“One to be a murderer, the other to be martyred, One to be a monarch, the other to go mad.”
― Marissa Meyer, Heartless
Undisclosed Gym
Las Vegas, ND
28.01.2022
05:02am
No one was ever told that the top of the mountain was a slippery slope.
That all the scratching and clawing to stay there only served to loosen the footholds, to tear any traction smooth as glass. Some people fell because they were toppled, bested after expending everything to have gotten there to begin with… most though, most fell because they’d left themselves with nothing else to hold onto while the next person used their scrambling body to haul themselves up and over.
Not because they were the best, but because the final struggles of their predecessor carbed a new niche in the mountain top.
10 long months. 11 successful defenses and Amber Ryan couldn’t help but feel like she was starting to slip.
Quietly, she’d been feeling that way for awhile although publicly she’d never dare mention that there might be a chink in the otherwise glacial armour. Each match becoming prime opportunity for someone to simply use her deteriorating position as a way forward, a stepping stone towards their own final battle with themselves. With their staying power.
No one had capitalized yet though. Maybe they hadn’t seen it due to the desperate flurries of dust and debris she’d sent tumbling in her wake- or maybe, deep down, they just didn’t want to find themselves in the position she’d held. Not ready. Not willing to accept the weight of the company resting squarely between their shoulder blades. Not able to take that next step for fear of the deadly ‘what if’.
To even remain static these days, to dig her nails into the obsidian mountain top she’d created- Amber had to work harder than anyone else.
There was no gain, no pay off. Just the knowledge that she could remain… To wake another morning reflected with gold, sun capturing the glow of validation that she’d come to so heavily rely upon. Many would have thought it no longer worthwhile, the sacrifices far outweighing any further benefit- after all, what else was there left to achieve?
Left hand hammering into the side of a heavy bag- the combination was worn into her muscle memory as though automated, as though second nature. Sweat trickled, plastering errant red to the sides of her face as her chest heaved with every ragged breath.
Of course, the answer was simple.
Blast From The Past. Last year, she’d been touted alongside Despayre as favorites. Perhaps to their detriment, she quietly mused as she brought her hand to try and relieve the trickle of sweat tracing past her eye, the spotlight a little more harsh and the eyes centered on what was considered by most as an inevitability.
Being the favorites was a curse though, especially in a tournament like this, Amber had always preferred underdog status. Being told she shouldn’t win, that she couldn’t win only ever made her want it more- whereas being told that they were supposed to be the best was a handicap at best and a deathwish at worst.
Only difference this time was that she was the World Champion.
Glancing over towards her duffle bag- the edge of the faceplate seemed to wink in her direction, like it knew in it's inanimate nature that she was looking, seeking reassurance that she was doing the right thing. She rarely let it out of her sight these days, the increasing paranoia of how close she’d come to losing it at Inception, and in the garage fire, still weighing heavily on her already frayed nerves. If anyone asked though- she was a proud champion, a company champion representing their greatest prize, instead of the paranoid hot mess fighting to alienate everyone who cared about her just as hard as she was trying to retain her 300+ day title reign.
In reality, she was one of the few in the tournament with anything to lose- reluctantly relying on someone else to care as much about her World Title as she did. Hitamashii seemed to get it though, seemed to understand the pressures that they were facing- it was a lot to put on a stranger, this expectation of being better than their best for something they’d never be able to take true ownership of.
Maybe the sting of being recently dethroned spurred his determination, the twinge of heartbreak not having yet ceased in his chest- granted he would never quite understand what this World Bombshells title meant to Amber, at least he understood well enough that he wouldn’t intentionally let her down.
“You keep some very odd hours … But I can’t argue with the work ethic, Miss Ryan. It’s simply amazing. I can see why you’ve been at the top for as long as you have.”
Cassiopeia Mares, SCW Talent relations, gave Amber a resonant albeit distant smile. It seemed different, somehow. She’d taken a far more concentrated interest in the World Champions affairs recently, citing at least officially that her ‘groundbreaking stranglehold of SCW property’ and ‘volatile and argumentative social aptitude’ were enough grounds for such laser focused concerns. Not that Amber seemed to mind that much- no distractions, no social shrapnel to contend with the terrible decision making and inability to ‘play well with others’ she usually instigated.
Of course, Amber knew it was more than that- Masque’s influence on the younger woman had seeped through worse than a heavy dose of mercury in her concealer. A quicksilver poison.
Faint click-clacking of cherry-red kitten heels echoed between the resounding thuds of flesh and bone meeting riptop head on. Neither giving an inch as the soft-spoken young woman closed the distance, stopping within mere feet of Amber’s open duffle bag.
