Raven Moon
The air crackles with energy. I feel it in my
ribs, a bassline thrumming through the floor, vibrating up my spine. The crowd
surges, their voices rising in a tidal roar, a wave pulling me under. I’m not
just watching—I’m part of it. The lights above flicker, teasing the moment, and
I sit up, gripping the edge of my seat.
The announcer’s voice cuts through the static.
"And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for—"
Darkness.
A heartbeat of silence.
Then—laughter. Low. Silken. It slinks through the
air, curling into the bones of the arena. Every hair on my arms stands at
attention. The crowd inhales as one, holding onto the pause like it might
shatter.
“Dress… To Impress…”
And then—BAM!
Sound detonates. Light explodes.
Raven Moon rockets up the ramp, launching herself
into the ring in a perfect arc. She lands like a shockwave, poised in a
superhero crouch. The crowd combusts, their cheers a wildfire swallowing the
stadium. Lights crash back on, dazzling, painting her in a glow like she owns
the world.
She rises slow, deliberate, every motion a
performance. A single gloved hand lifts. The audience obeys, screaming her name
like gospel.
Raven Moon.
Her short, violet bob shimmers beneath the
lights, her sharp features framed by a burlesque mask with signature neko ears.
She’s a contradiction—sleek and ferocious, her body wrapped in a second-skin
suit that moves like liquid shadow, sequins flashing with every stride. She
radiates control. The crowd drinks it in. So do I. My eyes track her like she’s
the only thing in the universe.
The lights shift—sunset hues spilling across the
stadium, deep oranges, pinks, purples melting together. A drumbeat rises
beneath it, low and steady. I feel it before I hear it, the heavy thump of
drums pounding in my chest. The crowd moves with it, clapping, chanting in
rhythm—
"Super! Clap! Super-size me! Clap!
Clap!"
The next contender emerges.
A sumo wrestler, massive and deliberate, takes
the stage. His steps echo like thunder, the ground seeming to bow beneath his
weight. The crowd cheers, but their voices are swallowed by the drums, the
steady, primal rhythm building like something ancient. The air shifts—thicker,
charged, a held breath before the storm.
Then—blackout.
A static hiss slithers through the speakers.
Sharp. Unnerving. A rattlesnake’s warning.
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The crowd hushes.
Then—BOOM.
Fireworks split the air, a crackling frenzy of
light and sound. The strobes hit, flashing like a club on overdrive, bodies
caught in frozen moments between dark and neon. The stadium quakes.
"Legion!"
The chant starts slow, a deep, dragging pull.
"Legion!"
It grows, feeding on itself, swelling into
something unshakable as the Legionnaires of Doom take the stage. A force, a
presence—impossible to ignore.
I lean forward, breathless. The noise, the
lights, the sheer, visceral power of it all—it swallows me whole. For these few
seconds, I exist only here. No worries. No expectations. No weight pressing
down on my shoulders.
Just this.
The rush is intoxicating.
I throw my voice into the chaos, my cheer lost in
the wild frenzy of the arena. Nothing else matters.
The match is chaos—fast, relentless, impossible
to look away from. Bodies collide, ropes snap, and the air hums with the raw
energy of the crowd. But none of it matters. Not really. My eyes stay locked on
Raven Moon.
She owns this place, every movement precise,
every motion dripping with confidence. Even surrounded by giants and bruisers,
she’s the sun, and the rest of them just orbit around her.
The male wrestler from the Legionnaires of
Doom—what’s his name again? Doesn’t matter—launches off the top rope, a human
missile aimed straight at the sumo. Bad move. The sumo snatches him mid-air
like he weighs nothing, holds him there just long enough for the realization to
hit, then hurls him over the top rope. The crack of bodies hitting the
guardrail echoes through the arena. The crowd erupts.
I laugh, the sound bursting out of me before I
can stop it. “That was insane!”
Beside me, Ruri and O-bāchan are losing their
minds, shrieking like kids on a rollercoaster. Their energy is contagious. The
whole arena shakes with stomping feet and clapping hands, the rhythm of the
fight pounding in my chest.
Then the female Legionnaire makes her move,
charging the sumo, fists flying. She’s quick, but he doesn’t budge. She lands a
solid hit to his gut—nothing. Another. Still nothing. He grins. A slow, knowing
kind of grin. Then, without lifting a hand, he flexes. Just flexes.
She bounces off his stomach like she just hit a
brick wall and lands hard on her rear. The crowd loses it. I double over,
laughing so hard my ribs ache.
But then—Raven Moon moves.
She scales the ropes in one fluid motion, her
body light, effortless. Balanced on the top turnbuckle, she lifts her chin,
eyes locked on her target. The crowd senses it, the hush before the storm, and
then—
She leaps.
A reverse moonsault. She lands perfectly, her
body coiling, shifting mid-air into another flip, twisting her opponent down
with her. The mat shakes with impact.
The ref drops down.
“One… two… three!”
The arena explodes. Cheers, stomping, confetti
raining from above. The announcer’s voice booms, but I can’t make out the words
over the roar.
Raven Moon and the sumo are the new tag team
champions.
But something’s wrong.
She doesn’t jump to her feet, doesn’t pose,
doesn’t play to the crowd. No cocky smirk. No triumphant hand raised high.
She moves to the center of the ring, slow,
deliberate, like she’s wading through something heavy. Then, without warning,
she drops to her knees.
The crowd falters. The cheers fade to murmurs.
Raven Moon lowers her head, hands pressing into
her face. Her shoulders shake.
I freeze.
She’s not celebrating. She’s not basking in the
moment.
She’s breaking character.
And I don’t know why—but the sight of it cracks
something inside me, too.