BATTLE ANGEL II; the opening. On a cold, windy evening, a young man sat on a park bench after a few miles of jogging. The manner of which his eyes perused the area gave out indications that this area was new to him. As a former Bostonian, it was only his first day in Manhattan but instead of unpacking in his new suite, he chose to go outside and look at his new homeland. Dressed in only a pair of sweat pants and a t-shirt, he managed to sweat in the blistering cold. It was not the running that caused his exhaustion but the forty story building that shot up from the ground in front of him. The building looked as though it had been around for a hundred years but held the timeless elegance juxtaposed with a modernistic touch that made it seem as though it had been erected yesterday. It not only touched the sky but rose beyond. The maple trees that grew around it, did not block its view but only added to it. A road ran in a circular motion around it, as though it was the only building on earth and nothing but fallen golden leaves scattered beyond. Suddenly, someone else decided to join him on the bench. She was one who's presence he acknowledged immediately, despite the plethora of joggers running past him. She didn't seem to notice him at first but the moment he spoke up, he had her full attention. "It's quite the sight, isn't it?" he didn't mean to ask but simply declared. "It sure is," she answered anyways. "Whoever is responsible for this must have been having sex while he or she envisioned this building. Say, do you know what this hotel is called?" The woman hesitated at first but then answered in a monotone. "Why it's the Rebecca-Rancid-Stratford hotel." "The Rebecca Rancid-Stratford," he repeated in what sounded like a whisper becoming one with the strong winds that were blowing at them. He sat there with her, gazing at the building in silence but it was as though they had spoken of every detail of it. They seemed to know its insides. The doric columns that existed within the lobby, the gold plated ledges that clung to the white walls in each suite. "Say, who is it that built the Rebecca Rancid-Stratford hotel?" he then asked incredulously. "None other than Rebecca Rancid," she responded with certainty. "Thank you," he said and then leapt from the bench back onto the one way road to which he would soon become accustomed to. The woman herself got up and began to walk towards the hotel. She entered as though it was a route she had always taken and went right up to the concierge. "Is it possible for me to book a suite at this hotel for two nights?" she asked. "Tonight and tomorrow." The face behind the desk was a stout man who was in his early thirties but his face looked as though he had just entered his fifties. He stared straight at her, unable to move but then responded politely. "What kind of suite?" he asked. "Any kind of suite you got." "I'm sorry, Miss. All the suites are booked for the week," he responded. "Every one of them?" she sounded impressed. "Yes," he said authoritatively. "I apologize for the inconvenience.. however.. we do have an empty suite for tonight. It seems like Mr. Shephard hasn't checked in yet, even though he was supposed to yesterday. However, Mr. Shephard owns the suite and we cannot let you stay in it." "John is stuck at a conference in Japan, Mr. Daniels," she responded, her eyes did not have to read his name tag to know his name. "Are you a friend of Mr. Shephard's?" he asked. "Of course," she replied. "In fact, he asked if I would stay in his suite until he returned." He turned around to look at her, "Who are you?" "Rebecca Rancid." she said. Her voice was neither boastful nor offensive but one who never had to answer that question before. The man gaped at her in astonishment. "Rebecca Rancid!" he yelped, startling most of the tenants that were present in the lobby. "I truly apologize for not recognizing you. I am so so sorry. You are, after all my boss," he mused, getting out of the desk to assist her with her bags. "There is a penthouse suite we are furnishing that we can make available for you." "That is not necessary," she said, before softly yanking her Louis Vuitton Speedy out of his hand. "Mr. Shephard and I have some business to take of early tomorrow morning when he returns." "But, Miss Rancid," he said. "But how come? Mr. Benjamin Stratford always stays at the Presidential suite." "I know," she laughed. The people gathered in the lobby looked in awe as Rebecca walked past them. "Is that.. Rebecca Rancid?" asked an elderly woman with her granddaughter by her side. "That's who owns this hotel," said her granddaughter. "That's who BUILT this hotel." "God bless her!" shouted the old woman. It was the first week of the opening of the Rebecca Rancid-Stratford hotel. It was named so because Benjamin Stratford, a California born author and the son of a wealthy architect was a close friend of Rebecca Rancid's. Benjamin so desperately wanted his mother to believe he was a straight man that he once told her he married Rebecca Rancid at a chapel in Las Vegas, hence the title Rebecca Rancid-Stratford. Rebecca had told him that attaching his name to his building would make his father roll in his grave. He agreed with delight. Once she was settled in her suite, she telephoned Ken Mitchell. "Hello, Mitchell. I have sent my car for you. You will be interviewing me at my hotel." "But.. but your opponents have said nothing!" he declared over the phone. "I don't