No matter where they were- Cassie always appeared out of place, tightly clutching a leather bound folder embossed with delicate florals against her knee length tea dress. Professionally soft spoken, yet looking as though she still got excited for the first Christmas lights of the season.
“I don’t mean to be rude…”
Amber began, as though anyone who’d ever spoken those words didn’t know what came next. By now it should have been expected from the redhead as a normality- shaking out her hands, the ache in her knuckles radiating from having been balled into fists, Amber squared up her body to face towards where Cassie lingered.
“... But how the fuck did you know I was here?”
It sounded as stupid as it felt coming off the tongue, questioning the merits of someone so whole-heartedly buying into the bullshit of someone whom Amber couldn’t decide if she trusted for her honesty and candor or outwardly loathed for almost everything else. Or someone who whole-heartedly bought into her. That felt infinitely worse.
“Miss Ryan, this isn’t my first day.”
Cassie shuffled her feet slightly, straightening her posture and taking on a certain edge that had started to become more prominent underlying her words. An edge that didn’t belong to the young lady by birth or diction.
“However, I’ve made it my business to know where you are at all times. All the better to help me manage your …”
She paused, fingers playing against the floral patterns on the folder. Something that might have been a smile flashed across her ruby-bright lips' something that might even have been playful.
“ … Tantrums, shenanigans and bombshells … Pun intended.”
“Shenanigans? Huh, it's almost like you don’t know me at all.”
With a small shake of the head, Amber returned to her routine- body falling into rhythm with the thunder of her pulse. Shenanigans were far from a priority though, she had to be perfect. Switched on and firing on all cylinders cause what little she could control of this match- those precious, perhaps fleeting moments between the ropes had to be nothing short of perfect.
One wrong move, one lapse in concentration, one swing and a miss- she’d be flat on her back losing ten pounds in the space of three seconds.
With an air of curiosity- the thumping of bone on bag and the chain groaning in protest at the exertion, Cassie considered the title that seemed to peek surreptitiously from the duffle bag. If anything, it was unremarkable in design, gaudy and overwrought in the type of way that made people clamber for possession. In reality, it was an inanimate object- it's influence came from what was bestowed upon it, the meaning it was provided with by those who bore its burden.
Gently prying it from the bag, Cassie was immediately taken aback by the sheer weight. Soot trapped in places between golden ridges, the faintly musty scent of sweat and leather. Intoxicating perhaps.
Oh, she could just imagine what it might be to…
“PUT IT THE FUCK DOWN OR I SWEAR, I’LL PUT YOU IN THE FUCKING GROUND!”
It was only initially in her periphery. A glint of light in the wrong direction, a set of hands on the one thing she’d given everything to claim. Amber's voice roared with such vehemence that she hadn’t felt the scratch in her throat until the words were permeating the walls, a fury in her eyes unmatched by Mother Natures worst- hell, the redhead couldn’t even fathom the idea, the sickening feeling that spread like rot between her ribs. Animalistic, the rage seemed to seep from her pores, oozing like venom into the air around them. Choking them both into a strangled silence. Amber could feel her muscles tense, every nerve firing to the point of implosion- her fists balled so tightly she might snap her fingers under the strain.
There was 15 feet at most between them, but Amber’s radiating ferocity and utter indignance seemed to shrink that distance down to one and a half. Looming as though unleashed, something distinctly primal overcoming every good intention she might have had.
Blood seemed to ripple and simmer under her skin, even her breathing seemed to taste like blood. Heavy metallic bitterness coating her tongue as the sense of reality started to wash back through the fiery haze.
God- it was just Cassie, after all...
Another head shake, this one as though distinctly unable to shake the feeling of someone else having taken over the controls for a moment, as Amber stepped back slightly. Disgusted in herself as she was violently terrified of how easily she’d been willing to simply… snap.
… and to think, she had willingly HANDED that same title over to Masque at Inception. Not threatened, not commanded- just politely asked as though she were passing the salt at the dinner table. Amber stuttered for a moment, words failing to resonate with anything more than a choked syllable out of place. Confusion and revulsion in herself seemingly throttling the other into submission beneath the crashing waves of clarity. As the echo finally seemed to die off somewhere beyond the walls- Cassie looked up from the floorboards, back towards the title she’d dropped from surprise and fear back atop the open bag, and then onto Amber who still hadn’t managed to articulate anything beyond the ever curious mumble.
God, what was wrong with her…
Cassie would never have…
… God, why did this feel so wrong.
“This means everything to you. Everything you are …”
Cassie frowned, breaking the stalemate, as the tension that had sent her body into brief paralysis seemed to drain away. Eyes focusing in on a champion unsure of whether her possessiveness had really waded into violent obsession.
