“There are many good reasons for drinking, and one's just entered my head: If you don't drink when you're living, how the fuck can you drink when you're dead?”
― Warren Ellis, Desolation Jones: Made in England
Amber’s Apartment
Atlantic City, NJ
15.02.2022
9:24pm
At first, it was improbable.
Over time though, it became undeniable. She became undeniable.
Maybe that was the problem, Amber contemplated silently as the harsh ocean breeze - from somewhere almost miles away - somehow managed to sneak through the rumpled layers of her oversized hoodie. That by becoming almost too widely recognized for her achievements as reigning World Champion, it was slowly becoming detrimental to the legacy she’d built.
Poisoning the well from the source, so to speak.
That was the thing though, as a small shiver raced down her spine. Eventually undeniable gave way to expectation. All of a sudden, what was once mind-blowing and seemingly groundbreaking was little more than a coat of paint on an already white wall.
Records had been toppled, dreams shattered around her feet like glass and stardust speckled into oblivion. Numbers didn’t lie- despite the fact she’d stopped counting around the time they might do during a little league white wash.
Everyone’s a winner, right?
Success bred entitlement in the same way it bred resentment. Amber had never become champion to create a division built on self-serving pity and overt, misjudged merits for opportunity - somehow in trying to elevate things, she’d only succeeded in feeding into the delusional atmosphere that had clouded so many into thinking their tenure ‘owed’ them something.
That somehow their participation in Blast From The Past was doing a favour to those of importance, like the tournament wouldn’t mean as much without them; and maybe it wouldn’t, ‘cause in the end… someone had to lose.
In reality, the world kept on spinning and in Amber’s case the days continued to stack. With a reflexive lip curl, Amber softened her expression. To think, all of this had initially come down to the age old ‘leaving the place better off than when she found it’ cliche… even if it meant tearing it down brick by bloodied brick if only to prove it could be done…
Many didn’t want that change though - they wanted to keep their heads stuck in the sand ‘cause down there they were still successful, they were the first to cry for another chance when they stumbled as expected with pitiful excuses and poor attempts at goading someone who didn’t need them. They wanted to keep losing matches spectacularly often yet still somehow be considered to have ‘contributed meaningfully’ to whatever history books might be left.
No, they’d always be the first to fall with sword still in sheath and justifications readied on poisonous tongues and in the end they’d be easily replaced by someone with a better understanding of how wrestling was supposed to exist - and without the intention of competing for the yearly title of 'most miserable cunt on the roster’.
A quick glance over her shoulder brought a smouldered smile across her features, the cheap fluorescence that her landlord ‘insisted’ on using to ‘save power’ casting a certain yellowed glow across the ridged face of the SCW Bombshells World title.
That's what this tournament was about - despite the liars and fools claiming that they weren’t in it for their shot at the title. Claiming the opportunity, even if it meant trying to piggyback as effectively as Ruby Steele had done the previous year.
… Oh, that title never got less beautiful.
It was strange in a way, cause most people never got the opportunity to admire their heart outside of their chest… Perhaps it was a reason for Amber to count herself lucky, however the weight that came with it was something unseen.
No one was ever told or prepared for the way it cut off any real sense of self-preservation, like motherhood without the benefit of ever seeing them end up better off. No one ever really spoke about how crippling the fear of expectation could become - how the last three defences had her almost doubled over the sink beforehand ‘cause she couldn’t decide if she needed to breathe or vomit from nerves.
No one ever said how everyone around you wanted you to change everything that got you to that place to begin with - as though suddenly what brought you to the dance wasn’t nearly good enough… and you HAD to be good enough.
If you weren’t good enough, after all…
You weren’t the champion.
Didn’t deserve to be champion.
Just bend to the point of breaking, but never snap or else you’ll prove all 240 characters right. Know when to stop, but ignore those instincts ‘cause no one is patient enough to let you fall with any kind of grace. Prove yourself ten times more than anyone else has to - ‘cause they don’t like the reality you’ve presented them with. Become the undisputedly greatest Bombshells Champion of all time; just to give them something else to complain about and dispute, instead of respect and celebrate what could be.