care what they have said but what I have to say to them." Half an hour later, Ken Mitchell, PWT's official interviewer had stumbled into the Rebecca Rancid-Stratford Hotel. "I'm looking for Rebecca Rancid," he said to the concierge but before they could direct him to the Shephard Suite, he saw Rebecca walking towards him. Between the row of doric columns, she looked like a supermodel walking down the runway. "Mitchell!" she greeted upon approaching him. "Come on with me." He ran to her at once. "Rebecca, I'm sensing a lack of effort from your opponents," he told her on the way up. "Neither Ciara Cage nor Georgia James have said a word this past week and this is supposed to be a big match. The Femme Fatal..." "Which we all know will be me," Rebecca said assertively before pressing the button for the elevator. "I have my doubts," Mitchell responded with a sly smirk. He was always one who wished to break the spirit of Rebecca Rancid and taunt her but secretly, he was a huge fan of the pyro princess. "I think Ciara Cage is holding something back and when the match commences, she will unleash it on you and take you out before she can take the title. I find that to be smart." "I see it as an act of cowardice," Rebecca stated sharply. "I used to think Georgia James was Miss Chicken Shit, not before I met Ciara Cage." "Why is that, Bexxxy?" he asked. A ding was heard in the vicinity. The elevator had reached the lobby. As the two entered the spacious moving room, Ken Mitchell was shoved off to one side as Rebecca stood, dead centre, poised and contemptuous like a lady. She did not like to share an elevator with anyone for these reasons precisely. "It's a matter of opinion, you would think but I choose to believe that it is a fact. Regardless of what I do, Mitchell. Ciara should know one thing. She will have to knock over that pawn Georgia James, her former best friend to get to the Queen - me. In this match, I am the true title holder. I am the femme fatal. It is I who the women in this company look up to, openly or begrudgingly. I have just lent my title to Ciara Cage for the time being so she can trot around feeling like she has accomplished something." "Oh, c'mon, R," said Mitchell as they entered the Shephard suite. "We both know that you would never loan Ciara the title." "You're right!" Rebecca declared. "I never did loan her the title. I was the femme fatal all along. I still am. Ciara Cage is just carrying my belt for me as though she were my slave. But only my on call slave who was needed incase Georgia James dropped my belt." "That's very fitting," he said sarcastically. "So if you are the femme fatal, what makes you want to claim your belt now? Why do you wish to carry it?" "Because I've decided that no one should have to bare the burdens I bring on myself," she stated, automatically finding a spot on the bed. Ken was asked to make himself comfortable, like every other human that came across Rebecca Rancid. "Elaborate, please," he said, taking a seat at round table that John Shephard would usually play poker at. "Ciara Cage finds joy in holding a title. That is only because she doesn't have one of her own. The woman is begging to be defined and she is begging the media, the public, the population of America and the rest of the world to do that for her. She needs to be the femme fatal champion in order for every other female on the roster to speak of her and the only reason they are speaking of her is because they are gunning for her belt. Mitchell, when I was in PWT about two years ago, I had just lost a match and did not hold the PWT championess but every woman who entered the halls of PWT thereafter deemed me worthy of battle. I am the battle angel. Of course, after they spoke of me and a match was booked, I ended up coming out victorious. But neither of these outsiders matter to me as I live on my own word." "What about Georgia James?" asked Ken Mitchell. "The glorified goddess," was all Rebecca had to say. "Well, the Glorified Goddess has said, last week when you signed a contractual agreement for this match, that she is coming especially for YOU, Rebecca Rancid." A smirk came upon Rebecca's face at that instant. "Tell her to wait a week after I win the title and I'm carrying the belt. Actually, I believe we could have a match booked right after. I think she'd be better off attempting to win the title herself instead of trying to stop me because we know that's not going to happen. I'm flattered that Georgia wants to give me all her attention in this match and I say bring it on. I suppose the week prior to last wasn't enough for her. I would have pinned her if Ciara didn't interfere last week but this time, I apologize for I will be pinning the current holder of the belt." "Well it looks like you will be pinning Ciara Cage and your co-Horseman in Cross will be pinning her boyfriend Javen. Is that how it's going to be this week?" Rebecca laughed. She hadn't thought of that yet. "Certainly. I bet Cross has no trouble pinning that punk. What was he thinking when he went for Ciara Cage? I suppose she wanted to heighten her fifteen minutes of fame. I see a wedge in their relationship after the week is over. Two losers don't sit well together, not for long." "Well that will be all today, fabulous. Congratulations on your new hotel." Rebecca did not respond. She simply let Ken Mitchell find his way out of the Rebecca Rancid-Stratford Hotel. - The Perpetual Conflagration THE ORIGINAL DOLL 2008