Edwards v Arcane

[UKWF]

Post your RPs for the match below. 2 RP cap, max. 1 RP per character, max. 500 words per RP.

[Arcane]

Fade in to the muscular forearm of Arcane, adorned with a shaded tattoo of the Chelsea lion. The camera pans out to show The Magnificent Bastard standing outside the Engine Shed in Lincolnshire. With an icy stare, he deftly lights a cigarette and takes a long drag.

Arcane: So no more NME. It's the end of an era... or a new beginning?

I could see where it was all heading. Blaise Fader was tearing through NME and I didn't want to give her the satisfaction. I never expected Ace or Storms to win their matches. Cross, maybe, but that ain't enough for me. I need dead certs, and I've now learned if you want something done, do it yourself. When Cross took yet another pinfall - condemning NME to an embarrassing loss - I decided to pull the trigger on that little social experiment.

Looking back, what did NME really achieve? We drove a couple undesirables out the company, we made life uncomfortable for a few others. We put the pressure on and that's it. I'm no footnote, I'm a winner. I'm not Tottenham, I'm Chelsea. I'm the champion elect. I've always been a league above my cohorts. I tried to pull them up but the truth is most people just ain't built like this. I only ran with them boys for Stella but now she too realizes their inadequacy. NME is over but I'm just warming up.

He turns to the camera with narrowed eyes.

Arcane: Now you're a winner, James - you've proven that - but in a different way. You're American so I'll switch it up. You're like Andre Iguodala; he comes off the bench and always puts up decent numbers, arguably the best sixth man in the NBA, but he's not the man. You're the go-to-guy for the solid but unspectacular - and UKWF needs that stability. You racked up countless defenses with the Broadcast Championship, defeating a wide array of worthy albeit mediocre opponents.

I'm not trying to brush you off or downplay your accomplishments, but it's important to contextualize. There are levels to this. Noah Reigner was a caitiff punk who never deserved the platform but you made that championship matter - at least to the little man. It didn't matter much up here in the main event; I took a glance down the card and shrugged my shoulders, but to Ghensi and Garrett? You set the standard. In the minor league. Golf clap, Burning Heart.

You ain't faced someone of my caliber in UKWF yet. I'm a whole different breed, son. No splinters on the bench here, I'm the man. I'm the gatekeeper to the upper echelon - somewhere you don't belong. I heard you like to throw them elbows but I took my lumps on the street, so we can make this match a real slug-fest. If you got the heart to throw down, I'll have you outlined in chalk - just another lost boy.

With a snarl, Arcane flicks his cigarette to the floor as the scene fades out.

[James Edwards]

The sound is reminiscent a metal rake running over concrete, is grating enough for one to briefly consider running sandpaper over their knuckles as a distraction. The culprit is a knife with faded steel and a cracked plastic grip moving across the surface of a charcoal whetstone.

"I've never been one for using one of these things to gut a deer."

The camera pans out to show James Edwards standing at the counter of a small kitchenette. He eyes the stone and carefully guides the knife across the coarse surface at a fixed angle. His tongue hangs to the side of his mouth in a manner reminiscent of Michael Jordan in midflight.

"Actually, I don't have much use for a deer knife at all or weapons in general. Why use a tool when your hands do the job just as well? With said, I also ain't the kind of guy who doesn't take of his things either. Even if something doesn't have an immediate value, you still treat it with respect because you never know when you might need it."

After two more quick slides across the stone, James reaches across the counter and grabs a shiny black case. He snaps it open, places the knife inside, snaps the case shut, and finally turns his full attention to the camera.

"I don't want the blade on my knife getting dull. It'd be awful arrogant of me. Since there may come a time when it may save my sorry ass if I got lost in the woods or somebody tries to pull a gun on me, no matter how damn unlikely either is to happen.

No matter how much you wanna downplay the Broadcast Division, Arcane, the facts speak for themselves. Every fight for the Broadcast Championship stole the show; every single one brought out the best in those who challenged for and defended the belt. It truly is the belt for real fighters in the UKWF.

It made me better in the ring. I had to stay on my toes to keep the thing. I had to find new ways other than the Gospel to put people down. I learned how tough I really am and that you shouldn't take your opponents for granted.

The fact is, it kept me sharp.

What can we say about you, Mr. Gatekeeper? What have you used stay deadly? Tag matches where you hid behind other people while they did the work for you? Dropping your boys from behind to make yourself feel like a mastermind?

None of that will produce a killer between the ropes. It creates a soft pretender that thinks his hubris is gonna keep him safe. It gives rise to a man who took the safety provided by his entourage for granted, so much that he thinks is skills are still good enough to dodge the danger coming his way, the vicious cut that will bleed his delusions dry."

[James Edwards]

The ominous toll of glistening twins bells in a Rockwellesque church tower summons the faithful. Occasional parishioners in expensive suits, bored teenagers forced to attend by their zealous parents, and immigrants from Southeast Asia out of place but perhaps the most pious of the flock. All of the united by one thing: faith.

"I don't fucking get it, why people come running the second they hear those things ring. I guess they believe in the power of what building stands for, or something along those lines."

Across the street, James Edwards sits at a bus stop dressed in sweaty exercise clothes and with a near empty jug of water in his lap.

"To be fair, I think the folks across the street in that church would wonder why fighters push themselves so hard in the heat to run an extra mile or completely dog each other in the build to a match just to piss the other one off enough for them to give their everything."

James laughs, a rare occurrence for him.

"It's funny how we follow different gospels. They worship some god of peace. We follow the violent gospel and seek salvation in blood and concussion kicks. Even as far apart as both things are, I think there is something that unites us both: we wanna make each better.

That's why I was so damn hard on Garrett, Ace, and Kelsey. Sure they insulted me with bullshit words and promises, but I knew they wanted something more from our fight; they wanted a transcendent experience, something that would turn them into something better. That's why I called them on their shit. I wanted them to want to shut me up by giving me the fight of their lives.

I didn't do that out of pure unselfishness. I wanted to be better too. I wanted them to push to a place where I eclipsed the man who lost to Reigner, and I did.

That's the movement we all started in the Broadcast Division, and if the battle royal is any indication that the cause is alive and well."

He pauses to take a long sup from his water jug.

"It's a beautiful thing. That's why I can't let someone like you taint it, Arcane. I ain't gonna lose to a man who belittles my work and wants to take the resurgence of pure sport in UKWF back into the dark ages of politics and self-important stars. You will not kill the counter culture in the name of your corrupt establishment. You will not role into your fight with MJ Bell unblemished. I'm gonna beat some doubt into you. I'm gonna make you a memory so that if you do win the title, you will be haunted by the man and the cause that seeks to burn your world to the ground. We have to continue to ring the bells to draw in the faithful."