Bonnie Blue: Origin of the Future

My life began roughly twenty-one years ago -- seven hundred years in your future. I was generated in a cloning tank, like my "sisters" before me. There were twenty-three of us, in total. I was the last; each of us awakened in our turn, each deposited in a different point in time and space. Except for me.


I alone remained in the place of my creation, brought up under the watchful eyes of the Brotherhood of the Temporal Schism. There, in the Monastery orbiting its neutron star, I trained in the arts of hand to hand combat alongside the young disciples. In shifts, we tended the sacred plants, scrubbed the deckplates and bulkheads of the space station, studied, meditated, slept, and fought.


Now, one of them boys used to vex me. Teased me 'cause I was afraid -- of pain, of gettin' hit, of fallin' down, of heights -- in short, all the things that no wrestler should fear. Things no warrior, chosen to alter the course of the Timekeeper Wars, should fear. But I was also a little girl, no older than ten at the time my destiny was revealed to me, and it made my blood run cold to think that a child should save the universe... or destroy it.


Did I say "universe"? Oh, but which one? No...that's a question for another time.


Anyway, this kid -- couldn'ta been more'n a year older'n me -- he was gettin' unbearable. Daily harassment, and the older monks saw it. They didn't do nothin' to stop it, I reckon 'cause they thought I should learn to deal with it myself. An' the day came when I did. One taunt too many 'bout my parentage -- or lack thereof -- an' I lit into that sonofabitch like y'all wouldn't believe. We fought, not with the grace an' dignity we'd been trained in, but like savage beasts -- until the Brothers pulled us apart. Sent his ass to the infirmary.


I was confined to my quarters for three days after that. The boy was expelled from the Monastery. Never really understood why. But I wasn't afraid anymore. Not of gettin' hit, or fallin' down, or pain. Still had a little trouble with heights -- that'll always be there -- but I know how to overcome it now. To be conquered, fear must be confronted.


When I was fourteen, the Brothers sent me to a public high school; another space station, administered by the Unified Solar Confederacy and overseen by a highly advanced artificial intelligence called Headmistress. It had been determined sometime in the late Twenty-Sixth Century that deep space and a controlled environment made better students. EduStation Perseus was the end result of that thinkin'. In addition to regular studies -- astrophysics, quantum theory, xenobiology, and recreational mathematics -- I was involved in a full-immersion simulation of the early Twenty-First Century.


What? Y'all reckon I just showed up from seven undred years in the future without any preparation? That'd be like takin' someone from right now to the Thirteen-Hundreds an' expect 'em to get along without bein' run through by some over-eager knight. Nah. I had to learn how to act the part, see? I may be a clone of Johnny Reb -- that don't mean I'm 'zactly the same. There's a diff'rence in our upbringin', for one thing. I never knew what it was like to have two parents an' a sibling. I had monks and disciples for teachers and classmates, for fam'ly. An' maybe that gives me a weird point of view where fam'ly's concerned. You take 'em where ya find 'em -- an' the Guardians are my fam'ly. Don't nobody fuck with that.


Back to that in a minute. Here's where things get int'restin'. Fast forward 'bout four years, close to the end of high school, mere weeks before graduation. Those days were some of my best: halcyon an' carefree, an' I was able to forget, for just a little while, what awaited me after. What all them years of trainin', learnin', masterin' Johnny Reb's every move had been preparin' me for. A few brief romances, little bit of drama, an ongoin' battle of wit an' will with that which plagues every high school for all eternity -- mean girls. Small, petty, shortsighted, insecure. Some of 'em, it would seem, never outgrow it.


There I go, digressin' again. Maybe I'm more like my father than I thought. Anyway, then came the day I met the Visionary. I'd heard the tales, of course, at the Monastery: that he was the reincarnation of the original Visionary, Don Jesus Luis de Guadalupe; that he had the ability to see through Time itself, and the power to traverse the Astral realms at will. He was part of the Prophecy, the very reason for the existence of the Brotherhood of the Temporal Schism. He was there when the chronovores attacked, a fourteen year old boy who pulled my ass outta the fire with a detached sorta calm, while everything around us exploded into chaos.


