looks. Axion eventually looks towards them after he's signed the appropriate dotted lines and flips them his ID.
Axion: ... Says I'm donor, but that's for car accidents.
The staffers look back at him after checking the ID and form and begin to mouth words of confusion, but Axion just smirks to one side of his mouth, picks up his ID and turns away. He heads back in the direction he came, his smirk immediately leaving his face after a quick burst of amusement, and sees another directional sign pointing towards the locker room. He gives it a moment of consideration... a moment longer than most would give to the most routine or obvious of decisions. He notices a carpenter leaving a nearby one-occupancy bathroom situated between an eletrical closet and a janitors room, and immediately recognizes that to be the real "locker room" he's looking for.
Axion opens the door to the restroom and calmly closes it behind him. He places his bag on the floor, and takes out his headphones and stops his music. He gazes at the mirror for a brief moment after settling into the tight quarters of his personal dressing space, and slicks back his brown hair, tucking it behind his ears. He begins to undress, baring the myriad tattoos that have eaten up dozens of hours of his life. The tattoos are his real clothing; the articles that truly represent him. The themes of good and evil are obvious; angels and demons, skulls and flowers, weapons and sparrows. A large eagle grasping an axe and a scroll adorns his chest, and on his throat is a piece featuring a weathered banner with Latin text, reading "actus valet quam verba." Axion stands naked in the cramped, featureless room, and his eyes return to the mirror. He takes a long, deep, pondering breathe... and exhales slowly.
Axion: Why would I ever be nervous?... This is home. This is where I thrive. To hell with those who don't get it... I'm not here for them. This is for me and for the sake of satisfaction and prestige. I've earned this... too many bruises, scars and headaches... walking back out of here would be cowardice...
Axion turns and sits on the sink, and begins taping his feet. He puts on his socks and slides on his white tudo trunks, which are adorned on the backside with two eerie axes crossing hilts. He tugs on his boots, methodically lacing them up. The taping of his hands and knees is next, and he shows his experience in preparing himself on his own. He eventually pulls on a blank black tank top with white trimming, and returns to the mirror.
Axion: You belong here. Out in that ring... that's when all the sh*t from back then goes away. This is it, Steve. Get your ass in gear and take what's yours. It's about action and what you do out there, not these clowns, not the opponent. It's over the moment you step in, cause you've already won. Rise above everything, and claim your f*cking prize.
He breathes heavily into the mirror, inches away from it's surface. His brow is beginning to sweat and his stubble stands on end. He's beyond ready, beyond focused. He collects his clothing, iPhone and street shoes, packs them into his duffel bag, and takes one last deep breathe before opening the steel restroom door. Harsh fluorescent light floods into the tiny room, and he exits, slamming the door behind him.
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