Double Feature Fatality!
Shu-hua Chiu falls out of the sky. Her feet hit the stage beneath her with a resounding thud. She barely sticks the landing, her whole body shaking from the reverb she felt. A less experienced martial artist may have fallen over, but she takes the pain with gritted teeth. She reaches for her cane, only to find nothing but air.
âAlrightâŚâ Sheâd have to stand on her own, then.
It looks as though sheâs been dropped onto a stage, right in the center for everyone to see. A large projector screen has been pulled down behind her. Not knowing where to go, she takes an uncertain step towards it.
The lights shut off. The chugging of an old-fashioned film reel echoes in the theater. A video plays on the screen, gray and grainy like something taken out of the 30s with all the cracks and discoloration to match. Black spots dot the footage in random places, but they donât hurt its legibility. Itâs a video of a fight between two women.
Two oddly familiar womenâŚidentical to the one watching their duel, save for the gi on one of them. She watches their swings and punchesâhow they donât quite seem to hit with full force, how they barely dodge each otherâs hits in time. The choreographyâs tight without much room for error. As Shu-hua takes it all in, she realizes what sheâll have to do. This is for her to copy.
Light floods the theater once more. Sheâs not sure if the other Shu-hua walked onto the stage in the darkness or just materialized. It doesnât matter. Shu-hua mirrors her doppelganger, adopting the proper stance just as she does. Just as in the video, her clone runs towards her. Shu-hua steps out of the way. She spins, bringing out her leg for a high kick that makes her scream from the effort.
At the very least, she hasnât missed her beat. Throughout it all, she follows the choreography to the letter. She throws punches that bring tears to her eyes, she weaves out of the path of kicks that wouldâve sent her to her knees, and she makes it all look good. If she wasnât fighting to her death, this would be a beautiful performance.
Once their fight reaches its conclusion, the theater goes dark. A new video plays. This time, theyâre holding swords and the real Shu-huaâs holding a hand over her heart as she watches. Her breathing is labored, every gasp of air rattling her on the inside. Her muscles ache. Her joints are protesting even though sheâs not doing much more than standing at this point. She⌠Swordplay? Can she handle something like that in her current state?
Sheâll have to try. The video ends. The lights come on, like they did last round. Another Shu-hua stands before her, her sword in hand. The same weapon instantly appears in Shu-huaâs hand. It wouldnât be a fair and accurate fight if she didnât have one, too. She counts in her head, syncing every number to the choreography sheâll have to complete.
The fight begins. Shu-hua strikes with her sword. She parries. Shu-hua moves her blade away. She goes in for a hit that gets blocked. Theyâre interlocked for two seconds before trading dodges and blows. Itâs graceful, and so much of Shu-hua is agony as she goes through the motions.
She missteps. Her doppelgangerâs sword cuts at her side, ripping straight through her jacket and drawing blood. Shu-hua returns with a swing different from the choreography. She needs to gain an advantage hereâ
Electricity shoots through her. Shu-hua collapses with a yell. Her clone freezes, watching Shu-hua through narrowed eyes. Theyâve still got another fifteen, maybe twelve seconds to go.
No deviations allowed.
âI get itâŚâ
Shu-hua gets back up. She points her sword at her doppelganger.
Back to the fight. Thereâs a couple of times where sheâs too slow. She stumbles. But she makes it through. Her clone disappears, and Shu-huaâs left alone on the stage to catch her breath. How many more fights would she have to complete? Every breath she takes feels worse than the last. Everythingâs burning now. Her lungs. The slice across her stomachâŚ
The theater goes dark. A new video plays, titled âFinal Sequence.â Itâs a routine that starts with a cartwheel to the left. Then, more acrobatic fighting. If she focuses, she can do it. She knows she can. Once the video ends and the lights come back on and her doppelgangerâs staring her down, Shu-hua gets right into it.
She launches herself into the cartwheel, her arms shaking.
She falls over.
The wound on her stomach opens wide. Her blood spills, but she gets up one last time.
âŚOnly to fall again.
Itâs over for her.
Shu-hua dies, under her shadowâs unfeeling eye.
ââââââââ
[ SECURE THE PREMISES ]
It happens in the blink of an eye. A new scenery. A new âsetâ.
Chopped grass stretches out, as if trimmed to some perfect short height. In front of Alisa is an obstacle course, reminiscent perhaps of something found in a military or police academy. Even from this far, she can see a sign in the distance. Finish. If she makes it⌠then maybeâŚ
Her first step is shaky, but it moves forward. Where else is there for her to go? What else is there for her to do?
The smooth slope upwards is the first checkpoint. Itâll be hard to maintain your footing but itâs possible, if she just perseveres. Nervous steps turning into running footfalls as she attempts to scale the arcing ramp. However, rather than the sleek surface one would expect, a myriad of small spikes coat both the ground and the rails. Alisa stumbles and struggles to find her footing as both hands hit the ramp, pricking them both. Still, she perseveres. With a shuddering breath, she digs her fingers in and pulls herself to the top of it, basically sliding down the other side. Thatâs sure to bruise. It doesnât matter. She can keep going.
Next is a net to climb. Itâs obvious even from here itâs snagged with small pointed needles and blades. But the only way is up. Each step up the net is grueling, each one tearing into her skin subtly, knees, fingers, thighs. She exerts herself to stop herself from getting stuck. Still, she perseveres. Her vision dizzies as she stands atop, ready to jump down into ice cold water. With a deep breath, she leaps and sputters upon hitting the surface. She hits it bad, leg in agony, body in pieces, but any screams are muffled by bubbling water. She barely manages to splash her way to shore. Thankfully, itâs shallow.
Itâs not a surprise when the third checkpoint is a sandpit underneath barbed wire. Ragged breaths come out of her tired mouth as she gets onto her hands and knees and prepares to . Does she need to do it this way? Couldnât she just escape? Why go along with a cruel course like this? Honestly, she hasnât thought about it. Maybe thatâs why sheâs in this mess. If she could only think critically. Wire cuts and curls around her, further shredding her skin. She bites her lip as she struggles; so many scratches, both deep and shallow have cut into her face so much red is beginning to colour her vision.
Still. She perseveres. Each crawl towards completion has her snagged on another piece of wire. She grabs at the ground, she grabs at the barbed wire as her vision blurs. Disgustingly, bravely, in the most unrefined fashion, Alisa struggles towards her goal, tears pooling in her eyes. Is it regret? Pain? It doesnât matter anymore. The water stings at her wounds as she digs in her nails and completes the crawl, her left leg dragging behind pathetically.
What sheâs always wanted is ahead of her. The finish line. The police academy exam she failed. The father she had disappointed. The studio filled with people sheâd let down. It was all building to this moment. Blood is pouring from her wounds, onto the ground as she limps to the door. Alisa, pulls it open and⌠a brilliant light⌠and laughter⌠she smiles at the thought of succeeding.
Bang!
A shot rings out and goes right through her chest. Ah. Of⌠course. There was no way itâd end any other way, right? She was stupid for believing anything otherwise. Itâs all fuzzy after that. Her lightheaded corpse teeters over and hits the ground, blood pool out from the sudden gunshot. Still⌠she perseâŚvâŚ
Her hand reaches for something, anything. Any hope. Any support. âI ⌠j⌠ju⌠s⌠wanted⌠tâŚâ
It falls to the ground by her side, a pained expression left on her face as the laugh track goes on. The defeated, bruised, broken and bloodied corpse of Alisa Belikova lays there.
For it was a joke, wasnât it?
To think it could end any other way.













