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Supercard Archives / Re: AMELIA v JOANNE v ANDREA v KATE v DIAMOND v ALEXANDRA - DBL OR NOTHING
« on: July 19, 2025, 12:01:06 AM »
echo 04 ★ truth
I was always told by everyone else I know that Supercards are kinda that one time in the entirety of Sin City’s existence that I can spend hooking daggers into everyone. I didn’t understand what that meant when I was told it, but after witnessing this cruise…and this Supercard…I get it. I mean, the chance to actually sit down and refute what someone else had to say while still being able to get your points in?
Fuckin’ brilliant, hey.
We’re off to sea, and I think I want to point out that the ocean is quite a bit louder than I thought it’d be. I’m not sure if that’s just because the boat itself sounds like it might need a rudder or two repaired, or if it’s the amount of wrestlers and people on this ship that seem to think that chaos is hilarious, or if I’m hearing Dory out in the ocean screamin’ about whales and P. Sherman Wallaby Way Sydney, but here we are. In my absolutely personal opinion, though, it’s not any louder than some of you tryin’ to scream from the rafters and convince yourselves that you’re already the winner.
And bein’ stuck on a boat with five other women who think they’ve already like…won? It’s a recipe for absolute disaster, but also a good goddamn lesson in humility.
It’s kinda noticeable the level of desire that’s present in this matchup. Three of us made our voices heard, and I would be remiss to say that the other three just couldn’t find the time, desire, or skill to put themselves to the test. I mean, I guess I get it. After all, going into a match with five other women and possibly having the slimmest opportunity to win can be daunting. Two of them, though…I mean, I get it.
Joanne Cannoli – and yes, I know it’s Canelli, but now I’m just calling her a cannoli – couldn’t roll her way out here and say anything the first time, why should I expect redemption being desired? Is it because the competition is steeper now? Is it because everythin’ is different? You can be the first Bombshell Internet Champion, but nothin’ matters if you can’t adjust and get with the times. I was hopeful that I would see something new from her. But obvi-obvi, that isn’t happenin’.
Kate Steele did what I expected, ya know? Ran her mouth one week. When we faced last, I learned that Kate Steele…has this deep, deep insecurity about herself, like a fragile little ego being held that is super dependent on everyone else lookin’ at her and recognizin’ her greatness…but if ya didn’t care about what people said, you wouldn’t have spent fifteen minutes cryin’ about it either.
Sorry, not sorry.
Kate loves to list her trophies like they matter, but then say no one believed in her. Proud of the work done on herself…both figuratively and literally, and I mean…bet.More power to you in the titty committee. But like…maybe you would get better if you’d done as much work on your heart as you did your beauty, because that’s where real champions get built.
That’s where people like me get built.
I know I’m pretty. I have platinum hair and I have blue eyes, and I wear makeup, and I can thot with some of the best of them. My boyfriend tells me I’m beautiful all the time. But that’s secondary to who I am. I wasn’t built in an operating room or a stylist chair. And I sure as shit didn’t get to where I am by yellin’ at anyone that I’m beautiful and they should push me just cause of that.
Sorry, but you can’t buy your way into resilience. Can’t surgery your way into legacy. Can’t paint over your history and cracks with glitz, ego and expect it to hold up under pressure.
And sweetheart, you haven’t. You haven’t held up under pressure, because the woman I saw last time that fought with glitter and grit didn’t act the way she did and not show to prove herself this week. You say that this Kate you are is different, but it just kinda sounds like the last one at this point. And if we’re bein’ honest, Kate, you keep askin’ for more, but then you don’t follow through. You don’t actually want challenges. You want applause, with your stupid pop routine and your thought that if you thot your way up, you’ll be respected.
You told me last time that all I’d done was won once.
But who won my second match? Me. You’re not as evolved as you think. And if the only way you feel strong is by tearin’ down women who’ve already survived worse than you, then maybe you should get surgery on your brain next.
And Diamond Caldwell? Listenin’ to you talkin’ to us like we’re in your secondary school experience kinda made me want to stab myself in the ears and keep that trauma from rising in my brain. It bothers me when people can’t…like…own up to their own stupidity and I kind of wish I hadn’t done any research now. But let me point out a couple of things on ya, sweetie…you fight for Seleana Zdunich like she’s a lifeline…which makes you look like a shadow. What happens if she doesn’t stand behind ya if you’re so co-dependent on her existence to make you look good? And if we’re bein’ honest, you’re sittin’ there in your promotionals sayin’ that you don’t care what people think, but just like Andrea – and we’ll get there – you spent an entire moment to sell yourself and what you’re bringin’ to the table in a whole ass contradiction. I don’t care, but you do. You so do. Oh my god, you so do.
Let’s also just like…totally note that you act like you’re swingin’ on people like they owe you money and you’re Rihanna. Definitely screamin’ Bitch better have my money, but not actually gettin’ the skills up there in order to retrieve the money. This isn’t just some brawl-for-all, we’re not in a fight club, and this isn’t a sanctioned UFC knockdown dragout. This is precision, this is wrestlin’.
And if you think comin’ in here with a pretty face and nails to hell, then you’re wrong. I don’t think you know what wrestlin’ means.
It means you bleed with your whole soul, means ya hurt in silence when no one’s watchin’. You kinda just learn to hold your breath, and then you swing. Ya show up when the crowd’s thin, even when the lights aren’t that bright, and when the match doesn’t mean much to anyone but you.
