“The biggest challenge after success is shutting up about it”
― Criss Jami, Killosophy




Stockton Arena
Stockton, California
15.01.2023
10:17pm



“... And new … ”

Amber’s ears were still ringing, a side effect of the background tinnitus flared by the arena’s static feedback loops and determination to use resounding bass to mask everything else. All of that had melded together to create a cacophony of sound that seemed to cling to every backwards firing synapse, lighting up the space behind her eyes like an illegal backyard Fourth of July display.
Part of her consciousness was still in the ring- the wall of sound crashing down around her almost trapping her as though it needed to soak up every lasting second of precarious validation. Arms wide, applause as prevalent as the jeers as the realisation dawned that the cycle had begun once more, that the reaper had claimed her prize back and now it would have to be dragged once more from the cold dead hands it had always belonged to.

Another part seemed to be left waiting anxiously just before the curtain, a shadow of doubts and insecurities- all the questions she didn’t have a reasonable enough answers for, simply left in the wake of everything that she’d needed to become. A flutter of curtains, the hustle and bustle of production more focused on getting their product out to the masses, rather than what might be left of said product to scrape together for the next showing. As much as they might have been little more than bees to the wrestlers, the wrestlers represented a little more than a paycheck and a distinguishing line on their collective resumes- none of them had any stake in her shadows, in the way they seemed to step beyond her body as though urging the rest of her to follow.

None of them would lose sleep about what would become, none would lay awake at night contemplating their unmistakable part of the atrocities being committed.

Amber, with the fractional scattered psyche that she found herself piecing back together in this aftermath, knew she’d already lost enough sleep for all of them before the bell had even rung.

Even now, victory… redemption hurt all the way down to her bone marrow while fingertips disassociated from the rest of her seemed to slowly trace across a nameplate that appeared too gaudy besides the flecks of dried blood that still seemed to fall away from it's ridges.
No, those letters didn’t mean anything yet- familiar and strange in equal measures, syllables spelling out a reality that fuelled the fearsome headache pulsing down through every fucking vertebrae. It was hers, just as it always had been, an extension of self like a jigsaw piece from a different puzzle seemingly falling perfectly into place.
With pulse pounding in her ears like a waterfall of blood cascading through every space it could find, Amber tried to compose her hands as they shook whilst caressing the edges of the Bombshells World title as it rested carefully across her thighs.

Of course, those who had never held it could never understand the attraction, the devotion that it demanded. Those who had, well those were the ones who would spend their whole careers chasing it… Some might have called it an addiction- however an addiction had the ability to be broken down, compartmentalised and regimented into something constructive. It could be taken into it's simplest pieces and recreated into something meaningful…
There was growth in addiction for those who were willing to seek it, and a sickening comfort for those who said they didn’t need it.

No, this wasn’t an addiction.

This was everything.

Or it usually would have been. Tainted, spoiled by the events that dragged everyone involved kicking and screaming to this point- what should have been a crowning achievement left a sputtering ashen taste on her tongue. Fulfilment had taken a distant second place to guilt and redemption, how many lives had been changed… warped… distorted… for five months and ten pounds of leather and metal draped across her knees.
Masque had taken the one thing she’d held closest and left it irreparably changed, like trying to replace that hole in your chest with a collapsing star and just accepting that it's the best anyone could have done. Masque had made a point of taking everything- but that's not what had hit the hardest, it was the fact that it wasn’t the same to get back…

Amber had built up this division around her- whether anyone liked her or not, she had made people better by facing them, forced everyone to step up when it was easier to stand still. Resetting the bar that others had lowered because sometimes the limelight wasn’t nearly as glamorous as made out to be.
No one wanted to admit that it was work, that being the champion was a commitment and not a fucking hobby- it wasn’t a hyper fixation to be discarded when the costs started to tally and when the dopamine started running in the opposite direction.
A city promising stars- only to be razed on a fanciful whim cause the skyscrapers weren’t quite the right shade of concrete corporate misery.

Yeah, five months was a fucking long time in an industry constantly shifting, constantly in flux and as fickle as the day might have ben long. Of course, it quietly should have been longer… a few terse strings pulled and arrangements made with people paid enough to know better and paid more to agree than concede to ethics, had made sure of that. Unhelpfully, Amber was constantly reminded of the fact as her left arm slumped at her side, almost pooling against the wooden bench beneath, sharp twinges radiating only when she breathed and when she didn’t.

Five months debating whether she was making the right decision, knowing deep down that there wasn’t one to make. She’d chosen to step away, to concede for the sake of others- but it just wasn’t enough. It never seemed to be enough.
Be careful what you wish for, that's how the proverb went…

No, this time would be different. There would be no further sacrifices to the cause, no ghosts or shadows left to chase from the deepest corners of her psyche in hopes the absence might convince her body to accept ten pounds of leather and metal as a suitable proxy for the heart missing from it's bloodied cage…

Fumbling for her phone on the bench nearby, trying to repress the shake that seemed to permeate her hands, Amber cleared her throat in hopes that the leaden weight in her throat wasn’t about to drag down what little sentiments she might be able to dredge. An ever-present ember glowing at the back of her throat threatening to char what few syllables might squeeze by on their way to tethering connections otherwise left to rot.
A faint tapping of finger tips on glass broke the monotony of silence, beyond the riot of sound that seemed contain just under her skin, that she’d allowed herself to be enveloped by. Maybe if she was lucky, she might never emerge and find contentment in solitude…
Mac would never allow that to happen- he cared more than he had any sane right to, standing by her through everything and being her greatest strength while equally enabling the absolute insanity of her chosen path.

Maybe he understood, or maybe he’d concluded that forces of nature weren’t prone to a change of perspective, even with a well constructed Power-Point presentation and stern tone.

A small pang of guilt shifted Amber’s focus as her freckles illuminated from the iridescent blue-light backed glow and the stormy blue-green hue of her eyes seemed to pale to a distant horizon grey. Cassiopeia Mares, the last time Amber had tried to call her was almost a week and a half earlier… it rang out though, asking for a voicemail to be left in the professional yet cautious tone the younger blonde had employed when they first met.
Maybe she was just busy, after all it was just before a supercard and SCW Talent Relations was likely a mess on the best of weeks. Maybe she was upset, in which case- with an unconscious shrug, Amber knew she had every right to be.

