the night air spills in through open window, and with it came the sounds of the japanese city life which carries on in the streets below. in the low apartment lighting, all which could be seen is the glint of the brass plates of their straps proudly displayed on nearby table. they had grown accustomed to the change in scenery, having made waves in the country's wrestling promotion. it's a far cry from competing in the european indies. in a way, he'd felt like they'd made it. they'd touched some semblance of success. here, prince devitt had been made to feel like a king, and the irishwoman a queen.
just hours ago, the iwgp junior heavyweight champion had been doing a devil's dance they'd done a thousand times over, but something about it had felt significantly different than times before. this felt momentous, an unknown, unspoken weight to it which he couldn't even come close to quantifying. the witching hour was upon them, and while becky slept peacefully beside him, his slumber had been anything but. heart pounds at an erratic rhythm, sweat begins to slick skin which had been freshly showered only hours prior. there's only one reason for this. the visions were back, and with a vengeance. like usual, they're choppy flashes like a poorly edited video.
an image of a baby he'd never seen before, bearing blue eyes that suddenly filled with red, merging to make an eerie violet hue. sudden jump to the dojo, small pale feet running around on the mats. static - like transition to a red sky, thunder almost drowning the screams of an anguished becky. a brief flicker of her reddened, sweaty face. a phantom pain of his hand being squeezed. another flash of lightning to see the symbol of wwe on a ring's apron, a small auburn - haired girl landing firmly upon it. again, another splice of memories yet to be had shows a little girl coming up to him with a bright red universal title belt. the concerned sound of a tiny irish cadence screaming for her father. was she talking to him?
a blip of an image of a teenaged version of the woman wrestling, begging for the chance to be trained. a flash of an image depicting the demon king, balor, in an image on book's page in what appeared to be the girl's grimoire. dad, wake up ... wake up ... dad!
with a sudden jolt and a grunted exclamation, the visions end, leaving him a drenched, panting mess in the bed. a familiar ache in his temple, one that's eluded him for some time. fingertips move to put pressure there, no relief. a slight turn of head reveals that his actions had roused his wife from her rest. an apologetic smile graces his face as he reaches towards her, brave expression in the wake of pure panic. all the while, questions plague distraught mind: why did this happen now? who was this child which seemed to haunt him? what did it all mean?
it would all become painfully obvious in the coming months, but until then he'd be experiencing flickers of his darling daughter finleigh in TORMENTING VISIONS he couldn't make sense of. he remains silent aside from slowly settling breaths. a singular digit reaches towards the pale cheek of becky. it's followed by a heavy sigh, hand moving to gently rake through fiery strands. " sorry, sweetheart ... " his voice comes in soft bravado, a slight tremble to it still. " didn't mean to wake ya. "