Aiden taught me that the hardest fights aren’t against opponents, although they’re definitely a huge factor. But it’s mostly about the voices in your head tellin’ ya to stay down. That sometimes you kinda fall flat, and then you laugh through the bruise because if you don’t, you don’t get up again. Taught me humor is a shield, timin’ is everythin’ and loyalty is paramount. You can be underestimated, and still flip the narrative on its head, ya know? Lookit him this week, right? Facin’ off for a chance at the World Heavyweight Championship, when all he wanted was the Roulette Championship shot he deserved.
And Dickie.
You all don’t know Dickie. Or maybe you’ve heard of him, and you’ve been curious. But even though he didn’t train me, he taught me that silence is paramount. He’ll sit there and watch the tape until his eyes burn, won’t quit when his body is screamin’. It’s kinda hard to watch at the same time because I don’t want to see him hurt like that, but he gives a piece of himself to this sport like the canvas is the only thing that’s ever loved him back.
And lemme tell you how hard it is to fight with fabric and wood as the subject of any affection. It sucks. Oh my god, it sucks.
But wrestlin’ ain’t about bein’ loud, or who has the best knife in the ribs. It isn’t about the heaviest hands. Or the biggest boobs, the blondest hair, the shittiest attitude or even the most spooky-seasoned. It has to do with everythin’ about the soul, and standing across from someone and sayin’ to them that you respect them as a competitor, you don’t hate them, and still believin’ that you’re going to give them hell.
And Andrea.
Hi, we’ve met before.
I pinned you last time. Two weeks ago.
I told you what I thought about you and your perceptions. I’m happy to repeat them, and I’m sure you’re gonna sit there and tell me that I’m nothin’ different than anyone else. That I’m repeating the same bullshit that everyone else is doing. And that’s fine. If that’s whatcha want to believe, then you believe that right on through, from here over to Five Burroughs. I noted you still have the same commonality here that you do there – when you don’t do well, you shut your mouth. You internalize.
But this time…this time you decided to spend your entire last promo basically tellin’ us how broken ya are. How angry, how you didn’t want to be there. I heard it. I heard what you said. You said I didn’t even want to be there like it was a fact, like it didn’t matter, like none of us would really recognized the weight of that that meant. Sweetheart, sugarplums, that’s not just a bad day, it’s a tell. That’s the red flag hangin’ from the rafters that turns into a white flag.
Ya gave up.
You gave up. You got pinned and you told the world you didn’t care anymore. And now you’re tryin’ to convince us that you’re back for realisies and that if you just say the words, you’ll hope we all forget the dichotomy of your presentation.
But I don’t forget. None of us forget. To sit there and tell us that you didn’t care about a match is an enormous fuck you to the rest of us that put our all into that thing, and a huge damn insult to the people who want to succeed. This division was built on the bones of wanting the same amount of limelight and you go and pull a bitchass move like that, while still expectin’ the spotlight to fall on you like you matter in the grand scheme of things a couple of weeks later because someone licked your wounds for you?
Ya lost your fire. And now you’re expecting us to help you out by given’ you a torch. And that kind of confession, sayin’ that you’re nervous and can’t succeed…is kinda dangerous. Not for me, not for anyone else. But for you. Because you’re still sittin’ acting like your owed something because of your past, but you haven’t been fightin’ with passion. And if you can’t say it with your chest, then you’re gonna be eatin’ canvas before you remember what you were standin’ for.
And ya know what else stood out to me, Andi? You sounded mad. At the crowd, at the locker room. At the idea that anyone could still see you as anything less than what you think you are…but that’s the thing about the world, isn’t it? People stop listenin’ after they’ve heard the same diatribe over and over again. I’m not here cause I threw a tantrum like you did. I’m not here because I kicked up dust and demanded attention. I’m here because I’ve been studying, sharpening, and climbing…quietly. Dutifully. I did my job.
I don’t need to be angry to grow, and you do. That’s the difference. You’re still fightin’ everyone in the shadows and givin’ breaths to every critic. You’re not focused on us, you’re just too busy provin’ to everyone else what everyone already knows: you’re livin’ in the past and you’ve been left behind. You’re still livin’ in twenty-twenty one with that article that wrote you off and still trying to climb out from that hole. ou keep fightin’ ghosts and callin’ it victory…like you’re never gonna stumble.
But every time you stumble, you promise it’s gonna be different. If it always has to be said, has it truly ever been done? Have you remembered how to not stumble? How to not fall? You’ve comeback how many times and performatively succeeded? Kayla beat you for the championship after you said you were going to hold onto it forever. She came back. And you? You spend so much time the next few matches explainin’ to the rest of us who you’re not that I’m not even sure you know who you are. But you certainly spend all of that time too screamin’ at the heavens that no one is listenin. Like you have to burn out for your fire to rise.
But you’re still climbin’ out of the ash.
Andrea…I don’t really need to spend any time tearin’ you down. You’ve done that well enough yourself. I just need to stand here steady while you keep trying to remember how it feels to have victory that isn’t tainted by your poor soul.
Then…then there’s you, Alexandra.
You didn’t come in this time cryin’ like you were bein’ broken. You walked in like you forged in the fires of Gondor and bathed in the blood of the Naz’ghul. Showed up with that calm, queenly little statuesque self that reminds me of a robotic gothic misteress, like your words should echo through cathedral halls, all drippin’ from some bloodstained altar while we all stand in reverence of your tragedy.
Girl. My girl. PLEASE.
You’re not a fallen angel and you honestly just kinda sound exhausted. I watched you speak like grief and all your trials and tribs made you a monarch upon us all. Cool, you won Queen for a Day…but soundin’ like you’re sufferin’ was a birthright and that we should bow our heads for the edgelordy parade of pain that follows you into every ring you grace kinda made me gag.
A lot.
In a trash can.
And I’m not even seasick.
None of us are prayin’. I hope yuou realize that.