Cassie didn’t want her to take this match, she’d feared the repercussions- these things don’t come without blowback, the blonde had explained thoughtfully. Nothing just ends because there is a sensical point to do so, the stories always continue until there is nothing left to be told- to keep digging… Amber had tuned out at that point, as though her mind hadn’t already been made up for the prior 4 and three quarter months prior. Now, she wished she hadn’t… looking for that logical, level-headed tone to somehow smooth her edges and justify that a wrong decision might still maintain an okay outcome.

Ring.

But if she could just end this… Those were her last words to Cassie before the match, trying to promise something she wasn’t sure she’d be able to keep without ever committing beyond hearsay and good intentions.

Ring.

If Amber could just end this goddamn fucking nightmare… Wouldn’t that make everything better?

Ring.

Except she already did…

Ring.

Tossing her phone away, Amber leaned back into the metal lockers behind her with an echoing clang. Each ragged breath seemingly forced by a weight that she couldn’t shift, like a swinging anvil on a dangling thread above her that tickled the edge of her periphery with every pass.
Amber was the World Bombshells Champion again, as her phone tumbled across the floor with a muffled clatter, and whether she liked it or not…

“... You have reached the voicemail of …”

God, that had to mean something…





******


“Lightning is an interesting phenomena.

Imagine so much built up static anticipation and energy, and the only place it has to go is down. A sudden, violent release of pent up crackling rage sent forth as though Mother Nature was tired enough of our shit to stop simply threatening and start doing. Lightning is fascinating cause it can do so much damage and yet most of the time- we watch it at a distance marvelling at its sporadic beauty and finding ourselves grateful that it isn’t any closer to us.
Here’s the important thing though- not every strike hits, not every strike leaves a catastrophic mess in it's wake. Fire and fury don’t simply explode from contact, sometimes  it's banal… ineffectual even. A flash of brilliance in an otherwise overcast landscape.

It doesn’t matter how many times lightning might strike, if it does nothing.

In the wrestling industry lightning might strike a thousand times in the same place- and somehow you still end up in catering blaming everyone else for your continued lack of effort to try and overcome your own self-sabotaging pity party bullshit. It's always someone elses fault… it has to be, cause accountability is hard, guys. Bitter pills don’t taste much better if you suck them down to nothing, they just give you more of a reason to complain that you have a bad taste in your mouth when the option to swallow was always there.

Georgie Porgie, pumpkin pie.

You are quite the curious little lightning strike, aren’t you?

Underdog doesn’t even begin to describe what you managed to pull off at Inception- a highlight in an otherwise vanilla ice-cream kinda Sin City existance. Just don’t anyone let Jessie get a hold this, lord knows we won’t hear the fucking end of it for another three years at least. Bitch has got worse PTSD about an ice-cream comment than the 15 thousand times I’ve beaten her in the ring…
No, what you did… Well, it's seemingly unthinkable really.

Lets just, for a second, look past the glaringly obvious aberration. Lets just briefly ignore the fly in the ointments status quo if you will. Lets ignore that terribly messy business with my perpetual darling best friend Roxi Johnson, shall we?
Instead, perhaps we should focus on the fact your win-loss record looks marginally more impressive than the scrawled efforts of a disabled child's finger painting you feel obligated to display on a fridge.

Yes, that's nice. You’ve done very well… That's what you wanna hear right?

You wanna be validated and acknowledged for the bare minimum you’ve contributed, as though your presence has been a defining quality instead of a side effect of the over-priced contract you’ve been doled out for being glorified cannon fodder. You wanna be spotlighted as an up and coming talent, a future champion with absolutely no credibility or worthwhile body of work to back it up.
Let us also ignore that you’re still green enough around here that you’re still not entitled to the Krispy Kremes in catering cause you have to be at least this successful to have one. I mean seriously- why do you think Mercedes is always moping around backstage in catering these days?
Bitch is just waiting to be left alone for long enough that she might be able to spill some stolen validation all down her shirt… again.

One big win might make a statement. One lucky break might change your trajectory. One step wrong might change your life…

A win over me in this company is like winning the fucking lottery, it's doable and some might even be lucky enough to manage it more than once in their lifetimes but most? Most will consider it a pipe dream, an impossibility cause they themselves are unable to even fathom achieving it- so they dismiss it and say that it doesn’t mean anything to them.
You’ll grow to hear a lot of that, if you end up sticking around long enough to be more than another disappointing footnote in the SCW annals, you’ll hear alot of Bombshells telling you that you’re gonna fail before you’ve attempted anything. Hell, you won’t even be able to get the words ‘... a match with…’ out of your mouth before someone is gonna be putting your self-esteem through the floor verbally.

Why?

How many of those Bombshells do you think have given up.

How many of them swallowed their pride after their first major loss and just chose to wallow, to simply never recover and become flaccid in the shifting tides? How many stopped giving a fuck when they got proven to be far less special than they claimed to be…
How many of them thought that they wouldn’t lose to me.

Losing a match to me isn’t the end of the world like everyone makes out, sweetheart- it's the goddamn beginning, but only if you let it be. By all means, you go down the track of being jaded and bitter that you lost against the most dominant World Bombshells Champion that this company has witnessed in god knows fucking how long, losing a head on collision with a certifiable train wreck while you’re behind the wheel of a tricycle. Become one of the already numerous Bombshells who found discretion to be the only part of valour that they cared about, by all means you just join the queue and complain that Roxi is getting ANOTHER shot at me- as if she didn’t go out there and pretend like she actually wanted it.

By all means Georgie girl, go out there and take your ass kicking like a good little rookie- and become better for it… cause lord knows I don’t think I can stand another minute of listening to Bombshells whining about the fact they don’t like the direction their career is headed- as though they didn’t choose to drive it into a ditch cause they didn’t fight hard enough for the result they wanted.
Shock and horror kiddies- actions have consequences… Whoever would have thought such a thing?

No- let me make this abundantly clear Georgie girl so that even you might begin to understand it…

This isn’t an opportunity. This isn’t some unearned comeuppance. This isn’t the payoff of your mediocre work ethic and dismal failure to live up to the very low expectations set of you by our bloodthirsty fan base. This isn’t *your chance* to do something incredible- and while I wholeheartedly believe that lightning has the capability of striking twice, I’m not under some great illusion that you have the mental capacity or sheer ability to actually make anything of it…
While I’m sure you’ll have some exceedingly important nonsense to dribble incessantly like some last minute extra from Lady and the Tramp, all you’ve shown so far was your ability to stumble across success accidentally and capitalise on my best friend Roxi having a bit of a rough night…
Unfortunately for you, whether you realise it or not- it's not nearly as impressive of an achievement as you might have been led to believe…

See, this isn’t the gold at the end of a rainbow- this is the storm that flattens your house and throws your car fifty feet down the street. This isn’t some fairytale dreamscape where happily ever after comes to those who wish hard enough on the right falling star- no, this the fever dream that sends you willingly tumbling off a remote cliff cause the voices convinced you that it would be the only way you’d ever be able to learn to fly…

So fly for me, little Georgie girl, fly…

Just be careful though, cause rumour has it that there's been some lightning about…

... and I'd hate to see you get struck down in your prime.”



