The Lost Girls (Cynthia Rose Promo 1 for Ch 32)

(The camera opens in Cynthia Rose's room. She sits on the edge of her bed with a phone in one hand, and her head in the other as she leans over doom scrolling with a neutral expression on her face.)

"I've been told I need to speak for myself, leave Percy in the back, and show the world who I am by a person that I once respected and looked up to as a role model. I've been called a loser, undeserving, gullible, naive, and everything in between by people who seek to only tear me down emotionally to compensate for their own insecurities as wrestlers. I've been attacked and blinded repeatedly by the jealous hearts who think I don't deserve it. I've been talked down to and infantilized by men who think they're better because of a difference in age, or even one chromosome. I've been accused of getting everything because of my last name, spit on for proving the naysayers wrong, and gaslighted by those who've cheated to beat me. Everyone's told me every single reason under the sun why I shouldn't be where I am so early in my career, and yet none have truly bested me in the ring in a clean match to prove otherwise."

(Cynthia looks up from her phone, her eyes bloodshot and drooping with dark circles beneath them.)

"This isn't me spouting off some sort of riddle, comparison, or cryptic allusion to Emmanuelle; this is me we're talking about here. I'm sure Emmy's been burdened with similar dispersion toward her own character, but that's not why I'm stating these facts. I say them so you don't have to, Emmy. I say them so I don't have to call you a hypocrite for criticizing me for going through the exact same things you've been going through since your first taste of success in Wrestleworld. We're not where we are because some distant relative or trainer gave us our spot. We're not wrong to believe in our own abilities as wrestlers. We didn't...Percy calls it 'doing favors'...we didn't service some man to get where we are. We've taken the best that this island has to offer to it's limit, overcame entire rosters to get bigger opportunities, and paved our way to the pinnacle with nothing but sheer skill. We both go into our matches as wrestlers without an inkling of personal hatred toward our opponents. We're pros. We're not petty. We don't seek drama, and yet it keeps finding us doesn't it? That's why I respect you, Emmanuelle. It's not the titles, it's not the killer instinct that Colt Montoya apparently thinks I need to find...it's the fact that you treat this like a job."

(Cynthia side eyes her phone.)

"Or at least I thought that was the case until I read this tweet decrying me as 'gullible idiot' who you're going to tear apart as some political message."

(Cynthia tosses her phone away and falls backwards onto her bed. Staring up at the ceiling, a flicker of concern crosses her face, only to contort into anger and resentment.)

"Do you think they care about what you do to me? Half of the Architects on this island hate me on principle, and the other half hate me because of the blood in my veins. I'm just another 'young'un' like you coming in off of someone else's clout in their eyes. They don't respect us. They don't want us. They don't understand us. To them, we're the disaffected generation that the news tells them about because we refuse to let this be personal. Meanwhile, they bicker and cavort like Greek Gods deciding our fate on a whim. I'm not Pendragon. I'm not who you're mad at, Emmy. I'm not holding you back or telling you who you can and can't defend your title against. I'm just another day on the clock who has no set goal in mind other than to pin your shoulders to the mat and make sure you're able to go defend your championship at Arcadia, because I want you to stick it to them as much as they stick it to us. I wish you went into this match with the same level of respect and compassion, but I know and accept that you wont. We're in the throes of a generational war here that we didn't sign up for. We're the new chapter in Wrestleworld's books, and the previous chapter feels threatened by our success. They think we're going to take their spot, take their glory, and take their accomplishments and leave them in the dust...and you know something? They're right to be threatened by us, because we're capable of doing just that."

(Cynthia smiles blissfully up at the ceiling.)

"I don't say any of this to deter you from your mission statement of destroying me in that ring. I welcome it because I know you're going to leave it all out there and give me the fight of my young career, and I hope to do the same thing for you. A few weeks ago I tried to go into battle with Stephanie Matsuda without the baggage around my neck dragging down our match, but ultimately it weighed me down and cost me the experience to grow as a competitor against a gifted veteran. Even before that match I sensed a reticence from her to go into our match with any expectation of a fair fight. She was right Emmy, but not for the reasons she thought she'd be right. She didn't know me from Eve, so she assumed I'd treat her like every other woman in Wrestleworld before me. She hadn't watched me prior to our match, and she didn't care to make another enemy, but you? You want that chip on your shoulder and know you wont get it from me. You've paid attention, you've looked for cracks in my arsenal, and you've decided that you at least like how I do business. You said it yourself; you like me, but I'm not the gullible idiot you think I am. I know you don't like anyone on a personal level, so it's gotta be a kudos for my in-ring acumen because, after all, it's never personal with you. That's why I don't understand why you're trying to superimpose something onto me that clearly is personal to you that others have meddled in: business. Like I said, I'm not your architect. I'm not filling out your paychecks, I'm not trying to tell you where to eat, breathe, and fight. I want you here, Emmy. I want you in that ring with me lacing into me with those MAELSTROM molded strikes and those Rosso stylized submissions. I want the best you have to offer, uninhibited by angst and unbound by hatred. I want the girl that's in it for the green, not the one seeing red. I want discipline, I want autonomy, I want the cold fighting machine who could care less about what anyone thinks or says. I thought you cut mommy's purse strings because you didn't want to be the whiny, angsty, silver spoon brat who bows to others to get what she wants. I want the self-made woman who got what she deserved with ease and apathy. I want the disaffected Silver Starlet that knocked down whatever was put in front of her, not some vindictive child throwing a tantrum and giving them what they want; a reason to believe we don't belong here.