Just keep winning.
Then what…
Defence after defence.
… and then what?
Go on and win Blast From The Past.
… then what?
Become undeniable.
Already have.
… and it's still not enough.
Pushing out of the plastic chair frustratedly, the feet scraping loudly on the balcony surface, Amber resigned herself to the twinge of regret that permeated through her worse than the cold- cause most importantly of all… No one ever told you what it might cost to be champion, to stay there…
Of course she thought about Mac- in truth she never really stopped despite the fact they had spoken outside of the public eye for what felt like weeks by now. Maybe it was less, but each second passing felt as though two had been taken off an ever-shortening edge. Guilt mostly, she concluded as she leaned on the countertop- delicately eyeing a closed bottle that had been sitting there for a little too long not to be a temptation.
Despite what she had said - all the platitudes and devotion she could show, it came down to the title first and always. While she was the champion scrambling to stay on her feet while the ice slickened beneath her feet, there wasn’t room in her chest for anything or anyone else.
Mac understood, but that didn’t make her feel any less shitty about it.
What he didn’t understand was everything else, cards kept so close to the chest they’d gotten wedged between her ribs.
At a glance, she didn’t recognize the label, only knowing it was expensive… you know, like that changed the effect it would have. Pleasant and numbing. A blissful ignorance perhaps, if she were so inclined. Matt Knox had bought it as part of the Thunder Pro Duos’ title celebration - accepted as reluctantly as the team had been formed - and undoubtedly he’d made sure she knew exactly how much he’d spent.
Answer, of course, being too much.
Asshole.
With Hitamashii … she’d grown to learn what to expect and so far he had been holding up his end of the deal, Amber distractedly mused, determined to pull herself out of the debilitating tailspin she’d allowed herself to fall into time and time again recently. Distractions, that's all it really was… white noise feeding into her desperation to sink her fingernails just a little deeper into the crumbling mountain edge.
One day she’d create a new summit for someone else - no doubt - and one day they’d stand atop it as she had done and breathe the rarified air that she’d grown accustomed to.
No, Hitamashii was reliable enough for now. Inoffensive even, and a champion in his own right, one of few left in the tournament… If Amber had the wherewithal to chuckle, she might have at the absurdity of how she was essentially relying on an otherwise ‘stranger’ to care about her World title as much as she did.
Without rhyme or reason, just expected to bear some of the weight she did without so much as being asked… Everyone accepted it though, ‘cause Blast From The Past meant that ‘anything could happen’ as epitomised by the ‘upset’ conducted by Jaycee McDonald and Levana Cade.
Normally Amber would have quietly celebrated Matt Knox eating his own words with a fucking shovel, watching him squirm under the intense scrutiny that came with falling so handily at the first hurdle - however there was a bittersweetness to it.
If only cause it meant he’d double down on his stupid fucking crusade…
That alone was surely enough of a reason to have a quiet drink…
No. That's ridiculous.
That being said though - Hitamashii, in spite of his best, couldn’t take that weight forever and those lost in the sands of time, those still determined that their name meant something cause they said so - wouldn't long be gagged by the toxic nature of their vitriol.
Even without the title on the line this time, Amber couldn’t ignore the tension growing in her muscles with the passing of hours as the already frayed edges of her nerves seemingly fired at the slightest stimuli. Everything was a trigger- another half step closer to an inevitable oblivion that she couldn’t see coming, even if she tried.
She could no longer pretend like everyone wasn’t watching, anticipating a slip…waiting for the one moment where being the fucking best still wasn’t quite good enough. Acting as though her violent career mortality and determined desperation wasn’t going to lead to her downfall…
Okay.
So maybe one drink wouldn’t hurt, after all.
******
“I don’t expect you to care about anything I’m going to say.