You’re draped in metaphor and whiusperin’ threats like their some kinda prophecy. You’ve created this tragic little epic with you in a high-collared coat and a crown of dusk and a graveyard of forgotten women at your feet. You speak slow, deliberate, like every word’s a blade, and we’re all just kinda supposed to sit there and revere ya.
Here’s the thing about illusions though, Alexandra. They only work if the audience forgets to blink.
You’re walkin’ around like you’re the only truth on the ship. Like ten of you haven’t been spit out before, voidwalkin’ and actin’ like you’re the biggest, baddest thing in the world. I HATE overblown shit and that’s what I see in you. Real danger doesn’t rehearse and doesn’t make ya wait for the right lightin’ before it strikes. Kinda like Kate up there, you’ve spent so long stylin’ yourself as a storm that you forgot how to fit like one.
You called me a mystery. Said I was a problem waitin’ to be solved. Like that makes me small, like you’ve done all your goth princess math and you’re just waitin’ to circle an answer. I’m not a problem, I’m not a riddle, and I’m not some code you break with poetic threats and a sharpened jawline. I’m a person. A fighter. And a woman who’s bled more quietly than you’ve ever screamed.
I just don’t talk about it.
That’s where you and I differ. You want the world to flinch when you whisper. You want to stand in front of a storefront and talk like you’re some deathbringer reckoning, like your prophecies and the strip should watch you burn another name down. But…you mistake volume control for depth. You call yourself reality when we all look at you like you’ve kinda gotten stuck in a weird version of VampireFreaks and think you’re still relevant in twenty-twenty five.
Ya told me I haven’t bled for my momentum.
Honey I’m doin’ it now.
You look at me and see the version of yourself that you resented and refuse to let surface: one that doesn’t have to shout to be heard. You’ve said you ended careers. You’re proud of that and that’s your legacy. But I’m not here to end anyone. I’m here to outlast them. I’m here to outlast you. And for all your talk about smoke and mirror, you ever notice how many shadows you wrap yourself in before you step into any kinda light?
You’re not a ceiling. You are not the end all be all. You are just another woman who continues to live in this delusion that you matter. And I’m sorry, but you don’t. There are thousands of jokes I have for you at your expense. I’m here to play the game of outlast the woman who thinks they’re the alpha and omega. You can call me smoke and mirror, but you’re the one with the costume. I walk into the ring with nothin’ but my truth.
It’s almost like you say you’re reality, but you only ever show up dressed up like a nightmare and hoe we’ll confuse the two. I’m not afraid of you. I’ve already survived things you couldn’t name. I don’t need to end you to rise. I just need to pass through.
Hint hint.
I will.
So all of you, keep sitting there and telling me how I’m going to keep failing. How it’s a fluke, how it’s my second match, how I won’t survive.
And let me tell you now – it’ll be my hand raised. And yours?
Not even lifted.
★★★★★★★
Some mellow, steel drum version of a pop song that hadn’t been relevant in at least six years was playing softly over the overhead speakers. The rhythm of it matched the gentle sway of the Princess Cruise liner as it cut through the ocean. There were all kinds of people on the ship, but in reality, no one really paid attention to another person, unless they were trying to seek out and spy like some creepy salesman.
Amelia’s legs were stretched out over a poolside chaise, one flip-flop dangling from her toes as she laid back beneath the shade of a wide striped umbrella. There was absolutely zero chance that she was going to burn on this cruise, because her skin was fair and literally fuck a sunburn and the ring. Her sunglasses were oversized, tinted pink, and her bikini was modest. Black. White edging. She sun into the kind of calm that merely came from sun-warmed skin and salt in the air. Her fingers softly held onto a finished strawberry daiquiri, condensation dripping down the side of it like it was weeping.
She wasn’t alone. Kallie Reznik, her sister in law, was sitting in the water, her legs dangling in the chlorine. Her feet lazily swished beneath the surface, her pink bikini bright under the sun and her blonde hair wrapped up in a pony tail. Her small baby bump was showing now, and she kept a light, loose hand over it.
On the lounge next to her, Kayla laid with her legs crossed at the ankle, sunglasses perched on her nose and seemed to be resting. Calmly. She didn’t seem to care who stared at her, her black bikini showing enough skin that if Finn were standing here, he’d probably be attempting to lay a towel over her at some point.
The conversation between them was soft. Teasing. Friendly. A rare moment in the middle of a chaotic life where none of them had to be on.
And that was important to Amelia, because in the next few days, she was going to be dealing with a huge event that could make or break her so far. Inside, she was nervous. But Kallie had prepped her for this, smiling, kissing her on the cheek and making sure she felt safe in this. That no one would be angry with her if she lost, but she knew herself well enough that she would be disappointed.
Because she wanted to face Kayla.
If Kayla retained, of course.
She looked over at Kayla, who sighed, turning her head and frowning.
“I swear,” Kayla muttered, flipping a page, “if I see one more couple try to slow dance to Ed Sheeran, I might just throw myself overboard.”
“You won’t,” Amelia smirked.
“Dramatic,” Kallie added.
Kayla gave a lazy shrug. “What’s the point of being on a floating palace if not to be dramatic?”
She flickered her fingers a little. The light shone off her diamond. The diamond that they hadn’t noticed. The ring that was attached to her like it was bought purposefully for her. The one sitting on her left hand. Amelia sat up. She lifted her glasses.
“I do declare, Kallisto,” she started, imitating Gone With the Wind. “That is a fuckin’ ring.”
Kallie snapped her head in her direction, and then looked at Kayla’s fingers. “oh…Ohmy…OHMYGOD KAYLA DID FINN ASK THE QUESTION?! DID HE ASK THE QUESTION? DID HE GET ON HIS KNEES AND–”
“Oh. No. Ew.” Kayla waved her off. “I mean, yes. He asked the question. I guess. Took me up to the jewelery store, told me to pick one out.”