Everythin' after that is still kinda jumbled up in my head, an' not just 'cause of the panic. Even in the Twenty-Eighth Century, the Wave continues to roll through the universe, an' it don't just move forward. Y'know how sometimes, you remember an event -- birthday, anniversary, holiday, somethin' -- an' you're pretty sure it went one way, but then some of the little things change in the retellin'? Y'all reckon that's just a faulty memory, the human tendency to exaggerate or downplay certain details for effect. Might be true. On t'other hand, it might just be a convenient means of explainin' away a much more uncomfortable truth -- that the event did change, that it played out diff'rent than how ya remembered it; an' then your memories catch up with the changes, bit by bit.


Anyway, long story short, I was told to run, so I ran. I was told to hide, so I hid. But the agents of the Dark Timekeeper were everywhere. An' when my path -- inevitably, it would seem -- led me to the very place where it all began, that's when the Dark Timekeeper struck. I was caught, chained .... interrogated. And eventually rescued, only to turn around an' launch an assualt on the Dark Timekeeper's lair within the Rock of Ages, with only the help of a mad scientist, a powerful psychic, a cyborg journalist, a bipedal feline, and the craziest sonofabitch I ever met: Jay Omega.


I was there when he shattered the Mirror in which the Dark Timekeeper had imprisoned the soul of Johnny Reb. When the glass broke, so did his power. The defeat of the Dark One came at a price. We were scattered throughout the Omniverse, lost to one another, and still hunted by the forces at the command of Oblivion -- the Dark Timekeeper's ally. The results of one of Oblivion's twisted experiments, the Cult of the Chrono-Rippers grew from unholy matings between the Dark Timekeeper's luchadrones and Oblivion's Vixen: Biomechanical shapeshifters with an uncanny ability to track down time travelers, even crossing dimensional barriers to do so.


An' all that was just the shit I had to wade through before I signed with ...that other place.


That's when the real fun began. First thing I did, bein' who I am, was tweak the wrong nose. I couldn't help it. I show up, an' all I see is some buncha Jersey Shore rejects callin' themselves #BeachKrew, tryin' to throw their weight around; attackin' folks, with or without provocation. Well, I can admit, now, that maybe I provoked -- a little bit. Their response was disproportionate. They set their pet Monster on me; forced me into matches that put me at a disadvantage -- an' how'd that work out? I took on Wade Moor and Oblivion, singlehanded -- an' won. When their attempts to silence me failed, they tried to break my spirit.


All they really did was redirect me to another path; made me stronger; gave me powerful allies. From a certain point of view, you might say that Moor, Oblivion, Dustin Beaver, Johnny Rabid, and Jared Homes were my greatest teachers. That #BeachKrew made me a better... me. You might even think that all those trials then were leadin' up to somethin' bigger. As if it were all part of a very long game indeed. Am I gettin' warm?


I'm still tryin' to figure out how takin' out Stiletto fits into the plan. That part still confuses me. No way on Earth -- or any other world -- does Jim Thuggin want Bonnie Blue holdin' any kinda title. So why? Enlighten me.


Now, where was I? Oh, right...that all brings us to now. Today.


We live in a world where a man like David Sanchez can somehow jury-rig the system into makin' him Mayor of one of the most influential cities in the United States. A world where violence is the order of the day; where this thing we do, week in an' week out, is a balm to salve the raw, pulsing rage that rides the psychic undercurrent of collective unconscious. We are charged with keepin' our territory orderly, safe -- yet crime remains rampant in the streets. A Latin King luchador is murdered in broad daylight, an' the police department rules the cause of death "inconclusive." Triads and Latin Kings engage in all out warfare in our streets, and what do you do about it, Mr. Mayor?


Shit, last week, right before Beachmania, the White Lotus had taken over UCI's own Warehouse -- and it was left to the Guardians to clean up that mess. Where were your jackbooted thugs then, Sanchez? Too busy superkicking old ladies trying to get into an underground church service? I may not be religious, but I respect a person's right to believe whatever hokey, primitive superstition they want. I couldn't even begin to imagine what heinous fuckery you're gonna come up with next.


But that is entirely beside the point. Your fitness to lead this great City is irrelevant to the topic at hand -- which is the Updegraff Industries Hundred-Kay Invitational Tournament. A hundred thousand... that'd buy you a lotta hookers an' blow, wouldn't it? Or whatever fucked up shit you're into; frankly, I'd rather not know. What I would like to know is how it just so happens that your little private army seems to be made up entirely of guys who look exactly like our friend Franky.