I’m not gonna stand here and waste my breath demanding that you respect me. Everything I am and everything I’ve done till now has absolutely no effect on your path. Nor will it change with the outcome of this match…
Honestly - what's the worst case scenario for you following this match, Levana? You lose, you go on to maybe be a talking head on a future ‘Biggest Blast From The Past Upsets’ list that will absolutely be disputed ‘cause bias is a thing that exists. Really, the worst thing that can happen is that you fall out of the tournament and go on to have a reasonably middling career of moderate successes…
So basically, you become a better version of Mercedes Vargas, but without the entitled delusions.
Of course - that does beg the question though. Was it really an upset?
I’m not going to take anything away from the effort of you and your esteemed partner - a pair of wildcards stunning established talent has become part and parcel with this tournament since its inception. ‘Nobodies’ go out and make a statement, build the foundation of their successes to come in tournaments just like this… One match can change everything.
I mean, I could sit here and wax poetic on Matt Knox for hours - I’ve called the man basically every derogatory name under the sun, in multiple languages, and it still hasn’t shut him the fuck up so I doubt he’s overly concerned about much outside of the small mark on his otherwise glistening record.
Amy Marshall though. Legend in her own right - halls of fame and legacies abound, right? Quite the feather in the cap of someone otherwise unproven.
Well, maybe five years ago… These days, it seems the punk princess shows her face for these little forays and then quickly slinks back to whatever undercard she’s dominating when she realises that the bar hasn’t fallen quite low enough for her reputation again.
That's nothing against you - obviously. You still beat her, it’d be far more damaging if you hadn’t won… Not that anyone would have told you that otherwise, they’d have simply patted you on the head and watched you wile away in catering alongside everyone else who got told they were special.
It's just, now there's this almost imaginary air of achievement that's lingering around you… this expectation of being a ‘giant killer’ when realistically you toppled a half-collapsed sandcastle made too dry to begin with.
That's not to say you aren’t talented - but I’d recommend not buying into the hype.
Of course, the result doesn’t really matter for you in the end. No one expects you to succeed, even after the first round victory… No one sees your names and bets big for you to take out the whole thing.
That would be absurd, right?
What you and Jaycee have, Levana, is the greatest gift that this tournament has to possibly offer… no strings attached.
What I mean to say is - you are the only two people left in this tournament who aren’t actively damaged by losing at this point. Everyone else, they have this expectation to succeed. A determined moment that they are supposed to make, like a checkpoint in a video game. Anything less is considered outright failure, is considered to be a step down, an abrupt halt to building momentum.
After all, every action has an equal and opposite reaction and collateral damage really doesn’t give a fuck what your name and your reputation are. Everything has consequences, and yet you guys manage to get off scot free…
When it comes down to it, you both legitimately have nothing to lose.
Everything to gain.
That's why your road ends here.
Cat’s out of the bag now, your element of surprise has long since dissipated in the memories of those still watching and waiting for the moment you get a little too casual and cocky. Having nothing to lose is great, but it lacks a level of motivation - it only pushes you to go so far, it's hard to keep looking up when you know there's a cushion below to fall back upon.
Everything to gain only means so much when you come to realise just how badly the odds are truly stacked - at the end of the SCW rainbow isn’t a pretty gold belt to adorn that pretty little waist like advertised.
Whats waiting is a bloodbath, what’s waiting beyond door number 1 is a fucking angry champion wondering why everyone keeps kicking their front door down instead of knocking.
There is no promise of success when you win this tournament Levana, what's waiting is the promise of meeting me… again. Without the benefit of someone to take some of the inevitable heat that would be coming your way - that's what people sometimes forget in all of this, you’re relying on someone else to get you an opportunity you might otherwise not deserve.
Ruby Steele last year got carried like a true damsel and found herself woefully overmatched to the point it was comical by the time she got her shot. She got it ‘cause she ‘earned’ it sure, but she contributed nothing and made no effort to get better along the way.
In the end, it’s not even about having the ‘best team’, it's about having a partner who wants it as badly as you do.