“You’re not in control of your own destiny now. You’ve got a tag-team match …”
Another glance back towards the title, lying face up. Almost mocking them both.
“You could lose this without even being involved in the decision.”
“... Yeah. I really could.”
Amber managed as a taped hand ran through the errant strands that had fallen into her face, the faint crackle of something in her throat washing away some of the blistering red from her cheeks.
“... what happens if you lose?”
It was a real possibility. One lapse could see the title, quite literally, in someone else's hands. Cassie had proven it, Amber was distracted. Deluded into thinking she still had a semblance of independence from what she’d traded for a beating heart.
“... Don't worry. We won’t.”
... Cause someone had to believe it…
******
“Momentum, Mercedes.
At one point in your illustrious career, you might have been more familiar with the concept. Racking up wins like you were getting paid for it, instead of half-assing in favour of getting back to those history books you love to pore over.
Oh wait.
Momentum is based around numbers- scientifically I could tell you all the ways that you’re dead in the water and bleeding out fast, just in the same way I can quantify how hard you’re going to get hit and how much time you’ll spend denying that you were ever in any real ‘trouble’.
I could crunch numbers for the sake of humiliating you on your own battlefield- tell you your win to match ratio and how astounding it is that you’re so willing to gush about your achievements when you’re 107 to one when it’s mattered in recent memory.
I mean honestly- to say you’ve been around SCW forever is like saying that the sky has at one point been blue. You are synonymous with success in the loosest sense of the term- I suppose though if you grind away at something for long enough, outlast anyone who a shred more talent and persist in mediocrity for long enough… then you too could be a multi-time champion during a time where the roster was thinner than the one ply in the ladies bathrooms.
Yeah, do better.
However, contrary to popular belief, and I might just blow your fucking mind here, Mercedes… Tenure means absolutely nothing. Being here for eternity is a sign of loyalty and stupidity, a stand against change cause it leaves you exposed as a stalwart B- player in a world full of C+ trying to convince everyone they’re a solid A material.
Everything you’ve done that held water has been so thoroughly eclipsed it's a wonder you have anything left to grasp onto besides the useless lumps of shame you call a ‘championship reputation’. If nothing else Mercy, you’re reliable if only in defeat.
You’ve spent so long with your head in the sand, reliving those times when Mercedes Vargas was more than another solid middle of the road with a ‘you’ll get what you’re given and you’ll like it’ attitude that only served to alienate the few people already not sick to death with your fucking ‘better than thou’ schtick.
Time passed, and the company has moved on without you- yet out of defiance you stand where the company once proudly did, waving your little SCW flag in hopes that someone might remember you used to matter. Claiming that where you stand and what you’ve done is the only things that should be remembered instead of every time you’ve proven otherwise.
I can’t pretend like you aren’t a threat though, like I couldn’t just lose if you somehow got your shit together. Mixed tag has been your game longer than it has mine around here- and I’d be a fool to ignore that you and Goth were Mixed Tag champions for a spell.
For a time, you were the premier mixed tag team in the company- and if that doesn't send multiple people to the bathroom to throw their guts down the porcelain than I don’t know what will.
Here’s the issue though- as soon as a ‘real team’ came along, as soon as an established act were tired of your prolonged game of pretend- you did what seems to come more naturally than breathing.
You lost, when the spotlight was on.
As fucking expected.
Consistent to a fault and doubly predictable.
Sure- it's still a mixed tag, but you don’t have a living legend at your back. Your ability to lean on anyone else is null and void, you are the coat tails this time to be ridden into the fucking ground. Shane Hawthorne is as bright eyed and bushy tailed as they come- given time, he could be something or someone. More than likely not, but who am I to stomp on someone else's dreams if I can’t also punch them squarely in the teeth.
It's one thing to show up and know your partner will deliver, that they have a resume longer than your order at Subway. You can create chemistry from experience and a jaded perspective- however theres nothing to bind you to young Master Hawthorne. He presents nothing that you can sink your nails into, theres no sustenance in the empty words you'll be spewing trying to convince everyone that you aren’t pissed as fuck that THIS is your chance… and you’re going to be disappointed by someone else.
Whether that's Master Hawthorne, whether it's Hitamashii… or whether it's me, allowing you to continue on your brilliant streak of letting everyone down and acting as though the number of times you’ve done a backflip quantifies the value of your work.
You’ve made a worthwhile contribution to the Bombshells division in your time- after all, someone had to make the rest of us look a little more shiny after all.
