Post by Misuji Mishima on Feb 15, 2018 5:58:31 GMT -6
Misuji Mishima adored his job, and the lineage that he carried courtesy of his warrior parents. In a way, it had secured what may have been a very shaky future. Misuji, as silly and oblivious as he could be at times, was at least faintly aware of how limited his skill set was outside of that circular square lined by thick rope and hard metal. There was really nothing else for him, beyond expanding his horizons and facing greater opponents. He didn't want to grow up to do anything else, as a future in which he did not compete in puroresu seemed too cruel and savage a timeline to even properly consider. Yet, despite how all that he owed to the art of fighting that had built the boy up into the person that he now was, Misuji still made a mental note to take a short retreat from professional wrestling one of these days.
It didn't have to be an especially long one, as he didn't even want his break from the limelight to last more than it had to. If his body was capable of it, he might not have even considered the future vacation at all, no matter how much pain, stress and sleep it cost him to keep on going at full steam. But no matter how much he wanted to continue on his current, blazing path to the top, he knew that his body couldn't completely keep up. The lad had almost completely given up his free time outside of school to either working or training, and what little sleep he could muster often never lasted long, as he awoke early in the morning to challenge the world bit by little bit once more. As much as he loved the sport, and everything it had to offer to him professionally, socially, and even emotionally, Misuji needed to start taking better care of his health and well-being.
There were horror stories every week of wrestlers that took it to far and injured themselves during the course of a match, or while honing their bodies and skills at a gym, or even while merely exercising at home. The easiest of these bitter tales to take were the temporary setbacks, the men, women, and everyone in between who merely required some time away from the ring of honor that they risked their lives for. But there were worse stories, ones that made Misuji Mishima cringe visibly each and every time he was forced to swallow them whole, as they reached out to his young ears, plunging into them for weeks on end until he could fully process the complications of it all. Like physically demanding forms of combat, like all of the martial and lethal arts that had any tiny amount of pedigree, people died because of their passion for professional wrestling. Whether it be from an accident, an overdose, or plainly stretching the limits of their mortal vessels too thinly until the remaining fractions of fabric tore themselves asunder, it never got any easier for the young lad to hear.
Those thoughts echoed his mind as he exited the building that he'd just sank in three hours of sweat, tears, and time spent away from his half-eaten box of classically glazed donuts (not having a roommate meant that he could afford such luxuries without fear of thieving hands) into. He stepped through the gym's glass doors with a pair of shaky boots, his entire form begging for a reprieve, as well some form of sugar. Still, the lad's conscious mind knew that he needed to find a way back to his dorm first before any of his body's simple desires could be fulfilled. He also couldn't wait to mull things over properly, as the thoughts that clouded his already quite hazy mind made him a little more sluggish and unresponsive than usual. Case in point, not even ten feet away from the building, the boy had already bumped into an almost equally figure, his own form stumbling backwards at the accident.
"G-guh..." Misuji wheezed as he caught himself from falling, somehow staying on both feet through sheer instinct. Still, the sweat that completely covered his two-tone tracksuit now rubbed off slightly against this stranger, even if the boy hadn't noticed yet. "W-watch- I should watch where I'm goin'." He said with a huff, dusting himself off a little as he readied to set his path back to the sidewalk. "Sorry about that, stranger." The teen spoke sincerely enough, despite the pants that marked each word.
It didn't have to be an especially long one, as he didn't even want his break from the limelight to last more than it had to. If his body was capable of it, he might not have even considered the future vacation at all, no matter how much pain, stress and sleep it cost him to keep on going at full steam. But no matter how much he wanted to continue on his current, blazing path to the top, he knew that his body couldn't completely keep up. The lad had almost completely given up his free time outside of school to either working or training, and what little sleep he could muster often never lasted long, as he awoke early in the morning to challenge the world bit by little bit once more. As much as he loved the sport, and everything it had to offer to him professionally, socially, and even emotionally, Misuji needed to start taking better care of his health and well-being.
There were horror stories every week of wrestlers that took it to far and injured themselves during the course of a match, or while honing their bodies and skills at a gym, or even while merely exercising at home. The easiest of these bitter tales to take were the temporary setbacks, the men, women, and everyone in between who merely required some time away from the ring of honor that they risked their lives for. But there were worse stories, ones that made Misuji Mishima cringe visibly each and every time he was forced to swallow them whole, as they reached out to his young ears, plunging into them for weeks on end until he could fully process the complications of it all. Like physically demanding forms of combat, like all of the martial and lethal arts that had any tiny amount of pedigree, people died because of their passion for professional wrestling. Whether it be from an accident, an overdose, or plainly stretching the limits of their mortal vessels too thinly until the remaining fractions of fabric tore themselves asunder, it never got any easier for the young lad to hear.
Those thoughts echoed his mind as he exited the building that he'd just sank in three hours of sweat, tears, and time spent away from his half-eaten box of classically glazed donuts (not having a roommate meant that he could afford such luxuries without fear of thieving hands) into. He stepped through the gym's glass doors with a pair of shaky boots, his entire form begging for a reprieve, as well some form of sugar. Still, the lad's conscious mind knew that he needed to find a way back to his dorm first before any of his body's simple desires could be fulfilled. He also couldn't wait to mull things over properly, as the thoughts that clouded his already quite hazy mind made him a little more sluggish and unresponsive than usual. Case in point, not even ten feet away from the building, the boy had already bumped into an almost equally figure, his own form stumbling backwards at the accident.
"G-guh..." Misuji wheezed as he caught himself from falling, somehow staying on both feet through sheer instinct. Still, the sweat that completely covered his two-tone tracksuit now rubbed off slightly against this stranger, even if the boy hadn't noticed yet. "W-watch- I should watch where I'm goin'." He said with a huff, dusting himself off a little as he readied to set his path back to the sidewalk. "Sorry about that, stranger." The teen spoke sincerely enough, despite the pants that marked each word.
PL: 9, 400 Majin Mumbo