“Max-i-mus…” three syllables spill from her tongue like syrup. A cheerful smile dances across her face. “A superlative of magnus, Latin, meaning great. How utterly appropriate.”
“Oh, Maximus.” She wags her finger. “You are special.” Her eyes glitter, making diamonds look like the coal they came from. Her pale face radiates like moonlight. She wears happiness like a wedding gown.
“What’s not to like? Unlike so many of the lackluster lips that wave and wander endlessly in their fantasies, yours tell only truth, and they do so with such delightful diction.” She closes her eyes, a slight, audible moan of appreciation trapped inside her closed mouth as though reveling in him.
“‘The crucible of competition.’ That’s what you called it! And how did you fare in that ‘chaotic ensemble?’” Though it seems she is taunting him with his own words, she says them sweetly, lovingly, as if she longs for him. A small giggle follows.
“Of course. Fate forged the answer. It was a foregone conclusion. When steel meets flesh, the winner is decided beforehand. Designed by destiny, this date was drafted long ago. But that does not mean I have not had my eye on you.” Her finger rocks left to right.
“How long did it take, Maximus? Mere seconds passed before you hoisted two hundred and forty pounds onto your shoulders like a sack of flour, held it there as though it were a feather, and forced it into the mat with two hundred and seventy five pounds crashing down? Or the way that you interlocked your fingers, after you wrapped those massive arms around Josie Gray’s waist, and hoisted her into the air? Great. Maximus. Steele? I have watched you lift bodies like they were nothing. You do not smith swords. You are like the sword: the blade of brawn, the margin of might, a hulking hilt of hardiness. Maximus Steele is like a monumental weapon made of flesh and muscle.” In her rambling, she seems almost hungry, salivating at the very concept of him.
“No one is like you. No one. Because as I am sure those steely eyes of yours have observed, those iron ears have heard… people in Prestige make a lot of promises, don’t they? Every week we must endure more errant affirmations and impotent threats.” Her face drops into a look of disappointment. “In such a short amount of time here, I have become exhausted, Maximus. I grow debilitated by deceit, forlorn by fabrication, faint with their figments of imagination. But finally, I have found you among the flotsam.” Her palms meet, and she presses her hands to her lips. It appears as though she is praying.
“See, every week— Maximus stands in front of this very camera.” She nods her head acknowledging it, reaching both hands out as if to cradle it. “And he tells us exactly what is about to happen. His record proves it. Not once! Not a single time has Maximus Steele stood before you and said he would win a match that he did not. Maximus has never forsaken our trust. He has never broken a single promise. What a rarity. In a sea of conceit, an ocean of arrogance, there is you– a lighthouse, a reminder. No. A promise of dry land. I am no longer lost among the waves. I have found safety and salvation here. Thank you.” The final word falls meek. A long moment passes. Her lips begin to tremble, and it appears as though she is about to…cry? Though she attempts to compose herself, she cannot. Her bottom lip retreats between her teeth and she looks away from the camera. Short, heavy, choppy breaths follow, and she slowly shakes her head.
“I like you, Maximus.
I hate myself.” Her sadness shifts to frustration. She snarls the word “fuck” under her breath. Her eyes move back, trembling. She looks forward as if she is about to beg.
“I hate myself
for making a liar out of you.” Her hands fall and dangle at her sides. She looks defeated.
“I know you, Titan. I am sure you have sincerely said something to the effect I will not survive the blast furnace of fate. That I was not forged in the same fires you were. That you will be the hammer that shapes Prestige, and bend my will like tongs, and cling onto MY Prodigy Championship.”
“Unfortunately, my friend, Iron melts. And as Roxie Gearheart found out at Popular Demand, the underworld burns much hotter than 2,800 degrees. I understand that you can and likely will lift this husk of a body into the air, hands grasping at my waist, and lift until your arms can no longer stretch, and then send it crashing into the mat between your legs. I know you can lift me onto your shoulder much more easily than the Hobo King. I am aware that you may fling yourself from the top rope, a javelin, and drive your shoulder into my abdomen. Darling, none of that can stop me. Nothing can.”
“What can you do that a steel chair cannot? Are you as sturdy as a barricade? Can you cut me like glass? Power, Mister Steele, is not everything. It is not enough. The reason I proudly hold this Prodigy Championship is NOT my strength. No. Is it my resolve. It is my passion. It is because unlike iron, unlike steel, unlike any metal, I cannot be broken. I exist solely for the purpose of suffering and standing back up. Any pain you inflict upon me with those rugged hands that worked steel mills and calloused over a hammer, is but penance I take gratefully, graciously. Your violence is mercy to me.” By now, she looks feral.
“You must understand that regardless of how great you are, regardless of what a weapon you have become– you are, under all of those tattoos and all of those muscles… a man.
Death, Maximus
comes for every man.
And I am Her.”
Yesterday at 9:11 pm by 
Subject: Steele My Heart 