*******



Bane Ranch
Las Vegas, ND
12.02.2023
10:42am



“Huh, I thought that piece of shit was dead.”

Thoughtfully, and with far less expression than one would associate with that particular jumble of words, Mac sipped gently from the steaming mug of black coffee nestled between his hands. Hell, the dark liquid had barely slowed it's twirling, kissing the edge of the ceramic, before he’d went in for a second. Hell, he’d barely even taken a moment of thought before responding, Amber mused as she cradled her own mug against the edge of her knee- mostly because the thought of lifting it seemed like a lot more work than she’d been willing to admit.

“Next time darling, maybe tell me what you really think…”

Amber gave him a coy sideways glance, the kind that knew that there was a story of sorts beneath the outward layer of vitriol. Although, perhaps unexpectedly for Amber- it hadn’t been the first time that the name Admiral Gomez had gotten that reaction in the mere space of days.
Reverend Alistair McCrae had spoken the name with such distaste that it seemed even he, himself, was ashamed to be associated- which said a lot for the businessman of God. No, McCrae valued business and what someone might profitably contribute towards it to be concerned by personal status- after all, a few Hail Mary’s could solve anyones problems.

Even now, with the distinct benefit of hindsight, Amber could recall the faint twitch beneath his eye as he uttered the name. Guilt flashed briefly enough that it might otherwise have been considered a trick of the light- Alistair McCrae was far too measured for such deliberate facade cracks. Perhaps absolution didn’t hold all the answers.
Yet that was the first name he’d provided, the curl of his lip betraying a disdain for the taste left in it's wake- he’d been incredibly coy, vague to the point of being infuriating whilst bluntly insinuating that Mac would be able to provide more insight into why such a man might be so tentatively on the proverbial hook. Amber despised the obscurity of it all, finding little point in asking for assistance and then refusing to elaborate- she’d waited though, unwilling to simply go straight to Mac for fear of being too forward and untrustworthy, as though McCrae himself were some paragon of virtue.

Business was business and it demanded a level of professionalism. Even if, and especially when, they were absolute fucking scumbags it seemed.

Twinging horribly, Amber swallowed her grimace as she subtly readjusted her left shoulder. Mac had been less than impressed at her willingness to accept the services of Gabriel Baal in recent times, perhaps even more so than her determination to take on Masque at Inception, however Gabriel was also the only reason she was cleared in time… with a little help. All was well that ended well, as Amber was dutifully reminded by the Bombshells World title proudly sat up on the kitchen counter, pride of place right beside Mac’s SCW World Heavyweight title glimmering in the morning sun.
Mac hadn’t seemed to notice as Amber gingerly moved her mug to the countertop alongside for fear of spilling it or worse- attracting unwarranted concern.

Just some aftermath soreness really… A month after the fact… Usual stuff.

“Death should be the least of that bastard’s concerns.”

Mac commented matter of factly, giving her a look over the raised edge of his mug.

“So we should be less than surprised to hear that he’s one of McCrae’s ‘benefactors’ I suppose then?”

Amber found herself less surprised by most things these days- between Alistair McCrae throwing whatever shifty ‘business contacts’ he could under the bus in order to try save his own reputation to learning that yet another rookie was getting fed to the Bombshells meat grinder for easy views to Roxi motherfucking Johnson ‘earning’ herself another World title match by sweeping through two other Bombshells who stopped bothering to even try months ago… to Cassiopeia Mares still not replying to any of Amber’s voicemails.

Amber had left another one just days ago, this one an apology as sincere as she might have managed.For everything she’d dragged the younger woman into, for all she’d potentially done without realising and for everything she might be yet to do in hopes that Cassie might one day understand and forgive Amber for being… well, herself. That last one stung more than Amber was willing to admit openly, swallowing a mouthful of black coffee that had started to stray into lukewarm territory.
Mac had caught the end of her voicemail, querying her afterwards and reassuring Amber’s concerns- yeah, maybe she was just really busy, maybe she’s a little upset with everything that's happened. Somehow though, Amber had missed the flash of guilt that had curled across Mac’s expression- in the same way that McCrae had tried and failed to disguise his behind an impassive wall of professional apathy.

“More surprised that the right hand of God hasn’t already obliterated him into a chunky red puddle yet, actually.”

“Spicy. You wanna fill me in, seeing as I’m the only one in this conversation who doesn’t quite understand why we hate the guy yet aside from the fact he’s filtering money through religion… or religion through money… I’m actually still not quite sure which direction I hate more.”

Amber’s tangent rattled to a halt as Mac braced against the counter slightly as though picking carefully through a flurry of words teetering on the edge of his subconscious. Despite his better nature, Mac wasn’t always the most subtle- Amber loved him wholeheartedly for it. Never any questions, what you saw was what you got and if you didn’t like it… well, not every flavour of smash mouth reality was good for you. Chewing over the thoughts as they raced, the faint grinding of gears in Mac’s head was more than just a figment of Amber’s overactive imagination, the shift in his jaw a signal that whatever syllables were to follow would surely be uncomfortable.

“How’s the term ‘war criminal’ strike you, love?”

Amber cocked her head slightly, unfettered perhaps more than she should have been, Amber contemplated for a moment the weight that those words carried. She knew Alistair McCrae was in with some shady motherfuckers- religion had a way of attracting zealots, and in combination with the absurd amounts of money that it had a way of generating… Well, those zealots suddenly became a lot more… malignant. Money spread influence like cancer, those ‘idealists’ with extremist perspectives could already convince the eskimos that they didn’t have enough snow- tied in with the type of money that would make Christ himself blush redder than the water he’d spoiled…

“It certainly strikes something...”

Fear had a way of twisting knots in the stomach, but that wasn’t this. Hatred tightened every nerve in the chest till it felt like the next beat might be the one to make it explode, but that wasn’t this either. No, this feeling flitted at the base of her throat as though trying to tempt forth bile and the mouthful of coffee she’d forced down moments before, this was something that seemed to tangle her ribs together and sucked the air out of her veins. Understanding perhaps, understanding what it meant to be considered the worst fucking person on the fact of the Earth while still being allowed to walk on it cause God had a twisted fucking sense of humour that consistently got confused for karmic justice.

