"When the truth is found to be lies..."
The lights went dark; a single column of light formed a pinhole at the side of the ramp where Shimmerlace would be entering. Narrowing, narrowing, narrowing, until—
There was a burst of pink smoke from the pinprick of light that swallowed that half of the stage.
"And all the joy within you dies..."
A grinning white rabbit head appeared on the titantron. His was a cartoonish visage — a circular head with rounded ears, one floppy and the other torn at the tip. He wore an eyepatch and grinned a cheek-to-cheek crescent moon smile. The Cheshire Rabbit, pirate-style, one might say. He hung on a layer of pink shapes and textures, glowing white as he grinned joyfully at the world.
Then the electric guitar hit, and orange fire and electrical crackle popped from inside the roseate cloud, and Shimmerlace — as was by now her well-worn wont and habit — burst from the smoke.
"Don't you want somebody to love? Don't you NEED somebody to love?"
No, no it seemed they did not so want, nor need. Shimmerlace felt that like a large, cold metal ball bearing in her intestines. Normally, her pyrotechnical displays took already hyped audiences and made them roar; tonight, there was but scattered applause.
"KIIIIIIID'S STUUUUUUUFF."
Golly, but check out the pipes on that man. Our boy could have sang basso profundo opera, had he been so inclined. Shimmerlace's jaw clenched as she slipped inside the ring.
Kid's stuff— one of the lamer hashtags floating around, if she was honest. Not quite as weird as #Quimmerlace, but also not as pithy as #HangUpTheWings.
(Nor as to the point as #JusticeForYuki)
The Feychild wore her most traditional costume—long black boots up to her knees, embossed with flower patterns; a white bodice that grew around her body like a wild plant. A single white glove with jewels on the back of her hand that caught the light and reflected dazzling blue.
The Feychild
But.
It was...
...Fine.
It was all fine. She had a strategy now. Not her own either—one workshopped with Eleanor. In other words, a campaign managed by none other than a former mayor of San Fransisco itself.
Breathe in a big load of air, and...
Shimmerlace raised a mic to her lips. "GOOOOOOOOOOD EVENING—Ladies, gentlemen, and all betwixt that make their home on this earthly realm."
"TONIGHT, we have a feast for your imagination. A unparallelled treat for your refined palettes—a conjoining of fey glamour and wrestling artistry such as has never before been presented to mortal eye."
"Tonight I will make manifest for you the thrills of flight. The exxxxxplosive, connnnnncussive power of a fey divebomber, wreathed in flame. And. AND. Perhaps most important of all. The soft...tender secrets of a wrestler reduced. Stripped. Laid bare. And put to all manner of humiliating and sennnnsual uses."
"Are you ready?"
And there it was — in spite of all that coldness. The volume swivelled up. Not as high as it could be, but. Right direction. Shimmerlace grinned, swallowed, shook her head, and took a big breath so she could bellow:
"ARE. YOU. READY?"