An Illuminating Night on the Town (Cynthia Rose Arcadia Promo 1)

(The camera opens inside of a loud night club, both in volume and decor as the belted tunes of mainland music belch through the inebriated mouths of locals and echo off of the purple and gold star strewn walls of The Candle Karaoke Bar. Sitting in a darkened corner with her head in her hands, her face only illuminated by the establishment's namesake, sits Cynthia Rose with a bored look on her face as she nurses a Shirley Temple in her free hand. The camera approaches, causing her to cover her face as a tinge of regret sweeps over her face.)

Cynthia Rose: Go away, please. I'm just trying to unwind and sing. Places like this shouldn't have cameras in them. Please leave me be for at least the evening.

(The cameraman stops in it's tracks mere feet from the table as Cynthia hisses out an exasperated sigh and continues trying to cover her face. The camera shrugs and turns to leave, catching sight of a young man with a blurred out face hesitantly approaching the table. Before the cameraman can fully turn and go, Cynthia snags his elbow and plops him down in the chair next to him as the shy interloper looks between a blushing, hyperventilating, yet still politely smiling Cynthia and the cameraman.)

Interloper: Hello...uh...I couldn't help but notice that you were sorta sitting alone and-

(Cynthia nods toward the cameraman, as if to indicate she has company.)

Interloper: Right. A-anyway, I was just wondering if I could have this seat? That is if no one's expected to fill it.

(Cynthia's guard drops in a mixture of relief and disappointment.)

Cynthia Rose: Oh...I mean, sure.

(Cynthia turns to the camera, pantomiming wiping her brow, unaware that the interloper had merely pulled out the chair and took his seat at her table. She turns, nearly jumping at the sight of the young man.)

Cynthia Rose: Hi! I uh...thought you were taking the seat.

Interloper: Yeah, and I did didn't I?

Cynthia Rose: I thought you meant elsewhere with like...you know...your friends?

Interloper: Oh, sorry I didn't mean to impose. I guess our wires kinda got crossed there.

(The Interloper's bashful smile is even clear through the censoring blur as Cynthia stares at him blankly, rapping her fingers on her chin. She cuts her eyes to the camera, and then back to the interloper.)

Interloper: Oh!...you want me to leave.

Cynthia Rose: I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rude about it. I kinda just came out tonight to get away from things and-

Interloper: No, no, I understand. It's just that I saw such a beautiful girl sitting alone in a bar-

Cynthia Rose: This isn't really a "bar" bar.

Interloper:-and I couldn't help but at least try to strike while the iron was hot.

Cynthia Rose: I appreciate the compliment...uh...pardon me, I didn't catch your name?

Interloper: Oh it's um...Rufio.

Cynthia Rose: Rufio...uh huh...

Interloper: Say, are you that girl who wrestles on TV?

(Cynthia bites her nails, as if trying to hold her tongue as she not-so-subtly nods toward the cameraman.)

"Rufio": Oh, right haha...say, do they always follow you like this?

Cynthia Rose: Always.

"Rufio": Why?

Cynthia Rose: Surveillance I think...I try not to think about it. It's good for the random free form promo every now and again when the mood hits, and the AV folk are usually pretty sweet, so I don't mind much and-say, are you a fan by any chance?

"Rufio": Uhhhh...what gave you that idea?

Cynthia Rose: I don't know, maybe it's the fact that you used the alias 'Rufio' to pander to my love of Peter Pan? Maybe it's the fact that you walked up to me despite a camera being in my face because you know there's always one there? or maybe it's because we're on an island that-

"Rufio": Okay, okay! I'm a fan! Sorry for showing interest! I didn't mean to bug you. I'll just-

Cynthia Rose: Wait wait, don't leave. You've just-

(Cynthia stops mid sentence and turns to the camera, beckoning him in on the conversation.)

Cynthia Rose: You just reminded me of something back home that kind of relates to both of our situations.

"Rufio": Really?

Cynthia Rose: Yeah. You see, back when I was in college and still went to bars...real bars, not like...karaoke bars, I'd always stop by the dumpster to pet and feed this kitty who lived out back.

"Rufio": Are you about to compare me to a dumpster cat?

Cynthia Rose: No, just listen okay? So this cat mostly lived off of bar food. Leftover sandwiches, wings, nachos, pickled eggs, half eaten burger sliders, olives...that might've explained his polite disposition. Olives tend to make cats a bit high. She was a bengal mixed with a calico. She looked like a tiger, so we named it Lilly. Everyone loved Lilly. They'd go out and scratch her behind the ears when she let'em, feed her food straight from the plate instead of suffering her the indignity of digging through the dumpster. She was a sweet cat, but she belonged to no one. My buddy Cubby'd try to catch her and take her home, but every time she'd tear him to shreds.

"Rufio": Wow...

Cynthia Rose: Every now and again someone else would try their hand at taming Lilly, but few even made it out of the parking lot with the feral kitty. They didn't understand the terms of our relationship. It was one way affection with that cat. We all adored it, but she didn't know if any of us were safe. To her, we were just a bunch of strangers trying to take her away from what she knew as her home. Some even tried to learn her favorite bar foods to lure her easier, but that's hardly fair is it?

"Rufio": No...no I suppose it isn't.

Cynthia Rose: And it's hardly fair that they came at her with their intentions hid.

"Rufio":....

Cynthia Rose: It's also not fair for them to be mad at her when she rejects their advances to take her home.

"Rufio": I'm sorry.