(Cynthia sits up and immediately finds her eyes affixed to the glowing screen of her cellphone on the floor.)

"Let's shut them up, Emmanuelle. Let's show them what we're made of, and that it's stronger stuff than they're comprised of. Let's go into this fight the same way we've always set out to do this; emotionless, calculating, and looking to prove we're more than just a couple of green beans in a field filled with other fresh crops that look just like us. We aren't going away. We know how to take our lumps and come back stronger. We bend knee to no one, take grief from no one, and got here because of no one other than ourselves. I expect you to try and destroy me, Emmanuelle. I expect it because that's what you try to do to everyone you cross paths with indiscriminately...just...do me the favor of doing it without someone else's name on your lips. I want you to see me and only me, because I see you and only you. Nobody else may see us, but as long as we see each other, that's all that matters. Take it from someone whose been literally and figuratively blinded by hate on multiple occasions over the past few months; don't lose focus on what's directly in front of you. I'm not a doorway, I'm not a window, and I'm not your sacrificial lamb to the gods of your championship. I'm just another day at the office, so let's make it a productive one."

(Cynthia's vacant smirk is contorted into a surprised gasp at the sound of knocking on her door, which is soon followed by the booming voice of her trainer.)

Percy: We working out today, or are you still milking the last Kimberly Mace encounter?

Cynthia Rose: Yeah, yeah, yeah, I'm coming.

Percy: Then get 'cho ass outta bed and put on some trainers. We got laps to do! and by 'we', I mean 'you'.

Cynthia Rose:...language...

Percy: What?!

Cynthia Rose: Coming!

(Cynthia quickly slides her shoes on and starts lacing up, but finds her eyes still gravitating toward the phone. She loops the bunny and then finds her hand trembling, as if trying to go into the direction of the phone, but meeting resistance as she sets to work on the next sneaker.)

Percy: I ain't got all day!

(Cynthia hurriedly fidgets to lace up the final shoe as her eyes become dead set on the glowing and pinging screen of her cell phone. Just as she finishes the final loop and begins to reach out once more, the door flings open, sending the phone skating across the room in the other direction as Percy barges in. He looks down at his crouching pupil stuck in the frozen motion of reaching for something, like the remains of a former Pompeii inhabitant permanently frozen in a state of desperation.)

Percy: Uhhh...you doin' stretches?

Cynthia Rose: Ummm, yeah! Thank you.

(Cynthia hops up to her feet with a newfound happiness and rejuvenation in her face, as if recognizing she's been freed from her technological trance. She walks past Percy in the doorway, stopping to peck him on the nose with a kiss as she makes her way into the sunlight.)

Percy: Better cut that shit out...make you run an extra three mile for that one.

Cynthia Rose: Language!

Percy: A'ight, fuck it. five more miles!

Cynthia Rose: LANGUAGE!!!

Percy: FINE! SIX MILES FOR THE BACK-SASSER!

(Percy slams the door behind him as Cynthia jogs off onto the street, giggling at her resentful trainer's cantankerous temperament. As they exit the room, the phone ominously pings again. The camera slowly zooms in closer to the glowing screen across the room as horror enducing 'Jaws' like music begins to pick up in the background. Just as the camera's about to reach the phone, and the music's reaches a fever pitch, the sudden sound of the studio apartment door opening cuts it all to a screeching halt. A polite clearing of the throat is heard off camera as a small female hand reaches down and picks up the phone. The camera pans up to find Cynthia once again scrolling thoughtlessly through her social media feed, the glow of the screen reflecting in her eyes. Suddenly, Percy peaks around the doorway and spots his trainee in her zombie like state. He cautiously makes his way into the room, careful not to disturb his doom scrolling protege. Finally he reaches her. He carefully peers over her shoulder to catch sight of what she's looking at. Without warning, he snaps his neck around and screams into her ear.)

Percy: GET THE HELL OFF YOUR PHONE!

Cynthia Rose: AHHHH! Percy! You nearly gave me a heart attack!

Percy: Yeah? Let's make sure that doesn't happen by keeping you heart healthy. TEN MILES!

Cynthia Rose: Oh c'mon!

Percy: Don't make me make it 15.

Cynthia Rose: Fine, fine...I just need to reply to this-

(Percy slaps the phone out of her hand. Cynthia hangs her head in shame. Percy shoots out his arm and points toward the door. Sulking, Cynthia slowly makes her way out the door. As they both start to exit, the camera starts lowering back down to the phone once more, only for Percy to charge into frame and snatch the phone off of the floor.)

Percy: Uh uh, none of that shit. Get the hell outta her room.

Cameraman: Y-yes sir...

(The cameraman slowly exits under the watchful eye of Percy. As they reach the doorway, the feed cuts to black.)