It's not about just being on the same page and you both saying you wanna win. It's about chemistry and proving it - so many mistake those as the same thing, building their castles of anticipation out of stones and pretending that their sheer force of want is enough to hold the blocks together.
Hitamashii gets it, he’s got almost as much on the line as I do. That newly won back title on his shoulder doesn’t mean shit if he loses the first match he’s in, all that much-needed momentum to keep it comes screaming to a halt if I happen to fuck up and take you a little too lightly cause ‘rookie’.
I affect his path, just as much as he affects mine - whereas you and Jaycee, as much as you might be in agreement with your purpose, your camaraderie extends as far as your next match result.
There's no real kinship, no honour among thieves. While you’re in this, you’re united but the moment the three count goes against you - well… I’m sure it was a fun ride while it lasted.
We’re at the mercy of someone else's whims, Levana.
Isn’t that the most fucked up thing about all of this?
Everything you are, and everywhere you are going depends on someone else…
Whether it's me, whether it's Hitamashii or whether it's Jaycee inevitably trying to take on a little too much in order to prove himself as a ‘worthy’ contender. As good as you might be, or as good as you might become - it means far less than you’ll ever be willing to admit.
That's the thing I suppose - maybe you are a rookie, maybe you think I’m going to overlook you and you’ll slip in under my radar. Sneaky three count on the champ when she’s distracted by her own spotlight - too fucking confident that she’ll squash the bug trying to crawl up her sneaker.
If I didn’t hear it EVERY FUCKING MATCH FOR THE PAST 4 MONTHS I’d almost say it's comical - you know, this wild idea that as the SCW Bombshells World champion, that I’m so fucking full of myself that I just underestimate everyone who steps in the ring with me.
Let’s be clear - and I like to think you’d get this better than most, Levana.
If I underestimated anyone… I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t be the one standing alone while everyone else wonders why I won’t act as they expect me to. Why I won’t be goaded into situations that don’t suit my interests or crumble cause they think my reign means less for not having them attached to it like a fucking oversized barnacle.
A word of advice Levana, from veteran to rookie, don’t look into the lights.
If this were another time and another place, I’d probably offer to take you under my wing and teach you everything worth knowing about knowing your worth - but the truth is…
I don’t think you’re really going to give a fuck what I have to say.
… and that's okay.
Cause you won’t be winning this tournament anyways.”
******
Amber’s Apartment
Atlantic City, NJ
16.02.2022
9:07am
Who the fuck made the sun so bright?
Pulsating, Amber was sure this violent headache resembled a knock on the door as a guttural groan seemed to escape the side of her mouth. Carpet slightly damp from the puddle of drool she must have let seep, Amber’s vision blurred into something resembling shapes until the sun once again left her painfully blinded.
It was strange really, she hadn’t recalled ending up on the floor… Time and space had lost all meaning at some point it seemed, her legs having resigned themselves to a fate of being awkwardly laced through the legs of a coffee table that something faintly residual had been spilled on.
Groping blindly for almost anything that might give her some stability and only finding a floor that wouldn’t stay still, her hand brushed by a bottle that quietly sloshed with a little something left in it. God, why did her head hurt so much… like a frontal lobotomy where someone had forgotten the anaesthetic - and sterile tools, instead choosing to grind their way through the front of her face with a jackhammer.
With her hand grasping enough of the bottle to bring it closer, Amber violently recoiled onto her back as the urge to vomit and cry both rose in her throat at the same time - the whiff of whatever was left, enough to create a PTSD moment that she wasn’t aware existed prior to now.
Perhaps she was to commend the ‘morbid corvid’ on his choice of bottle - or commend herself for working her way through that and god knows whatever else she’d managed to blindly neck. It was supposed to be a catharsis; just one to ease the nerves, dull the edges that continued to leave her in mental ribbons.
Who knew, maybe this was exactly what she needed.
Although bringing her hand up vaguely in a poor attempt to block the sun now shining on her face, expression screwed up resembling a ripe passionfruit with probably an equal disdain for humanity, she was more sure that she probably had rather preferred being dead.