Cynthia Rose: It's OK. I'm just now coming to the conclusion that I'm guilty of doing the same thing with Colt Montoya.

"Rufio": Oh?

Cynthia Rose: I came at him with a preconceived expectation of who he was going to be, held him to a standard that may have been unattainable, and then blamed him for not reaching it. I've bad mouthed this man for not being who I wanted him to be for over a month now. Odds are someday a fan like you will do the same with me, no matter what their dubious intentions or lofty expectations might've been for approaching me in the first place. That's their side of the story. They control that narrative because they wrote the first page before they even bothered to consult with me.

"Rufio": I don't feel that way.

Cynthia Rose: No?

"Rufio": No. I kinda deserved this on-air tongue lashing for what I just tried to pull. Oh man, what are my parents going to think when they see this?

Cynthia Rose: Don't worry, I'll make sure they censor your face and alter your voice. Just don't sign anything they hand you, m'kay?

"Rufio": Thanks.

Cynthia Rose: Want me to sign something?

"Rufio": Really? Sure!

Cynthia Rose: You're the first person whose asked...or, well has been given my autograph...I guess nobody has technically asked yet...

"Rufio" : Hah, yeah. It's kind of an odd situation I've put you in I suppose.

(Cynthia grabs a cocktail napkin and the pen that came with her bill and starts scribbling lightly on the fragile tissue paper. She then sits up and proudly extends it out to "Rufio" who happily grabs it and pores over it.)

"Rufio": Parasocially Yours, Cynthia Rose....Neat!

(The happy anonymous fan rises from his seat and starts to walk away, his eyes still glued on the napkin held out in front of him in both hands. Cynthia smiles with satisfaction in her actions as she watches him disappear into the gauche backdrop. Suddenly a thought crosses her mind.)

Cynthia Rose: HEY! Next time you try to hit on a girl in a bar using Peter Pan references....maybe don't use the one guy who sounds like 'roofie'.

("Rufio" looks back from across the bar, visibly cupping his ear as he tries to hear over a horrible a capella rendition of "Enter: Sandman". Cynthia smiles and gives him a thumbs up, which seems to be enough for the would-be Lothario as he turns to his friends and holds up the napkin to a round of applause.)

Cynthia Rose: I suppose one can't always live up to a preconceived notion, nor is it easy to go into a match with such a bad first impression in your rear view. I'd like to start over, Colt. I'd like to take back every wicked thing I ever said about you in the name of Kimberly Chase. I'd like to un-see the inebriated dude bro who reveled in two women fighting over him. I'd like you to un-be the passive-aggressive brat that lashed out at a man she once called hero because he didn't turn out to be the person she'd hoped he'd be. No more has-been talk, no more never-was talk, just two adults wrestling in a match over a belt that they are worthy of fighting for. No more excuses, no more reasons to be excused, no more tainting that prestigious gold's name. I want a pure match with pure intentions with a purified slate between us. Do I expect I'll get that?

(Cynthia knocks back her virgin mixed drink and slams the glass on the table.)

Cynthia Rose: I'm trying not to. I'm not trying to expect anything of you, Colt. I don't know you and you don't know me. We have nothing in common. We come from two different generations, two different upbringings, in two different places in the world. Why would you be like me? Why would your morals match my own? Why should they have to? The simple answer is they shouldn't, and I've come to the conclusion that they don't. It wasn't that long ago that you offered me a night on the town to get some drinks after our match. I didn't go because I knew it was a hollow offer. You're like that cat behind the bar. You'll take pets because it keeps you fed, but the second that someone tries to take you away from what you believe to be your home the claws come out. You don't want to be friends. You barely consider me an associate. To you on that night I was just another snot nosed newbie you could trade drinks for road stories in hopes that it'd be enough to get me out of your hair. Well...I didn't go, and it didn't work. And so, here we are again across from one another with your championship, your home, on the line and no promise merriment after the show. Drinking? maybe, but not happy drinking: numbing drinking, drinking to forget, drinking to drink. Drinking alone. Maybe there's no difference for you anymore, and again, it's not my place to judge but I can't help but feel that when you're sitting alone at the bar drowning your sorrows it'll be your own fault. You underestimated me. You talked down to me. You gaslighted me over Kimberly winning your match for you until you could saunter in, the old cowboy hero with a big iron on his hip lookin' to set things right for a little lady. I don't buy it anymore, Colt. Maybe I never did, but the fact that Kimberly Chase thought she had to cheat and distract me up 'til now should tell you that I'm not the only one. I don't want a sad sack veteran story. I don't want excuses for when I pin you. I don't want to have an excuse if you manage to pin me. I want a straight up match with one of the best in-ring performers that ever came to this island, and I want to put the white noise of drama surrounding you, surrounding US, on mute. I'm not the reason you drink alone, Colt Montoya. You always have, no matter who was taking up space on the stool next to you. It was my mistake to put you up on a pedestal, so don't take it personally when I knock you down a few rungs. I doubt it matters to you anyway...after all, we're just ships passing in the night.

(Suddenly the music cuts out and the emcee's booming voice comes over the PA.)

MC: Coming up next, one of Wrestleworld's own looking to lay down some Metric: Cynthia Rose!

(Cynthia smiles as the crowd full of boys hoisting up her autograph pop as the opening notes of "Black Sheep" come over the sound system. Cynthia hops out of her seat and starts heading toward the stage, before stopping and winking back at the camera over her shoulder.)

Cynthia Rose: ...Parasocially yours...

(The camera fades as Cynthia disappears into the spotlight.)