Hundred-thou oughta buy me the services of a top-rate investigator. Or maybe just some payoffs to the right people, until I find out what's really been goin' on. Yeah, I like that second option better. Last time I hired a private detective, the guy ended up at the bottom of a lake. Then again, that was the other reality. Might not be true here. Alternate universes are always so confusing.


I know what y'expect, David; the same thing everyone expects: that I will lose. That it was my misfortune -- or someone else's plannin' -- that I should get you in the first round. Those fans, bayin' for my blood, even as they pity me for bein' the one to fall beneath your sword... so to speak. You're cold. Ruthless. Calculatin'. Textbook sociopath. I been studyin' ya, David. I know all the nasty ways you can hurt me in the ring. I also know the greatest weapon in your arsenal, an' I know how to neutralize it. I ain't gonna be the pushover you're countin' on, David.


I ain't the weak link in the Guardians. We don't have a weak link. We're not a chain, like your Syndicate, meant to bind an' oppress. We're a family, united in purpose -- to protect Chicago; to protect this world.


You remember when I said ya don't mess with that?


Well, David, ya done fucked up. Send your Yakuza boys to take Alex's girl? That goes beyond not cool. But after the barroom brawl, what you had Wright do to the Pit? Motherfucker... y'all both gonna pay for that. I'm done playin' nice. We coulda done this the right way. The honorable way. But you wanted to play dirty, Sanchez.


Y'know ya can't keep me outta City Hollow if I really want in, don't ya? I can slow Time to a crawl an' walk right in. I could speed myself up like Barry Allen, get in an' out before anyone knew there'd been a breach. Hell, for that matter, I could drive my Ranchero right in without so much as breakin' a window, an' be gone before your Frankentroops could mount a defense. Did ya ever ask y'self why I ain't done it yet?


You seem distracted lately, David. Is it startin' to wear thin, this mantle you placed upon your own shoulders? How are ya gonna hold up in the ring, with all this responsibility draggin' you down? I could take it a little bit easy on ya, I reckon. I could -- but I won't. An' not outta any misplaced sense of respect. Ya lost that a long time ago. No, David... when we step into that ring, I'm gonna do my damnedest to destroy you.


An' if I don't, then may all the nonexistent gods have mercy on you, Sanchez -- because then you'll be facin' the wrath of Alex Richards, or the cold fury of the Polar Phantasm. While I would rather not deny either of these men their opportunity to tear you apart, this is my chance to prove myself. If I can take you down, then they'll pay attention: the fans, management, everyone... If I can put your shoulders to the mat for three long seconds, maybe they'll finally see that I have so much more potential.


One half of the inaugural tag team champions is a pretty good start, though our victory was tainted -- and that will be answered for, mark my words. If there is a star on the rise, it is assuredly mine. Look at all that I have overcome, all the hard-won battles, to get where I am now. Do you still look at me an' see weakness?


Is that what the rest of the competition sees?


What about you, Erin Fausse? Quite the cozy City job you've got yourself there in Sanchez' Administration. What is it? Minister of Magic? No, that's not right. Princess of Propaganda? Hmm. No. Um. Secretary of Sacrilege? Eh...close enough. Either way, I'm sure you're really good at doing whatever it is the nice Mayor tells you, right? You still taking his "private confession" under his desk? Are the words all warm and sticky in the back of your throat when you offer absolution for those... countless sins? I bet it burned after all them thumbtacks -- but that's probably the kinda sick shit that gets a girl like you goin'. Religious types are always the freakiest.


And is it even worth mentionin' Mr. Kyle "I'm a champion just for showin' up!" Cameron? Let's give the boy a round of applause, ladies an' gentlemen. He managed to lace up his boots without tyin' 'em together an' fallin' on his face the second he tried to walk. That's some Olympic-level shit right there. Kyle, sweetie, don't take this the wrong way, but... I ain't wastin' time on you, sugar. You ain't gonna make it past Fausse in the first round. That girl's gonna obliterate you, Kyle. Might as well accept it now. You saw what she put Andre Holmes through. Then again, we all saw what he did to her.