Amelia thinks about it, nodding. That sounded like Finn. Actually, that sounded like Finn and Kayla. No outward shows of affection. No big to do. Pick one out. Probably pointed at a set of engagement rings like it was obvious what he was asking and she picked the most ostentatious one available because that fit Kayla’s personality.
“Are you happy?”
Kayla glanced sideways at her, but before she could respond, there was the faintest sound of a clatter from somewhere behind the pool bar.
It wasn’t quite a scream.
It was a whoop.
Then—
“PARKOUR!”
Aiden Reynolds was first on the deck, leaping over a railing like it wasn’t even there. He flipped, sailing through the air like a cannonball. He leaped over a lounge like a track star, rolled forward, sidebounced off of a floaty and launched into the pool from the raisedledge of a top-tier sun deck like he’d been training not for wrestling, but for this. His arms flailed once before hte tucked, spun, and cannonballed into the pool with a splash so aggressive the it hit all of the girls like a fucking baptism in the south.
“AIDEN!” Kallie shrieked, tearing off her sunglasses.
Amelia sputtered. Her strawberry lemonade was now mostly chlorine and regret water. “Oh my God.”
But it wasn’t over.
Because a second pair of feet followed, screaming, “PARKOUR!” like it was an episode of the Office and Michael and Dwight were present here and now. Dickie Watson hit the metal railing from above, and with no regard for cruise etiquette, a inked out, shirtless, grinning, and dangerous gremlin of a man flipped over the rail in a reckless front dive, twisting like an Olympic hopeful straight into the chlorinated chaos.
Another wave of water. Another round of soaked towels.
“What in the everlovin’ fuck—” Kayla started, just as a third figure appeared above them—Finn Whelan, deadpan as always, but undeniably chasing after them. He didn’t dive. He had his brace on his shoulder, and he had much more class than the others. He just stepped off the edge like a martyr, a soldier, or maybe just a man too tired to argue. A clean drop.
SPLASH.
By now, half the deck had turned to look. A small child clapped. Someone tried to get it on video. And Amelia, hair sticking to her cheek and bikini, now drenched, pulled off her sunglasses with two fingers and stared directly into the pool.
Aiden popped up first. “Ten outta fuckin’ ten!” he called to the crowd.
“Bullshit!” Dickie shouted back, his curls plastered to his forehead. “Mine had form.”
“Yours was deranged.”
Finn surfaced last, wiping water from his face with a sigh so heavy it may have created a new ripple. “I hate both of you.”
Amelia leaned over her knees and cupped her hands around her mouth like a proper coach. “You absolute menaces! This is a luxury liner!”
“Exactly!” Aiden shouted back. “What’s more luxurious than a fuckin’ cannonball?!”
“You’re gonna get us kicked off the boat!” Kayla snapped, flicking water off her book.
Dickie turned in the water to face Amelia, all mock-innocence. “You said you wanted me present.”
“Not submerged!”
“I’m still present!” he called back. “Just, you know. Hydrated.”
Amelia groaned, but her mouth twitched at the corners.
Aiden elbowed Dickie in the side, water sloshing around them. “You reckon they’ll kill us?”
“Probably.”
“Worth it?”
He glanced up again at Amelia. Her eyes were narrowed, but her lips were trying not to smile. Not to laugh at him. Not to be annoyed at the same time because she could still see his bruises and cuts. Even if they were yellowing. Even if they were almost gone.
Dickie smirked. “Every damn time.” His head emerged from the water as he pusehd it back. His eyes were brighter than the last time they truly looked at her. At Denver International, bruised and barbed, coiled like a wire about to snap. Now, he looked… lighter. Not healed. Not really. But like the edges weren’t as sharp. Like he’d taken that suitcase of pain he carried and set it somewhere behind him, just long enough to breathe.
“Hiya, Florence,” he smirked, pushing his arms up onto the ledge, water dripping down his forearms. “I lived. Disappointed?”
Kayla raised an eyebrow, and Kallie choked on her drink. She said nothing in response. Just looked up at him, frowning slightly.
“I didn’t tell you not to jump. I told you not to die.”
Dickie’s grin only widened. “I distinctly remember you telling me I could bleed on the boat.” He reached up and touched her ankle. “Not bleeding but you know…parkour.” He waited until Kallie got the hint to move away.
“You mad at me still?”
“I was never mad,” she replies. “I was scared. That’s different.”
Dickie’s eyes softened just a little. Enough that even Kayla notices. He shifts his elbows, leans closer to her. Still soaked. Still a menace.
“I came, didn’t I?”
She turned her head toward him fully. Her voice lowered.
“Are you here, Dimitri?”
That question landed deeper than anything else she’s said today. It wasn’t about the boat. Or the water. Or the laugh lines forming at the edge of her mouth.
It was about Denver. About scars. About a match that should’ve ended in a hospital. About words said in a car where pain sat between them like a third passenger.
Dickie doesn’t grin this time. He just nods.
“For you? Yeah. I’m here.” He smiled. “I’m here to watch you win. Here to watch you succeed, and cheer you on, and do all the things for you like I’m supposed to do. I am, by the by, the best boyfriend ever, because I could literally pay off an entire section of people to cheer for you.”
“Ew. Don’t do that.”
“No?”
“No.” She sighed. And then she knelt down. She ruffled his wet curls. “You look like a sheepdog.”