“Among just being a piece of shit human being- he is the man personally responsible for the death of hundreds of Americans in Afghanistan. He is the man that sold information on troop movements in the region to the fucking assholes they were supposed to be fighting… Admiral Gomez has more blood on his hands than even God himself can absolve him of- makes people like us look like fucking saints in comparison, love.”

Perhaps he’d been reading her mind, or the facial twitch in her otherwise impassive expression as he spoke. Somehow he just knew that she’d automatically made the comparison and sought to demolish that intrusive perception before it vocalised.

“Sounds charming. I suppose you're gonna tell me he steals candy from children and pushes old ladies into moving traffic as well.”

Mac gave her a momentarily disapproving expression, to which she simply shrugged.

“Okay, it was funnier in my head. Like, that's all well and good… it's obviously not, but you get what I mean, however doesn’t explain why someone wants to blackmail him now though… Plenty of people want his head on a pike, and there's no doubt he wouldn’t win a popularity contest with the remainder…”

Pausing thoughtfully, Amber reflexively rubbed her temple causing another sharp pain to shoot down from her shoulder and out through her fingers like she might emit a blinding shock to anyone within 10 feet. Nothing happened though, except for her instinctively trying to cover up the grimace with a forced yawn.

“... Doesn’t explain why now though, and why in relation to the arbiter of God’s wanking hand, you know?”

Mac stifled a brief chuckle as he nodded in understanding. Amber could understand the man would have a lot of enemies- but those enemies would seek retribution in kind, in blood and name alike so why bother with the runaround.Hell, who in their semi-right mind would consider ruining the Reverends reputation by association a more powerful motivator than the avoidable bloodshed of hundreds due to greed?
Amber sighed loudly, the more she thought about it the less sense it was making… as if anything ever really did.

“Alistair thinks this is about him- that someone is out to undermine his reputation and business practices. I suppose associating with a known traitor is certainly off to a strong start, but it just…”

“... doesn’t make sense when it seems more reasonable to want Gomez at the end of a rope. I agree.”

"Precisely."

Mac watched her train of thought derail in real time, and promptly corrected the course as though moving on instinct- in equal measures Amber found herself delighted and horrified at how well he was able to read her.

“Which then means---”

“No. Don’t you dare say--”

“--- that I need to---”

“Red, I love you but I’m gonna have to stop you right there.”

“--- what the hell else do you propose then, Mac? I get it, the guys a fucking monster- but we've made collective livings off being not much better.”

Planting his hands on the counter emphatically, Mac exhaled methodically, whilst forcing eye contact despite Amber’s tangential efforts to drift away in thought.

"We are nothing like him, Red. Not even for a goddamn moment."

Amber gave him a knowing nod of half-hearted agreement, the most she might be willing to offer in that moment.

"Its business Mac... I have---"

“If you think you’re going and speaking to this asshole without me, you are sorely mistaken, love. This bastards got a lot to answer for…”

“It's not about making him---”

“Maybe not, but I’d love the chance to see him fucking squirm all the same…”

… Perhaps Mac’s intervention might have been a welcome change of pace after all.

“You ever f**k Susan here?” she said, her face almost touching mine.
“I’m impressed,” I said. “The question is intrusive, annoying, coarse, and voyeuristic. That’s quite a lot to get into a simple question.”
― Robert B. Parker, Hush Money




Undisclosed Fairgrounds
Blue Ridge, GA
02.12.2005
4:41pm



“Are you out of your fucking mind, Bambi?!”

Something akin to teenage indignation overwhelmed the petite redhead as she recoiled slightly, she’d expected resistance… to a degree, however this hadn’t been quite the reaction she’d anticipated. Swallowing her immediate retort, discretion in this case being the only remaining form of valour, she watched as Grizz paused as the flush in his cheeks began to dissipate at the edges.
Swallowing the rest of his sentence, he watched as the flicker at the corner of the redhead's mouth seemed to vanish as quickly as it had materialised, normally it would have been a warning sign. A flashing neon effigy for no more than a split second before the venom would start to fly- however there was no venom, no fire and fury and so, he too, attempted to temper the sharper edges of his tongue.

If only for now at least.

Peace never lasted long, not when these airs flashed with red.

Granted he hadn’t really meant for his tone to be so harsh, the words forceful as though a shield raised in the face of adversity. Perhaps it was the fatherly instinct he’d assumed over the young redhead regurgitating automatically before the words ever crossed the periphery of his mind.
She wasn’t really his, but that had never mattered.
Close enough for government work, he’d mused in those first passing weeks, as he’d silently sworn to himself that he’d watch over her like she was.
It’d been almost three and a half years now, and not a second went by that he didn’t worry for the day he might finally lose her for good.

Amber and Cassidy, his own daughter, had become as close as sisters. As thick as thieves. They’d been as good for each other as they had been bad- perhaps luckily for him, Cassidy was with her mother for these holidays. Heaven knows he doubted he could stand against the both of them, if they’d really been determined, surely his heart wouldn’t take it.
No. One against one - as if they were even remotely fair odds, granted Grizz doubted the conversation in question would have ever gotten this far if they were.

He knew it had been coming, still he’d found himself woefully unprepared in the moment.

It started with an accident. It always was with Amber.
Unfortunate and avoidable, and yet somehow those were always the ones that seemed to slip through the cracks- the easy and the mundane were always the most dangerous. Grizz doubted Amber even noticed at first, as though that immediate sense of shock completely numbed the senses. It no doubt helped that her seemingly inhuman grit and willpower to continually spite the universe through determinable impassiveness served only to bolster her refusal to accept that she’d quite obviously broken her arm.

Nothing serious. She’d said she was fine, as though the vaguely misaligned angle through the middle of her forearm had always been there.
Another risk taken with a little too much trust in the universe and perhaps a little top caution thrown to the prevailing winds headed in the wrong direction. Grizz had come to learn over the years that her furiously determined nature came with a side of expected immortality- however it seemed that living life as though you were 10 feet tall and bulletproof only worked if you were taller than 5’4 and a half.

That had been a little over five weeks ago.

Forcing down a pensive smile that threatened to ruin the concerned parental figure facade, Grizz recalled that even just a week earlier confronting Amber about how her cast had mysteriously ‘fallen off’ and how he’d found it poorly concealed, stuffed in an overflowing recycling bin.
Amber, in her usual precocious manner, had simply smiled sweetly and claimed that it had come loose, that her arm had slipped from its confines and how the cast obviously no longer fulfilled its intended purpose.
Such a shame, she’d added with a cocky little smirk, that she’d been growing accustomed to it and was sorry to see it go.