This time the knock came a little more firmly though, emanating somewhere outside the rhythmic throbbing that seemed to resonate through every nerve, as Amber managed to roll back to her side and rested her head in the coarse carpet.
She’d have to talk to the landlady about getting a nicer carpet to sleep on.
Add that to the to-do list.
“Ms Ryan?”
If flowers could scream death metal, Amber presumed they’d have sounded the way Cassiopeia Mares' voice echoed through the apartment space. Pushing herself up with every effort she could manage, Amber propped herself up long enough to clear her throat.
“I’m not here!”
It was dumb and it was immature but be damned if Amber didn’t hope it would work. Even as the last syllable dragged a little too long, Amber couldn’t get rid of the cottonmouth feeling lingering on the back of her tongue whilst trying to figure out where the fuck her bearings ended up.
Good intentions indeed, she couldn’t help but contemplate humorlessly, some fucking good intentions she had. That seemed to be the case recently though - every time she’d tried to make a harsh decision for someone else's benefit, it left her looking like a goddamn insensitive asshole.
Why was trying to be a ‘better person’ so hard?
At the click of a key shifting a lock, yet another sound being far louder than she ever recalled it before, Amber allowed a second more frustrated groan to slip from her throat. Was it really so difficult to be left alone and allowed to simply enjoy her self-inflicted misery for a while?
Apparently, the answer was a resounding yes.
“I think you are, and---”
Cassie paused, taking stock of the usually sparse space with the kind of keen eye Amber had learned to dread a little. Seeing too much and saying far too little to justify it.
“– it seems you’ve been very… busy.”
Disapproval rang loud and clear, usually only passively judgemental, it seemed Amber had finally done enough to upgrade to premium judgement and only for the cost of her equilibrium and ability to look at sunlight.
“Yeah, well… someone has to supervise me apparently, turns out I really suck at that job.”
Each word came punctuated with a forced pause as Amber fought her way up to sitting before allowing herself a quick reprieve leaning against the coffee table, avoiding breathing in too much in case the residual spilled booze triggered a reflex she was too slow to counteract. With an almost prim chuckle, Cassie idly set about righting the few things she could and tidying up as though that might somehow render the redhead capable of processing anything outside of how badly her headache was radiating down her spine.
“It's not generally customary, or part of my job description, to assign ‘babysitters’ to talent, however given the state you’ve managed to find yourself in---”
“Yeah, I get it. I fucked up, it's a me problem. I did it, I take full blame… I dunno, shoot me or whatever.”
Blasé and entirely disingenuous, if only for the fact that stringing together a sentence took up more energy than she was willing to admit, it soon occurred to the redhead that the SCW Talent Relations Manager wasn’t necessarily here simply ‘cause her sixth sense pinged for World Bombshells Champion shenanigans being afoot.
“Cassie, I hate to be so blunt… You know what, fuck it… I don't hate it. Why the fuck are you even here?”
Shrugging indecisively, Amber squinted in Cassie’s general direction. In response, the younger woman paused thoughtfully as though piecing things together much faster than the redhead who was still trying to make sense of up and down.
“I take it you haven’t any memory of calling me then…”
Matter-of-factly, Cassie cocked her head slightly as her stance changed. Hands clasped like a Victorian doll, doe-like eyes managing to stare a hole where Amber was sure they’d tried to line up the jackhammer rattling her brains so thoroughly.
“... I called you?! Uggghhhhhhhhh…”
Slumping back a little further against the table, Amber murmured something about ‘of course I did’ before quickly realising her phone was unaccounted for. Perhaps sensing the moment of panic, Cassie already had one hand laced around the case before Amber could even open her mouth to mutter.
Groping blindly behind her and onto the coffee table, Amber was at least briefly relieved to find the World Bombshells title precisely where she’d left it - albeit a little sticky along some of the edges.
An action not lost on Cassie who smiled … approvingly? It was difficult to tell through blurry, hungover eyes. Maybe Amber preferred it that way as she straightened back up in hopes of finding a vertical base in this century.