“Oh…those are fighting words.” He grinned. And before he she could move away, he launched up, grabbed her by the arm and dragged her into the pool. He pulled her to him, and she smiled. “I’ve always got your back. Win. Or lose.”
ooc: the boards decided to let me sit behind the loading screen for a minute.
also. just changed font
I was always told by everyone else I know that Supercards are kinda that one time in the entirety of Sin City’s existence that I can spend hooking daggers into everyone. I didn’t understand what that meant when I was told it, but after witnessing this cruise…and this Supercard…I get it. I mean, the chance to actually sit down and refute what someone else had to say while still being able to get your points in?
Fuckin’ brilliant, hey.
We’re off to sea, and I think I want to point out that the ocean is quite a bit louder than I thought it’d be. I’m not sure if that’s just because the boat itself sounds like it might need a rudder or two repaired, or if it’s the amount of wrestlers and people on this ship that seem to think that chaos is hilarious, or if I’m hearing Dory out in the ocean screamin’ about whales and P. Sherman Wallaby Way Sydney, but here we are. In my absolutely personal opinion, though, it’s not any louder than some of you tryin’ to scream from the rafters and convince yourselves that you’re already the winner.
And bein’ stuck on a boat with five other women who think they’ve already like…won? It’s a recipe for absolute disaster, but also a good goddamn lesson in humility.
It’s kinda noticeable the level of desire that’s present in this matchup. Three of us made our voices heard, and I would be remiss to say that the other three just couldn’t find the time, desire, or skill to put themselves to the test. I mean, I guess I get it. After all, going into a match with five other women and possibly having the slimmest opportunity to win can be daunting. Two of them, though…I mean, I get it.
Joanne Cannoli – and yes, I know it’s Canelli, but now I’m just calling her a cannoli – couldn’t roll her way out here and say anything the first time, why should I expect redemption being desired? Is it because the competition is steeper now? Is it because everythin’ is different? You can be the first Bombshell Internet Champion, but nothin’ matters if you can’t adjust and get with the times. I was hopeful that I would see something new from her. But obvi-obvi, that isn’t happenin’.
Kate Steele did what I expected, ya know? Ran her mouth one week. When we faced last, I learned that Kate Steele…has this deep, deep insecurity about herself, like a fragile little ego being held that is super dependent on everyone else lookin’ at her and recognizin’ her greatness…but if ya didn’t care about what people said, you wouldn’t have spent fifteen minutes cryin’ about it either.
Sorry, not sorry.
Kate loves to list her trophies like they matter, but then say no one believed in her. Proud of the work done on herself…both figuratively and literally, and I mean…bet.More power to you in the titty committee. But like…maybe you would get better if you’d done as much work on your heart as you did your beauty, because that’s where real champions get built.
That’s where people like me get built.
I know I’m pretty. I have platinum hair and I have blue eyes, and I wear makeup, and I can thot with some of the best of them. My boyfriend tells me I’m beautiful all the time. But that’s secondary to who I am. I wasn’t built in an operating room or a stylist chair. And I sure as shit didn’t get to where I am by yellin’ at anyone that I’m beautiful and they should push me just cause of that.
Sorry, but you can’t buy your way into resilience. Can’t surgery your way into legacy. Can’t paint over your history and cracks with glitz, ego and expect it to hold up under pressure.
And sweetheart, you haven’t. You haven’t held up under pressure, because the woman I saw last time that fought with glitter and grit didn’t act the way she did and not show to prove herself this week. You say that this Kate you are is different, but it just kinda sounds like the last one at this point. And if we’re bein’ honest, Kate, you keep askin’ for more, but then you don’t follow through. You don’t actually want challenges. You want applause, with your stupid pop routine and your thought that if you thot your way up, you’ll be respected.
You told me last time that all I’d done was won once.
But who won my second match? Me. You’re not as evolved as you think. And if the only way you feel strong is by tearin’ down women who’ve already survived worse than you, then maybe you should get surgery on your brain next.
And Diamond Caldwell? Listenin’ to you talkin’ to us like we’re in your secondary school experience kinda made me want to stab myself in the ears and keep that trauma from rising in my brain. It bothers me when people can’t…like…own up to their own stupidity and I kind of wish I hadn’t done any research now. But let me point out a couple of things on ya, sweetie…you fight for Seleana Zdunich like she’s a lifeline…which makes you look like a shadow. What happens if she doesn’t stand behind ya if you’re so co-dependent on her existence to make you look good? And if we’re bein’ honest, you’re sittin’ there in your promotionals sayin’ that you don’t care what people think, but just like Andrea – and we’ll get there – you spent an entire moment to sell yourself and what you’re bringin’ to the table in a whole ass contradiction. I don’t care, but you do. You so do. Oh my god, you so do.
Let’s also just like…totally note that you act like you’re swingin’ on people like they owe you money and you’re Rihanna. Definitely screamin’ Bitch better have my money, but not actually gettin’ the skills up there in order to retrieve the money. This isn’t just some brawl-for-all, we’re not in a fight club, and this isn’t a sanctioned UFC knockdown dragout. This is precision, this is wrestlin’.
And if you think comin’ in here with a pretty face and nails to hell, then you’re wrong. I don’t think you know what wrestlin’ means.
It means you bleed with your whole soul, means ya hurt in silence when no one’s watchin’. You kinda just learn to hold your breath, and then you swing. Ya show up when the crowd’s thin, even when the lights aren’t that bright, and when the match doesn’t mean much to anyone but you.
Aiden taught me that the hardest fights aren’t against opponents, although they’re definitely a huge factor. But it’s mostly about the voices in your head tellin’ ya to stay down. That sometimes you kinda fall flat, and then you laugh through the bruise because if you don’t, you don’t get up again. Taught me humor is a shield, timin’ is everythin’ and loyalty is paramount. You can be underestimated, and still flip the narrative on its head, ya know? Lookit him this week, right? Facin’ off for a chance at the World Heavyweight Championship, when all he wanted was the Roulette Championship shot he deserved.