It's no secret though that you’re the last unamended black mark on my record. That outstanding little asterisk next to my name in the SCW books of lore. Every loss I’ve taken in singles, all fucking two of them Mercedes, I’ve avenged… But there's that little matter of a double DQ. You see, a draw that cannot simply be abided by. It's not something I can stand by and accept as being unresolved- I have completionist issues and you’re the outlier on my little bingo card.
Whether it's in Blast From The Past or whether it's in the back parking lot- know that I’ll have my win back, ten times over.
Here’s the thing. I trust my partner, I trust Hitamashii cause I fucking have to…cause I’m the only person in this match at Climax Control who has something greater to lose than a sliver off their reputation. I’m the one with the bullseye and I’m the one who has something on the line beyond pride and statistics.
I implicitly trust Hitamashii cause he’s a proven commodity in SCU, cause he’s got his own little something to prove. Something to avenge. I can trust a man like that, a man who gets what it means to lose a title without it ever being because of something you did wrong…
Mostly though, I trust my partner cause I don’t have any other choice.
We don’t need to be favorites, we don’t need numbers to back us or public opinion to be swayed in our favor. I’ve made a career of defying the odds, of doing the impossible time and time again- by all means, go ahead and tell me all the ways I’m gonna fail and I’ll show you the one way I need to tear your throat out and use it to retain my belt.
11 times is no longer lucky, 10 months is no fluke. If you think you’re just going to show up with a shiny new partner in crime and think it's your GOD GIVEN FUCKING RIGHT cause you’ve been around the block a few times- then Mercedes Vargas you stupid, delusional cunt, have I got a wake up call for you.
You haven’t done a thing to get this shot.
You haven’t earned the right to give the belt a sideways glance- and now I get the honor and privilege of putting it further out of your reach, so watch out for the smile in the playback… when the black eyes are less swollen and your tongue doesn’t feel like it's stuck to the roof of your mouth, watch out for the moment of realization- the point where you realize it's once again too late for you to do anything, but contemplate how you’ve let everyone down again.
Call it deja vu, perhaps.
You lost at Inception. You’re going to lose here.
Not because you aren’t good Mercedes, and not because you have someone else to blame… but because you’re never nearly as good as the numbers tell you that you are. You’re not the special, once in a lifetime athlete you make out to be- you’re the one who shows up and gets opportunities cause there's no one else left.
You’re won more matches cause you were here when the best was beneath you, lost more cause you were only ever the best when there wasn’t anyone to oppose. Won more titles cause eventually if you throw enough shit at a wall, eventually some is going to stick.
Take pride though, cause you’ll always be a lucky number in my legacy Mercedes- just not nearly in the way you had planned.
2nd Blast From the Past. 12 defenses. 10 months. 315 days, and soon to be 365.
1 champion.
Huh, turns out that the numbers really don’t lie, after all.”
******
Bane Household
Las Vegas, ND
02.02.2022
6:47am
“Maybe you should focus on how the Saviors are not saving anyone and leave me the fuck alone.”
She didn’t mean it.
By god, she didn’t fucking mean it, but be damned if the words weren’t out there in the universe before she could stop them. Reflexively Amber grabbed the cup of coffee, if only to have something to keep her hands from trembling so obviously. Storming away towards the bedroom as though a change of scenery and screaming into a pillow behind a door would do anything to change the way she felt, she could feel the twinge of regret already tugging at her better nature.
It was never supposed to be like this, she never wanted to lie to begin with. Never wanted to deceive, but Mac wouldn’t get it- as stubborn as he was loyal. He wanted to fix every problem that fell into their path, but some things didn’t need fixing… some things needed eliminating or ignoring. Some things needed to be handled by those who’d brought them crashing down upon their heads to begin with.
Still, the revelation of what he’d been messing with sent another furious surge through the rippling regret, just the idea that he felt as though he needed to step in- like she couldn’t simply just handle her shit.
Like she needed ‘saving’.
She never needed any of that- she needed understanding. She needed support, someone to tell her that there was more to life again than being World Champion. That she didn’t need a stupid fucking belt to validate her worth- and actually mean it.
Blast From The Past threatened them both, yet somehow she seemed to be the only one feeling the pressure- it was her belt on the line, her everything to lose… Yet still, all that mattered were the Saviors, vengeance and righting the wrongs of last years tournament.
It wasn’t as though she wasn’t at fault, her hand almost threatening to crack the porcelain of the mug she was gripping far too tightly. Dropping onto the edge of the bed, resting the mug on the bedside drawer littered with photos of happier times- of their dates, their achievements, of their engagement, of their wedding… She wanted to throw them across the room, however only found the strength to look at the floor instead.