If she’d called Cassie… then who else had she called?
That brief moment of regrettable clarity flashed across her expression. Oh god, what if she called Mac and told him she wanted to end things… she never meant to push him away. No doubt he’d fight, but in the end her stubbornness would wear him down and… fuck where was her wedding ring.
Yeah. That was an issue.
Oh… what if she’d told him about Dominic. About their past together and how he’d strung her along so easily… about how he’d lied to her face about Cassidy’s lonely fate…about Reverend Alistair McCrae and his dealings past and present… about how she’d blindly sought revenge and brought their garage, hell their lives--- what if she’d told him about everything…
Impossible.
Virulently, Amber shook her head, immediately coming to regret the decision as the room’s spin picked up a little more speed. Just the thought of it made her a little sick, that everything she’d sacrificed for their supposed benefits and how she’d fought so fucking hard to keep her personal bullshit away from the best thing… okay, maybe second best … to ever happen to her.
All of that, potentially unravelled in one stupid phone call. Even now, in her fiercely hungover state, it seemed implausible at best… she was really dumb, but not THAT dumb surely.
Another flash of clarity, although less brilliant, fluttered through her consciousness. What if she’d called Matt… admitted everything he ever believed was true, told him how fucking terrified she was of losing everything and how she couldn’t help but keep digging in hopes that she might eventually do good.
Do better.
Gave him every reason he ever wanted to fulfil this futile crusade of saving someone who didn’t need it, to cure a ‘disease’ she’d long since allowed to ravage her soul long before he ever gave a fuck, to self-justify his bullshit that in ‘helping’ her it might somehow absolve him of his own demons.
What if she’d told him about her relationship with Masque - and how it all came back to a Man In A Hat and a Girl In A Flower Dress Named After The Stars…
God, it was a lot.
Too much.
Way too much.
Allowing her head to loll back onto the coffee table surface, Amber allowed one long ‘fuck’ to roll off her tongue exagerratedly. Every syllable drawn out for far longer than it needed to. Imagine, she wondered, if anyone else saw her now - the record breaking, arguably best World Bombshells Champion of all time… sprawled out someone in the middle of her little Atlantic City apartment hungover out of her fucking mind and trying to rationalize how she ever got to this point.
As per the norm, the answer was simple…
That Bombshells World title she wore so proudly. It was in a sense, her heart… what gave her life in this business and kept her fighting for longer than she knew she could, was destined to kill her.
Everything she’d fought so hard for, was the exact same reason she had so little fight left. Inevitability was coming, and it didn’t take a hungover epiphany for her to understand that intimately.
“Cassie… instead of actively judging me, can you do me one favour?”
She doubted Cassie was actually judging her, but the little that wasn’t painfully bright or geometrically distorted through her inebriated lens was enough to know that there was a little bit of a ‘tsk tsk’ headed her way. In response, Cassie smiled professionally, too much so for the hour - as though Amber had miraculously regained a concept of time as her head slowly rolled back around from the tabletop.
“I want you…”
Amber swallowed hard, although she wasn’t sure if it was the intensifying cotton mouth or the words being genuinely difficult to force. Stuck in the back of her throat, her heart was reluctant to allow them to release.
“... to delete my call history. Don’t tell me what I said, don’t tell me who I called. I just… I can’t deal with that kinda fucking evil right now.”
It wasn’t the evils she couldn’t deal with and they both knew it. Consequences be damned, plausible deniability was quickly becoming a girl's best friend.
“I’ll need your passcode to un–”
“Wedding – wait… no. 2803. Date I won the–”
Amber didn’t let herself finish the thought, and the twinge in her chest seemed to trail off her words not long after. Guilt radiated like a smouldering fire between her ribs, a writhing tangled knot of feelings she couldn’t make sense of. That idea that everything she loved was so unbearably entwined with everything she was… and everything she thought she needed to be.
“... world title.”
Those last few words fell as a mumble, inaudible and pitiful. Lost as quickly as the evidence of any of her misdoings to the universe.