And Dickie.
You all don’t know Dickie. Or maybe you’ve heard of him, and you’ve been curious. But even though he didn’t train me, he taught me that silence is paramount. He’ll sit there and watch the tape until his eyes burn, won’t quit when his body is screamin’. It’s kinda hard to watch at the same time because I don’t want to see him hurt like that, but he gives a piece of himself to this sport like the canvas is the only thing that’s ever loved him back.
And lemme tell you how hard it is to fight with fabric and wood as the subject of any affection. It sucks. Oh my god, it sucks.
But wrestlin’ ain’t about bein’ loud, or who has the best knife in the ribs. It isn’t about the heaviest hands. Or the biggest boobs, the blondest hair, the shittiest attitude or even the most spooky-seasoned. It has to do with everythin’ about the soul, and standing across from someone and sayin’ to them that you respect them as a competitor, you don’t hate them, and still believin’ that you’re going to give them hell.
And Andrea.
Hi, we’ve met before.
I pinned you last time. Two weeks ago.
I told you what I thought about you and your perceptions. I’m happy to repeat them, and I’m sure you’re gonna sit there and tell me that I’m nothin’ different than anyone else. That I’m repeating the same bullshit that everyone else is doing. And that’s fine. If that’s whatcha want to believe, then you believe that right on through, from here over to Five Burroughs. I noted you still have the same commonality here that you do there – when you don’t do well, you shut your mouth. You internalize.
But this time…this time you decided to spend your entire last promo basically tellin’ us how broken ya are. How angry, how you didn’t want to be there. I heard it. I heard what you said. You said I didn’t even want to be there like it was a fact, like it didn’t matter, like none of us would really recognized the weight of that that meant. Sweetheart, sugarplums, that’s not just a bad day, it’s a tell. That’s the red flag hangin’ from the rafters that turns into a white flag.
Ya gave up.
You gave up. You got pinned and you told the world you didn’t care anymore. And now you’re tryin’ to convince us that you’re back for realisies and that if you just say the words, you’ll hope we all forget the dichotomy of your presentation.
But I don’t forget. None of us forget. To sit there and tell us that you didn’t care about a match is an enormous fuck you to the rest of us that put our all into that thing, and a huge damn insult to the people who want to succeed. This division was built on the bones of wanting the same amount of limelight and you go and pull a bitchass move like that, while still expectin’ the spotlight to fall on you like you matter in the grand scheme of things a couple of weeks later because someone licked your wounds for you?
Ya lost your fire. And now you’re expecting us to help you out by given’ you a torch. And that kind of confession, sayin’ that you’re nervous and can’t succeed…is kinda dangerous. Not for me, not for anyone else. But for you. Because you’re still sittin’ acting like your owed something because of your past, but you haven’t been fightin’ with passion. And if you can’t say it with your chest, then you’re gonna be eatin’ canvas before you remember what you were standin’ for.
And ya know what else stood out to me, Andi? You sounded mad. At the crowd, at the locker room. At the idea that anyone could still see you as anything less than what you think you are…but that’s the thing about the world, isn’t it? People stop listenin’ after they’ve heard the same diatribe over and over again. I’m not here cause I threw a tantrum like you did. I’m not here because I kicked up dust and demanded attention. I’m here because I’ve been studying, sharpening, and climbing…quietly. Dutifully. I did my job.
I don’t need to be angry to grow, and you do. That’s the difference. You’re still fightin’ everyone in the shadows and givin’ breaths to every critic. You’re not focused on us, you’re just too busy provin’ to everyone else what everyone already knows: you’re livin’ in the past and you’ve been left behind. You’re still livin’ in twenty-twenty one with that article that wrote you off and still trying to climb out from that hole. ou keep fightin’ ghosts and callin’ it victory…like you’re never gonna stumble.
But every time you stumble, you promise it’s gonna be different. If it always has to be said, has it truly ever been done? Have you remembered how to not stumble? How to not fall? You’ve comeback how many times and performatively succeeded? Kayla beat you for the championship after you said you were going to hold onto it forever. She came back. And you? You spend so much time the next few matches explainin’ to the rest of us who you’re not that I’m not even sure you know who you are. But you certainly spend all of that time too screamin’ at the heavens that no one is listenin. Like you have to burn out for your fire to rise.
But you’re still climbin’ out of the ash.
Andrea…I don’t really need to spend any time tearin’ you down. You’ve done that well enough yourself. I just need to stand here steady while you keep trying to remember how it feels to have victory that isn’t tainted by your poor soul.
Then…then there’s you, Alexandra.
You didn’t come in this time cryin’ like you were bein’ broken. You walked in like you forged in the fires of Gondor and bathed in the blood of the Naz’ghul. Showed up with that calm, queenly little statuesque self that reminds me of a robotic gothic misteress, like your words should echo through cathedral halls, all drippin’ from some bloodstained altar while we all stand in reverence of your tragedy.
Girl. My girl. PLEASE.
You’re not a fallen angel and you honestly just kinda sound exhausted. I watched you speak like grief and all your trials and tribs made you a monarch upon us all. Cool, you won Queen for a Day…but soundin’ like you’re sufferin’ was a birthright and that we should bow our heads for the edgelordy parade of pain that follows you into every ring you grace kinda made me gag.
A lot.
In a trash can.
And I’m not even seasick.
None of us are prayin’. I hope yuou realize that.
You’re draped in metaphor and whiusperin’ threats like their some kinda prophecy. You’ve created this tragic little epic with you in a high-collared coat and a crown of dusk and a graveyard of forgotten women at your feet. You speak slow, deliberate, like every word’s a blade, and we’re all just kinda supposed to sit there and revere ya.