Perhaps it was his amusement towards the brazenness of it all- or simply because he knew there was nothing he could do about it, however he neglected to mention the jagged, roughly torn edges where the cast had appeared to have been attacked by a pair of wire cutters nor the several oddly shaped cuts and scratched that had mysteriously appeared down the edge of Amber’s forearm about the same time.
Cassidy, of course, had agreed with Amber… been an eyewitness, despite having actively been absent.

“What do you mean- you said---”

“I didn’t say anything and you know--”

“--- when I got the cast off---”

“Amber, those weren’t my words.”

“--- that you would let me back in the ring---”

“You said that, not me.”

With a matter-of-fact look, Amber lifted up her right arm and wiggled her fingers as though it proved anything more than the fact she had functionality in her fingers.

“--- and look at that, no cast.”

Grizz sighed thoughtfully, placing a heavy hand on Amber’s opposite shoulder.

“Bambi---”

“No. Uh-uh…”

Stepping back offendedly, Amber’s teenage sass flared once more.

“You don’t get to ‘Bambi’ me… We made a deal.”

Firmly, Grizz straightened up as the tone seemed to shift.

“No, you tried to make a deal and I told you that we would see how things went.”

He couldn’t help but admire her persistence, even if it might have been the death of them both.
She’d never admit that she knew it wasn’t that easy. Her defiance wasn’t born from ignorance, but an underlying fear that she might lose her grip on something that had otherwise given her a possibility of life. Wrestling didn’t love her, it didn’t have the capacity to love anything within itself, Grizz had explained from the start- but it was addicting, challenging. It took everything you knew about yourself and made you prove that you were worth everything you gave it.
Self-preservation was an untold myth- the idea of risk and reward so deeply intertwined that one didn’t exist in any meaningful capacity without the other. Amber didn’t need wrestling to love her back, but that never meant she didn’t need it at all.

At 16 years old, she’d found a sense of purpose… and she’d give anything not to let it slip away.

“That's not fair.”

Those words hit hard, like an emotional truck driven through the heart of the matter before reversing back over it for good measure, leaving tire marks of good intentions across everything that was left.

“What else do I have to do to prove myself to you…”

With a lingering air of tension and disappointment, Amber turned on her heel and stormed away in hopes no one might see the welling tears of anger beginning to cloud her vision nor the quiver in her lip that threatened to split and spill with septic hurt.
Grizz opened his mouth to respond, to try and cross a gap where the bridge had exploded into flames, however the words didn’t make it out in time- a stuttered gasp aimed towards the space where Amber had been mere moments before.

He wanted to tell her that it wasn’t like that at all, that she never had to prove anything to anyone… that he believed in her, and that he cared. In the silence that remained, as the static in the air grew still, all he could do was hope that she might no do anything stupid… or if… no, when… she did, that the universe might show mercy and understanding.

She was still a child after all… how could she possibly understand?






******



“Admit it.

You missed me.

You missed me like the stars miss a sunny day. You missed me like blue skies miss hurricanes. You missed me like drowning men crave the taste of water in their lungs and the gallows miss a weight at the end of their rope.

Hell, I’m like the kick in the teeth you never knew you were longing for.

Honestly though, don’t go tripping over yourselves needlessly in your overwhelming eagerness to welcome me back. Save the ticker tape parades for those you can appreciate the grandiosity of someone else cleaning up after them. Don’t worry though, balloons and confetti aren’t necessary mostly for the fact that people seem to find them a little offensive at a funeral.
Just go ahead and form yourselves a nice, orderly line and I’ll surely get to putting you all back in your fucking places one by one.

Oops, not even back a full night and things already got morbid real quick.

See, the thing is- I walk through the door and there gets to be this tension in the air, the faint lingering stench of a collective locker room shitting themselves at the prospect that they are once again about to be held accountable for their determination to coast.
I rebuilt this fucking place in hopes of setting a higher standard, I took that bar and I lifted it on my own back cause the shuffling of feet doing the absolutely bare minimum to remain employed got on my nerves for a little too long. I raised the standard when everyone else was happy enough to sit back and accept their mediocrity like they weren’t getting paid for better.

Now, I walk back in and it's like a locker room of squatters and I’m about to start charging for rent. Turn the lights back on, and watch the cockroaches scatter back for their dark corners cause the spotlight just got a little brighter.
Did you get comfortable without me? Is that what happened…Did you just watch the standard fall when you realised there was no one left willing to stand up and accept the responsibility of making everyone else better around them.

Tell me, where were all the heroes, the legends, the bright sparks and go-getters?

Exactly.

You all might as well start calling me ‘magic’ cause I’m about to pull the rug out from under the supposed ‘best and brightest’ you’ve been left with.

Starting with the Roulette champion…

Now personally, I should be alot more enthused about this than I actually am- especially given the fact i’ve made it publicly known on Twitter that the Roulette title is the only one missing from my Grand Slam. I should be coming into this guns blazing, fucking hyped out of my skin for the opportunity against this shining ‘Angel’ making waves and beating…

Oh.

Well that's a bit anticlimactic.

Okay, let's be real here for just a moment. I don’t want everyone thinking I’m on some entitled bullshit, that the universe is going to bend over backwards just cause I poked my head back out of the mud- you know?
Full respect for getting yourself into this position Ariana, former champion to soon-to-be former champion… I mean, current champion. Yeah, that's what I meant.
I’m sure you have worked incredibly hard in making it appear far more difficult than any of it actually should have been to get where you are now, a long climb up a very small mountain. You’ve really earned all that sweat on your brow from tripping over your own feet to success in spite of your own best efforts.
It's impressive really, I haven’t seen this much ‘self-sabotage to infamy’ since Jessie Salco made a complete ass of herself trying to explain to the world why she’s so offended about being compared to vanilla ice cream.

It's literally the world's most popular flavour.

You should be proud to be so generic on such a global level.