All of this was her fault- not that Mac would ever admit it. No, he wanted her to say it, and that was far more painful than she dared to admit…
It wasn’t pride that stopped her tongue. It was love, it was a protectiveness that she’d failed to provide. It was a desperate need to just try and make things right before anyone ever realized it was wrong.
She'd grown so obsessed with being world champion that she’d allowed everything else to fall by the wayside. She’d grown reckless with the idea that she might be untouchable, arrogant with the prospect of unconditional love. So long spent looking down at everything trying to tear her from her apex, that she’d failed to see the snarling, bared teeth of reality sinking into her throat.
With a resurging rage, Amber concluded that she just needed to get out. To find some air. Clear her head anywhere… anywhere but here, her footsteps padded through the house as the sun broke through the trees that bordered the house, creeping through the door Mac had left open in his indignant wake.
All he wanted were answers, answers she couldn’t give him in good conscience- and his admission only served to confirm that further, he didn't trust her and maybe rightfully so… she was halfway across the patio, down the first two steps towards the yard when Mac’s hand grazed her arm.
Gentle despite his size, a determined attempt at asking her to stay without words.
Only, it served to trigger the landmine she’d desperately been trying to bury under her skin.
“No--- don’t you fucking touch me, Mac.”
She couldn’t contain the hurt and the underlying resentment. That gnawing feeling that Mac had always been right, that she’d only served to make things worse at every turn but found herself far too deep in the hole now to admit that she couldn't climb back out. That everything that had befallen them… came back to her, and her obsession with trying to do the fucking right thing.
Rounding on him, eyes welled to the point it was physically painful to try and hold back the tears, Amber couldn’t help but unleash everything she’d been holding onto like a security blanket, all the things that had kept her stitched together like a thread of self-inflicted torment.
Mac had stopped, his hand still partially outstretched- with little more that he could do than watch as his wife, his fellow champion seemed to fall to pieces before him.
“After everything, you’re supposed to be on my side!
Yet all you’ve done is tear at these wounds, picking through until you found whatever you were looking for to justify your fucking redemption mission. How disappointed are you to realize theres nothing there to find- that all the digging you’ve done into my scars has left your hands bloody for absolutely nothing.
Everything I’ve done Mac- every secret I’ve ever kept, every lie I’ve ever told. Every time I tore myself to pieces in hopes that you wouldn’t have to hear me say something that would break your fucking heart- it was for us… Always for us.”
Strangled by her own words, Amber backed away further, shaking her head in defiance, as Mac reached out uncertainly as though trying to seek comfort and connection. A tether of reality to tie as Amber threw herself from the mountain top she’d polished to glass.
“Now you wanna stand there and tell me that you’ve chosen to bury yourself in the grave that I’ve dug… that everything I fought for, bled for, was willing to die for means almost fucking nothing, cause I can't bring myself to tell you everything you never want to hear.
It's like you’re looking for a reason not to trust me Mac- all I ever had were good intentions… All I ever thought about was us.”
Amber trailed off, the morning bringing with it a cool silence that seemed to envelope them as the distance between them slowly grew. Neither of them wanted this. Amber wanted to scream herself hoarse and throw what remained of her soul into Mac’s arms, apologizing for everything she’d wrought and ruined.
She couldn’t though, both of them too far gone- too buried in their determination that they were right, to allow for such a thing to occur.
Instead, Amber found herself fidgeting with her wedding ring.
“I guess it was never going to be enough.”
She wasn’t even sure if Mac heard her, if he did then he didn't respond. If he didn’t then maybe that was the best case scenario.
“I have to fix this. I need to. All of this… but I won’t stand here and be ministered over, told that I’m doing it wrong. I haven’t got anything left to lay on the line, nothing that will be able to make you understand…”
A faint pale line, the edges slightly darkened as the band traced around her finger where her wedding ring had resided proudly. Now- that same ring seemed to hang loose towards the edge of her finger, threatening to topple into the rocks and gravel at their feet.
“I love you Mac… but I can’t keep pretending.”
She couldn’t even finish the sentence before the shatter seemed to emanate from her chest, an explosion of proverbial shrapnel bursting forth and eviscerating everything soft and tender that might have been worth saving. More silence, though what shards remained of her heart begged for Mac to say something… anything.
Convince her not to go, tell her that she was wrong. Tell her that she was needed… loved.
Neither of them said a fucking word though.
Tightly grasping the dainty wedding ring in her fist, the diamonds scratching against her palm in defiance, Amber shoved it into her pocket before she could reconsider.
Just one last vain attempt…
“... I just think we need some time.”
… Falling on deaf ears.