Here’s the thing about illusions though, Alexandra. They only work if the audience forgets to blink.
You’re walkin’ around like you’re the only truth on the ship. Like ten of you haven’t been spit out before, voidwalkin’ and actin’ like you’re the biggest, baddest thing in the world. I HATE overblown shit and that’s what I see in you. Real danger doesn’t rehearse and doesn’t make ya wait for the right lightin’ before it strikes. Kinda like Kate up there, you’ve spent so long stylin’ yourself as a storm that you forgot how to fit like one.
You called me a mystery. Said I was a problem waitin’ to be solved. Like that makes me small, like you’ve done all your goth princess math and you’re just waitin’ to circle an answer. I’m not a problem, I’m not a riddle, and I’m not some code you break with poetic threats and a sharpened jawline. I’m a person. A fighter. And a woman who’s bled more quietly than you’ve ever screamed.
I just don’t talk about it.
That’s where you and I differ. You want the world to flinch when you whisper. You want to stand in front of a storefront and talk like you’re some deathbringer reckoning, like your prophecies and the strip should watch you burn another name down. But…you mistake volume control for depth. You call yourself reality when we all look at you like you’ve kinda gotten stuck in a weird version of VampireFreaks and think you’re still relevant in twenty-twenty five.
Ya told me I haven’t bled for my momentum.
Honey I’m doin’ it now.
You look at me and see the version of yourself that you resented and refuse to let surface: one that doesn’t have to shout to be heard. You’ve said you ended careers. You’re proud of that and that’s your legacy. But I’m not here to end anyone. I’m here to outlast them. I’m here to outlast you. And for all your talk about smoke and mirror, you ever notice how many shadows you wrap yourself in before you step into any kinda light?
You’re not a ceiling. You are not the end all be all. You are just another woman who continues to live in this delusion that you matter. And I’m sorry, but you don’t. There are thousands of jokes I have for you at your expense. I’m here to play the game of outlast the woman who thinks they’re the alpha and omega. You can call me smoke and mirror, but you’re the one with the costume. I walk into the ring with nothin’ but my truth.
It’s almost like you say you’re reality, but you only ever show up dressed up like a nightmare and hoe we’ll confuse the two. I’m not afraid of you. I’ve already survived things you couldn’t name. I don’t need to end you to rise. I just need to pass through.
Hint hint.
I will.
So all of you, keep sitting there and telling me how I’m going to keep failing. How it’s a fluke, how it’s my second match, how I won’t survive.
And let me tell you now – it’ll be my hand raised. And yours?
Not even lifted.
★★★★★★★
Some mellow, steel drum version of a pop song that hadn’t been relevant in at least six years was playing softly over the overhead speakers. The rhythm of it matched the gentle sway of the Princess Cruise liner as it cut through the ocean. There were all kinds of people on the ship, but in reality, no one really paid attention to another person, unless they were trying to seek out and spy like some creepy salesman.
Amelia’s legs were stretched out over a poolside chaise, one flip-flop dangling from her toes as she laid back beneath the shade of a wide striped umbrella. There was absolutely zero chance that she was going to burn on this cruise, because her skin was fair and literally fuck a sunburn and the ring. Her sunglasses were oversized, tinted pink, and her bikini was modest. Black. White edging. She sun into the kind of calm that merely came from sun-warmed skin and salt in the air. Her fingers softly held onto a finished strawberry daiquiri, condensation dripping down the side of it like it was weeping.
She wasn’t alone. Kallie Reznik, her sister in law, was sitting in the water, her legs dangling in the chlorine. Her feet lazily swished beneath the surface, her pink bikini bright under the sun and her blonde hair wrapped up in a pony tail. Her small baby bump was showing now, and she kept a light, loose hand over it.
On the lounge next to her, Kayla laid with her legs crossed at the ankle, sunglasses perched on her nose and seemed to be resting. Calmly. She didn’t seem to care who stared at her, her black bikini showing enough skin that if Finn were standing here, he’d probably be attempting to lay a towel over her at some point.
The conversation between them was soft. Teasing. Friendly. A rare moment in the middle of a chaotic life where none of them had to be on.
And that was important to Amelia, because in the next few days, she was going to be dealing with a huge event that could make or break her so far. Inside, she was nervous. But Kallie had prepped her for this, smiling, kissing her on the cheek and making sure she felt safe in this. That no one would be angry with her if she lost, but she knew herself well enough that she would be disappointed.
Because she wanted to face Kayla.
If Kayla retained, of course.
She looked over at Kayla, who sighed, turning her head and frowning.
“I swear,” Kayla muttered, flipping a page, “if I see one more couple try to slow dance to Ed Sheeran, I might just throw myself overboard.”
“You won’t,” Amelia smirked.
“Dramatic,” Kallie added.
Kayla gave a lazy shrug. “What’s the point of being on a floating palace if not to be dramatic?”
She flickered her fingers a little. The light shone off her diamond. The diamond that they hadn’t noticed. The ring that was attached to her like it was bought purposefully for her. The one sitting on her left hand. Amelia sat up. She lifted her glasses.
“I do declare, Kallisto,” she started, imitating Gone With the Wind. “That is a fuckin’ ring.”
Kallie snapped her head in her direction, and then looked at Kayla’s fingers. “oh…Ohmy…OHMYGOD KAYLA DID FINN ASK THE QUESTION?! DID HE ASK THE QUESTION? DID HE GET ON HIS KNEES AND–”
“Oh. No. Ew.” Kayla waved her off. “I mean, yes. He asked the question. I guess. Took me up to the jewelery store, told me to pick one out.”