Seriously though Ariana, you have done your damndest to make life difficult for yourself and still manage to achieve a modicum of self-respecting success… I mean that match with Jessie, honestly even you had me thinking that beating her convincingly four times in the last year was almost a crowning achievement.
No disrespect to the Roulette title and all, it's certainly something to be won… Hell, I haven’t won it yet. Mostly for the fact I spent a long time being World champion and found myself a little too busy with that to go dipping my toe in the kiddies pool…

That's not to say I’m not interested in the Grand Slam- one thing at a time kiddies, so breathe a little easier Ariana cause I don’t yet have a spare 10 seconds in my schedule to celebrate with the belt before I throw it back into the squabble. I need it for the achievement, I don’t want it though… if I wanted to go break a record, I’d start with my own, unless I’m feeling an extra little sassy and I start eyeing off the only Bombshells world title record I don’t already have… It's been awhile Mikah. I hope your ears are burning all the way out there in Hawaii.

I guess that's the thing that sets us apart though… You are good, don’t get me wrong. You might even be better than good, on your best days. However your aspirations are just… you’re a small scale short term kinda gal, maybe that's got a little to do with your attention span or a lot to do with the fact you’ve managed to surround yourself with greener rookies, has-beens and never-weres.
At every turn you have relied upon the ‘support system’ around you like a crutch, like you somehow need them to fulfil your potential- that's like asking an anchor to help you succeed in your attempts at buoyancy.
You’re asking goldfish about climbing trees, you’re sparring with literal children whose attitudes make me wanna go play in fucking traffic to cleanse my palate.

Ariana, you’re good… but you aren’t getting any better.

You’ve somehow managed to stagnate before you’ve ever gotten started. You’ve plateaued two feet off the fucking ground- and maybe it's not entirely your own fault… After all, you’re young and inexperienced, letting anyone with an opinion have a say about the way you conduct yourself.
Do yourself a favour and drop the dead weight, grow your own backbone and have an original opinion without filtering it through people who haven’t won a meaningful match that wasn’t against someone with a foot in the grave or already out the fucking door.

I won’t tell you that this match makes me bored already but I just walked back in the door, haven’t even put my bags down yet and already I’ve rolled my eyes so hard the poor little backstage plebs thought I was having a stroke.
I mean I guess this is supposed to be a warm up match, but honestly that implies this thing is gonna have more heat than a shitty reheat- lukewarm 30 seconds in the microwave. Hell, my anticipation towards a legitimate contest is still frozen in the middle.

You’re feisty and determined, and I cannot discredit the fact that you’re the one with the belt and I’m still trying to convince doctors that wiggling the fingers on my left hand isn’t just some sort of shitty illusion. However, how about you come back and start barking up my tree again when you’ve got more than the perennial list of curtain jerkers filling out the most notable places on your dance card.
You’ve earned your place, but don’t think a strap on your shoulder somehow jumps you up the hierarchy- you’re still a rookie, you’re still greener at the gills than you realize. You’re still finding your feet so do yourself a favour and don’t step to the playground if you aren’t prepared to eat sand.

Despite it all, I know you all missed me…

I’m still the sunny day to your stars and the hurricane across your blue skies- I’ve never stopped being the water in your proverbial lungs and the gallows still looming large over the division.

You taste that?

Blood on your tongue.


That's your reminder. Your last warning and your reason to reconsider your life choices.

It’s the proverbial kick in the teeth that tells you that I’m … fucking … back…”





******



Dr Marion Clarke’s Office
Atlantic City, NJ
18.11.2022
2:07pm



There couldn’t possibly have been many porcelain cats the last time she’d visited.

Tiny, ugly little misshaped things they were. Amber quietly despised them, however she took a small solace in musing that Dr Clarke hated them even more.

Story was, apparently, that they’d been a ‘thank you’ gift from an elderly widow in the days that followed the passing of her long suffering husband- that she’d come to the office with a handkerchief tightly balled in one hand, and a small cardboard box in the other.
Expectant of gratitude, in the same way it had been expressed for her decision to ignore human decency for a families self-centredness, the widow had stood watching with withered hands clasped expectantly as the bubble wrap came away to reveal a series of cats cast with maligned features and an unrealistic colour palate.

That wasn't to say she hadn’t done her best, despite her better morality, to extend the life of someone who’d suffered for so long simply because their family wasn’t ready to let go.
Keeping someone alive who was better off dead seemed like such a waste of resources, all down to the selfishness of those who couldn’t come to grips and would rather prolong suffering than accept the temporary nature of their own.
In truth, the idea of ‘first do no harm’ was really ‘harm is relative to mortality and only those with lives to live get a say in someone else's’. In this case it had been months, five- maybe even six in the end, and perhaps now the archaic and dusty little figures multiplying on the desk were the karma that came with it.

It had become almost a joke now with colleagues, their sly smirks barely veiled as more families found these horrendous little atrocities and presented them with adoration and gratitude. It wasn’t that she was a bad doctor, however sometimes hard decisions left a taste in the mouth that even the cold coffee she’d lost track of earlier that day couldn’t quite wash down.

“You must think I'm some kind of bush leaguer, Ms Ryan.”

Dr Marion Clarke didn’t follow professional wrestling, at 53 years old with a complicated marriage to her work and little else to justify her existence beyond a few PhD’s on the wall, she wasn’t planning on starting either. Leaning across the desk slightly- her thin, wiry hair seemed to spring out from her tightly pulled bun as she adjusted the wire-rimmed glasses perched half way down the hooked slope of her nose.
She didn’t exactly epitomise the target audience, as thin lips pursed into a judgemental scowl that appeared almost painted on with a certain permanency and yet somehow their relationship- as loosely as the term could be applied, had spanned sporadically across years.

Perhaps that's why she could so readily address the redhead seated across from her with an unmistakable familiarity and frustration.

Since arriving in Atlantic City in 2015,  Dr Clarke had been Amber’s primary physician- the one somehow unlucky enough to be saddled with her apparent death wish tendencies, absurdist medical records and the stacks of paperwork that seemingly went along with it.
Even now, with hawk-like eyes examining the 34 year old currently rolling one of the newer additions to the burgeoning collection between her gnarled fingers, Dr Clarke couldn’t begin to comprehend why the woman seated in front of her had such an intent to…

“If I thought that Doc, I wouldn’t be here. Only the best and all that nonsense…”

Blasé and blunt. Par for the course perhaps. Radiating disinterest so hard it might have been terminal, Amber didn’t even look up from the cat figurine as she ran a thumb across a misshapen- what she presumed to be an - ear. Maybe.
Whether Dr Clarke was the best or not was in fact irrelevant to the redhead- what had mattered was that she had been reliable, steadfast in her no-nonsense attitude and as professional as anyone could expect to be given the circumstances she usually found herself consulting under. What mattered was that she spoke honestly, didn’t put up with Amber’s bullshit and most importantly… understood that a career was worth sacrificing for.

