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In the Tokyo Residential Complex, professional wrestlers usually retire somewhere in their forties or fifties, depending on how well their bodies can take it, how long applause thunders through auditoriums for them and their bones stay fixable. Moko’s said she Wants to Celebrate with the Girls After Her Retirement for ages now, since they were teens. It’s felt like tangible evidence that she plans to stick together, to Kako… like a promise of decades-long friendship, offered casually, with a cheery wink. Just so Moko.
Ooo! It’ll go like this, Moko says: they’ll get their nails done, then hit up some ritzy place with the best meat dishes around. Then bars! But classy joints, where the former Apocalyptic Maiden of Destruction, known in wrestling circuits even from far-away Residential Complexes, can treat her friends to wrestling-themed cocktails and bottles of sweet strawberry wine for the table. Sling her arms around them, plant sloppy “Mwah!” kisses on willing cheeks.
They’ll sing drunk, laughing karaoke and remember the best parts of old days; they’ll feel so far away from the idea of being living weapons. Some people will consider them old women, by then, but they’ll be super beautiful anyway. Moko will carefully do up all their faces, fussing with glittery pink bags full of cosmetics. Kako will feel safe in her hands, staying out all night.
“Where should we go next? What do you think, Nozomi?”
“Ahhh! I’ve heard the pastries here are to die for.”
“Is this an edgy Last Defense Academy themed bar? Weird. That’s us.”
“Let’s not go there… this is about wrestling-goddess-Moko, not unwilling-soldier-Moko.”
“Aw, Nozomiiiii! You’re making me blush.”
All night, that is, until Kako calls her brother Ima up from some part of town she’s never visited before, with crystal chandeliers and old wrestling buddies. Ima begged to be their designated driver, after all. Yes, they could just get a taxi… but he looked so hopeful, wanting to be part of things. Kako couldn’t refuse him, just like she couldn’t help carrying away some pastries for him, wrapped in colorful paper in her purse.
Ima shows up in his slick purple-black car, like glossy dark wings. Everybody piles inside, and Nozomi falls asleep with her head tucked against Moko’s shoulder. She’s retired, now. She’ll be a wrestling announcement personality, instead, starting tomorrow.
It’ll happen, Moko says. Moko hopes. Easier years will pass, and here they’ll be.