Amelia thinks about it, nodding. That sounded like Finn. Actually, that sounded like Finn and Kayla. No outward shows of affection. No big to do. Pick one out. Probably pointed at a set of engagement rings like it was obvious what he was asking and she picked the most ostentatious one available because that fit Kayla’s personality.
“Are you happy?”
Kayla glanced sideways at her, but before she could respond, there was the faintest sound of a clatter from somewhere behind the pool bar.
It wasn’t quite a scream.
It was a whoop.
Then—
“PARKOUR!”
Aiden Reynolds was first on the deck, leaping over a railing like it wasn’t even there. He flipped, sailing through the air like a cannonball. He leaped over a lounge like a track star, rolled forward, sidebounced off of a floaty and launched into the pool from the raisedledge of a top-tier sun deck like he’d been training not for wrestling, but for this. His arms flailed once before hte tucked, spun, and cannonballed into the pool with a splash so aggressive the it hit all of the girls like a fucking baptism in the south.
“AIDEN!” Kallie shrieked, tearing off her sunglasses.
Amelia sputtered. Her strawberry lemonade was now mostly chlorine and regret water. “Oh my God.”
But it wasn’t over.
Because a second pair of feet followed, screaming, “PARKOUR!” like it was an episode of the Office and Michael and Dwight were present here and now. Dickie Watson hit the metal railing from above, and with no regard for cruise etiquette, a inked out, shirtless, grinning, and dangerous gremlin of a man flipped over the rail in a reckless front dive, twisting like an Olympic hopeful straight into the chlorinated chaos.
Another wave of water. Another round of soaked towels.
“What in the everlovin’ fuck—” Kayla started, just as a third figure appeared above them—Finn Whelan, deadpan as always, but undeniably chasing after them. He didn’t dive. He had his brace on his shoulder, and he had much more class than the others. He just stepped off the edge like a martyr, a soldier, or maybe just a man too tired to argue. A clean drop.
SPLASH.
By now, half the deck had turned to look. A small child clapped. Someone tried to get it on video. And Amelia, hair sticking to her cheek and bikini, now drenched, pulled off her sunglasses with two fingers and stared directly into the pool.
Aiden popped up first. “Ten outta fuckin’ ten!” he called to the crowd.
“Bullshit!” Dickie shouted back, his curls plastered to his forehead. “Mine had form.”
“Yours was deranged.”
Finn surfaced last, wiping water from his face with a sigh so heavy it may have created a new ripple. “I hate both of you.”
Amelia leaned over her knees and cupped her hands around her mouth like a proper coach. “You absolute menaces! This is a luxury liner!”
“Exactly!” Aiden shouted back. “What’s more luxurious than a fuckin’ cannonball?!”
“You’re gonna get us kicked off the boat!” Kayla snapped, flicking water off her book.
Dickie turned in the water to face Amelia, all mock-innocence. “You said you wanted me present.”
“Not submerged!”
“I’m still present!” he called back. “Just, you know. Hydrated.”
Amelia groaned, but her mouth twitched at the corners.
Aiden elbowed Dickie in the side, water sloshing around them. “You reckon they’ll kill us?”
“Probably.”
“Worth it?”
He glanced up again at Amelia. Her eyes were narrowed, but her lips were trying not to smile. Not to laugh at him. Not to be annoyed at the same time because she could still see his bruises and cuts. Even if they were yellowing. Even if they were almost gone.
Dickie smirked. “Every damn time.” His head emerged from the water as he pusehd it back. His eyes were brighter than the last time they truly looked at her. At Denver International, bruised and barbed, coiled like a wire about to snap. Now, he looked… lighter. Not healed. Not really. But like the edges weren’t as sharp. Like he’d taken that suitcase of pain he carried and set it somewhere behind him, just long enough to breathe.
“Hiya, Florence,” he smirked, pushing his arms up onto the ledge, water dripping down his forearms. “I lived. Disappointed?”
Kayla raised an eyebrow, and Kallie choked on her drink. She said nothing in response. Just looked up at him, frowning slightly.
“I didn’t tell you not to jump. I told you not to die.”
Dickie’s grin only widened. “I distinctly remember you telling me I could bleed on the boat.” He reached up and touched her ankle. “Not bleeding but you know…parkour.” He waited until Kallie got the hint to move away.
“You mad at me still?”
“I was never mad,” she replies. “I was scared. That’s different.”
Dickie’s eyes softened just a little. Enough that even Kayla notices. He shifts his elbows, leans closer to her. Still soaked. Still a menace.
“I came, didn’t I?”
She turned her head toward him fully. Her voice lowered.
“Are you here, Dimitri?”
That question landed deeper than anything else she’s said today. It wasn’t about the boat. Or the water. Or the laugh lines forming at the edge of her mouth.
It was about Denver. About scars. About a match that should’ve ended in a hospital. About words said in a car where pain sat between them like a third passenger.
Dickie doesn’t grin this time. He just nods.
“For you? Yeah. I’m here.” He smiled. “I’m here to watch you win. Here to watch you succeed, and cheer you on, and do all the things for you like I’m supposed to do. I am, by the by, the best boyfriend ever, because I could literally pay off an entire section of people to cheer for you.”
“Ew. Don’t do that.”
“No?”
“No.” She sighed. And then she knelt down. She ruffled his wet curls. “You look like a sheepdog.”
“Oh…those are fighting words.” He grinned. And before he she could move away, he launched up, grabbed her by the arm and dragged her into the pool. He pulled her to him, and she smiled. “I’ve always got your back. Win. Or lose.”
ooc: the boards decided to let me sit behind the loading screen for a minute.
also. just changed font