“... and if you thought I wasn't simply prepared to sign you off to get you out of my office and save me an afternoon of needless bureaucratic bullshit, then I doubt you’d have bothered showing up.”

The word ‘bullshit' rolled off her tongue unnaturally, a distasteful flicker at the edge of her mouth confirmed the foreign nature of the term. By now there was no need to manoeuvre around banal small talk, killing time before cutting to the chase five minutes too late cause it was pay by the hour, and be damned if the redhead wasn’t getting away with not paying for the privilege of inconvenience.
Amber smiled thoughtfully, perhaps wondering just how hard she might have to squeeze to shatter the tiny abomination.

“That being said though- I took an oath when I became a physician.”

“Here we fucking go…”

Amber murmured not so subtly under her breath, predictable as it was painful to sit through. Concentrating her effort into understanding why so many of these ugly little porcelain cats seemed to even exist to begin with, she knew what was coming, but refrained from speaking it aloud.

“In all good conscience and decidedly professionalism Ms Ryan, you have to understand that while I've been willing to accept your choices - albeit reluctantly - I cannot condone what is otherwise something that directly contradicts the ethical promises that I have made simply, so you might go and get yourself maimed. Again.”

Dr Clarke cleared her throat authoritatively, feeling the vague crackle in her spine as her posture corrected and she seemingly grew an inch and a half in the chair she’d assumed.

“There are limits to what I can reasonably allow before I am unable to call myself a medical professional, and despite my better judgement I have crossed that line for you more times than I dare admit. If not for anything more than an understanding, and the fact I’d have no doubt you’d gleefully wander into a chop shop for a tetanus shot.”

Gently, almost deliberately so, Amber placed the approximation of a pastel green and neon-esque pink cat back onto the desk, slightly askew from where she’d picked it up from. With gaze travelling from the technicolour attempt at collective art back towards the doctor, who had somehow managed to find and insert her entire backbone whilst remaining seated- Amber leaned back lazily into her own chair, trying to ignore the hard edges of the wooden frame digging between her vertebrae.

“So that's it then…”

If Amber were more impassive, she might have been dead. A slight furrow in her brow in vague contemplation and curiosity, a crinkle in the bridge of her nose that suggested a sense of amusement- but otherwise nothing.

“Ms Ryan, I would be going against everything I know and everything I swore when I chose this life, should I clear you for ‘competition’.”

There was a clear derision in the word ‘competition’ as though she failed, or simply refused to believe that the correlation was one worth noting. Those outside the industry would never understand, Amber instinctively knew, they’d never quite comprehend the allure of planting one's sneaker through someone else's face- nor the satisfaction that came with the crunch of a cheekbone or eye socket that usually followed.
Competition was one thing… addiction, now that was a whole other scenario.

“Well, I suppose that settles it then.”

As conclusively and abruptly as she might have managed from her slouched position, Amber steadied herself upright with a half-hearted smile. Dr Clarke paused tensely- waiting for the other shoe to drop,waiting for the reaction, waiting for an indication that she understood what was being said.

“I trust you heard me correctly, Ms Ryan. I’m not willing to clear you at this juncture… You understand that, right?”

With a suggestive eyebrow raise, Amber chuckled softly and in such a way it felt as though the walls themselves brought into the untold joke.

“Of course. You aren’t clearing me… so what's the point of wasting more of either of our time?”

With a knowing shrug, Amber pushed the chair aside slightly before making her way towards the door- a tension hanging heavy that neither chose to outrightly acknowledge and an unspoken apprehension of what might become of the consequences.
Beyond the door- making double sure that it was firmly closed in her wake, just hard enough to know that the PhD’s rattled uncomfortably- Amber reflexively dug into her front pocket for her phone. Before even clearing reception, the phone was ringing and up against her ear as the familiar smirk known far and wide for its mischievous and menacing undertone…

“Dr Baal… Yeah, I was right.”

A pause as the response elicited a further crack in the facade and a sly glimmer in the corners of an eye.

“Might I be so bold as to assume that you may know someone that could organise a medical clearance on short notice…?”





******



“Masque.

Don’t pretend like you aren’t listening, you’re hanging on my every word. There are those that are going to think you’re gonna come out and save the little ‘Angel’ perched up high on her tree- but we both know you won’t. You won’t cause it doesn’t fit your plans, your path…
Words are meaningless. You said it yourself. Yet no action… it's almost as though you’ve been a liar all along.

Once again though, this isn’t about you- although soon enough you wish it won’t ever be.

Now truth be told, I’d call everything that's occurred in the last little while the proverbial ‘elephant in the room’, but that would simply be giving the devil her due- and truth be told, she’s gone a little quiet since I decided that I wasn’t quite done with my death wish yet.
Give her time I suppose- the cat might have her tongue, but the bitch knows that her supposed Rapture means almost nothing without me.

I won’t sit here and pretend though like she didn’t do a damn good job. I spent five months on the shelf- wondering, contemplating, trying to make sense of what a life without wrestling might look like.
It looked bleak, it looked bland, it looked colourless as though the technicolour nightmare had soaked through with bleach and bad intentions.
I spent five months telling myself that staying away was the right thing to do- for the sake of the division and those I cared about, I damn near convinced myself I was doing everyone a favour.

Turns out, even I'm not quite that good of a liar.

I told myself I didn’t want to come back, that I wouldn’t be the same person I was before. I told myself that I buried a former world champion in the backyard and swore I wouldn’t go digging in myself looking for a reason to exhume. I told myself that I could be happy without this, without the constant nagging pains and the mental toll of beating your head against metaphorical brick walls trying to explain logic and reason of winning and losing to those who refused to pull their heads from between their legs.
I came out here and told the world I was making a decision that I truly believed was what was best…

Behind closed doors I told myself that I would never be that person again. Unfortunately for everyone else- and as per fucking usual, as though we’re surprised- I was right.

That's the thing about an injury that leaves you on the shelf for a while- you get a lot of time to think about things you’d change, the mistakes you made and how hindsight makes an absolute mockery of our best intentions. Five fucking months I spent contemplating everything that had brought me to this point- about who I was, about how I was…

How I allowed the World title to consume me, to become my everything.

Don’t get me wrong, it still is… but at least I can admit it now.

I broke down and I rebuilt from the ground up, I took the rubble of who I was and I recreated it into something that I might one day be able to look back and be proud of.