Yeah, y'know, on second thought... You might have a chance, Kyle. Face-full of thumbtacks, I guarantee you she'll still be feelin' that. Kick to the jaw didn't help matters none. Probably gonna take all her meals through a straw for a while. Do you have it in ya to capitalize on that, Cameron? I mean, Shadowlove told us how you sucker-punched his lady friend, couple weeks back. This wouldn't be much diff'rent, 'cept Fausse will have her full concentration on ya the whole time.


Do ya have what it takes, Kyle, to make it past Fausse an' face me in Round Two? I kinda doubt it. Y'oughta focus on your co-championship with Andre Jenson. He's a good dude, knows what he's doin'.... even if he seems a little crazy. You listen to him, follow his advice, and, well, you might even win a match one day. But Sunday is not that day.


Now, on t'other side of this very interestin' equation, we got two of my teammates squarin' off. That's a tough call. Alex has his sheer size, an' the fact that he don't feel pain like reg'lar folks. But Cam's quick, he's smart, an' he's devious -- plus, the dude is strong . If'n y'ever been on the wrong end of that Ice Cap, y'all know what I'm talkin' about.


And while I'd rather not be on the wrong side of the ring from either of these guys, chances are lookin' pretty good that's how it'll work out in the final round. Alex, you're like the goofy big brother I never had, an' come what may, we'll both do the Guardians proud. So long as one of us walks outta that tournament with the vict'ry, we all win.


Bottom line, though, I'd give my tag partner the edge here, because he's focused an' Alex is little bit preoccupied. To be fair, we kinda all are. Our home, put to the torch... an' just when we was gettin' all settled into Chicago life, too.


Your day is comin', Taylor Wright. There's a price to be paid -- wages of sin, an' all. Karma's a bitch, Taylor, an' she's got her sights set right on ya. Everythin' ya done, it's all gonna come back down on your head. If it's any comfort, the waitin' won't be long. Either Alex puts ya down, or Cameron does. An' that's assumin' you get past the Beavs. That dude's a monster -- I oughta know. But just in case the inconceivable should come to pass, an' you somehow make it to the final round, I want you to know -- from the bottom of my heart -- that this... this is personal.


Speakin' of personal, an' Dustin Beaver... not one of my better segues, but I'll take what I can get. Listen, Dustin, it's great an' all that you appear to have... turned your life around. I only wish I could, uh, "Beavlieve" it. Feeding the homeless: a noble endeavor -- or an easy PR stunt.


I can hear the fans askin' it now: "Oh, Bonnie, why are you so cynical?"


Hmm. Why? It's because I remember what kind of man Dustin Beaver was -- the man he still is -- though perhaps "man" is too generous a term. You recall those days, don't ya, Dustin? That night, in particular, when you an' I faced off over that -- what'd y'all call it? "Sea-Vee" Title? Obnoxious bunch of douchebags. Beavers ain't even marine mammals. You shoulda changed your name to Sea Otter or Baby Beluga or some shit.


Not the point. Point is, you had that match won, the bell had rung -- the damn Television Title was still yours. But you weren't done. Had to add injury to insult, 'cause your homeboy had a problem with me. It wasn't nothin' I'd done to you. You was doin' Wade Moor's dirty work -- 'cause he was too afraid to face me again himself -- when ya used the ring ropes to choke me until I damn near passed out.


Man who does that without any remorse ain't the kinda guy who changes for the better. How long can ya keep it up, Dustin? How long, 'fore that cheerful Boy Scout facade starts to crumble? How long before you show all the fans here at UCI the kinda man you really are, Dustin? Because it's inevitable. You can't hide what you are forever.


Y'know, Dustin, if I thought you'd make it past the semi-final, I'd warn ya -- I ain't satisfied with how we left things 'tween us. We've only faced off in singles competition that one time, an' there's a tiny little part of me that sorta hopes you make it all the way through, just so I can get my hands on ya one more time. So maybe I get my chance at a little payback. See, I learned a few things, all the time I spent with Andre Holmes. I learned about bein' relentless. I learned about revenge. I learned that, high-minded as some of us may like to consider ourselves, at the end of the day, all that matters is the fight.


An' a fight for one-hundred-thousand dollars is sure to be worth every damn penny.


The people want blood. They want violence. They want spectacle. I damn sure intend to deliver. Pay attention, boys. Tonight, y'all gonna see a side of Bonnie Blue y'all never expected.