Now, the SCW legion and everyone behind that curtain peeking out from between their fingers, is wondering whether I can still go…

It would be ridiculous to think there isn’t any ring rust or that I’m possibly even close to 100% fit. I scraped getting a medical clearance by sheer grit, determination and a good word. I’ve spent the last three and a half months rehabbing non-stop cause they wouldn’t let me even look at a gym before that.
If you look at this match purely on paper- there should be no way I would be able to hang with an up-and-coming high flyer at the very pinnacle of her very limited game. If you break it down on a physical aspect- I should be seeing a loss for the first time in a long time appear on my records.

Paper doesn’t get in that ring and go though, statistics and standards run through systems that can't compute what it takes to get to where I’ve been. I wasn't the Bombshells World Champion for 357 days cause I looked pretty and I didn’t defend that title successfully on twelve different occasions cause I was lucky or gifted.
There’s plenty of Bombshells who can do things I can’t, who have incredible physical capabilities that I simply cannot and will not match with- I won’t sit here and kid anyone into thinking that I’m gonna match strength and speed with someone like Ariana right now.
See, what's on a piece of paper didn’t get me here. What the doctors told me didn’t see me stay at the top for as long as I have.

I’m a former World Champion for a reason. The best stays the best because we adjust and we adapt, because we know that we aren’t destined to be there forever and so we have to keep evolving to outlive everything that tries to drag us back down.
I said it throughout my reign and it rings truer than ever now… I will go into that ring with anyone and I will always win, not cause I’m bigger, badder or better… but because I will always outlast. I’m a proverbial cockroach in the nuclear wastelands, I’m the mutt that keeps dodging a needle.
My heart doesn’t beat inside my chest, it can’t be pulled from me or broken conventionally, it's on the shoulder of someone who doesn’t deserve to know the way it pulses in time with the roar of a crowd. It’s plated in gold and is worth more than the life I’ve forfeited for the privilege.

Question me. Doubt me. This isn't an underdog story- there's no upset clause, no ‘David and Goliath’ cause that story has been proven a mistruth hundreds of times over. David was never the underdog because Goliath was damn near blind, stumbling around searching for a chance- just like you aren’t the Cinderella story you’d love to make this out to be, Ariana. If you believe hard enough, maybe you’ll trick yourself into believing the Converse sneaker stomping through the back of your head and out through your mouth is a glass slipper- and all those shards you’re scrambling to save aren’t just the remnants of your broken teeth scattered across the canvas.

Maybe you think this is my reputation against your reality.

Once in a while the fairytale has to come true, otherwise they’d never otherwise be told. No point sharing a good story if there isn’t reason to believe- only there is, cause you make it so. Close your eyes Ariana and think real hard about what it would be like to beat me, how good it might feel to have your hand raised in victory- something hard earned and well fought.
Yeah, it's not happening is it.
At least you tried, I suppose.
Fairytales aren’t meant for everyone, otherwise they’d never be worth retelling. Imagine if everyone got their happy ending right? How fucking meaningless life would so quickly become. So maybe I’ll be the villain, the evil queen questing for the heart of only the fairest among you all and finding only pathetic lumps of shame tossed haplessly to the floor. I’ll be the big bad wolf showing your defences to be as pitiful as your logic as to why I shouldn’t raze them to the ground from the get-go.

You might be the Roulette champion, you might even be the eventual future of this company- in which case, may Cthulhu have mercy upon our souls- however when it comes down to it?
You’re little more than collateral damage- another broken doll littered among the many that leads towards a final resolution, a final Rapture if you will.

You aren’t Masque, Ariana. However, if you try to invoke her name, as though saying it three times in a mirror might somehow protect you from what Sunday surely brings… Then expect that I will have no hesitation in treating you as though you were.

Abigayle. I’m waiting, patiently I might add, and I’d hate for you to get shy on me now…

After all, we’ve got so much more to show the world of the Rapture cause there really are so many things far worse than death…”

“Let me tell you this: if you meet a loner, no matter what they tell you, it's not because they enjoy solitude. It's because they have tried to blend into the world before, and people continue to disappoint them.”
― Jodi Picoult, My Sister's Keeper




Undisclosed Cafe
Heraklion, Crete
15.04.2022
7:56am




“Could this be any more idyllic?”

With a faded rhetoric, running a hand back through the scarlet mane that seemed to relish the sea-salted air, Amber Ryan sighed contentedly as the aroma of dark roasted coffee and the faint yet ever-present rush of water racing up the beach edge seemed to satiate the usually stormy demeanour of the former World Bombshells champion.

Perhaps even just seeing the redhead out among the living was enough of a shock to most, usually holed up in a hotel room until absolutely necessary to leave – usually in a dark hoodie and jeans somehow always half a size too big – to see her out and about in a social capacity would have been considered jarring.

No, the Amber of the ring was a separate entity to the one that existed beyond it. Apathetic and unrelenting, the world had come to regard her as a woman willing to dominate any spotlight she might be afforded. Outside of it, she actively avoided socialisation unless mandated, blending in by standing out just enough that her visage might be too much to remember. A shock of red against a swathe of black swallowing her whole. There were hordes born of hell that were likely more approachable.

Amber passed a glance from behind her sunglasses to her left, acknowledging as it was curious. Beside her, SCW Talent Relations aficionado and unofficial ‘get out of trouble’ moderator Cassiopeia Mearns swallowed uncomfortably. Sitting up a little too straight to be natural, posture correct to the point of being physically painful to witness, she regarded the redhead politely, however said nothing outwardly in agreement.

“Honestly, I sometimes forget how much of the world there really is beyond a wrestling ring… We’re so busy going out there and killing ourselves night after night and yet there's all of this…”

Gesturing vaguely, with a little too much flourish to be deliberate, Amber slumped a little back into her chair. Stark white buildings seemed to capture the morning sun, causing them to give off an ethereal glow as though this were a place touched by the keepers of Olympus. Even Amber somehow managed to find it within herself to follow suit, as her slightly wrinkled plain white t-shirt made her scattered freckles almost frolic across her skin.

So used to the garish fluorescence of Vegas and its counterpart rip-offs, Amber bathed in the natural glow. Living by night had seen many wrestlers become almost nocturnal by nature, the kiss of sunlight almost as foreign as a night without restlessness or a morning waking up without pain. Unheard of, really.

Cassie’s silence seemed to touch an unseen nerve though, a static almost crackling between them that neither wanted to be the first to acknowledge. Everything so placid and tranquil, like a souvenir postcard in a gift shop marking up just in time for tourist season. Everything so… perfect. It was no wonder that Amber couldn’t help but break it.

“Alright… I give. Tried to do the whole small talk thing, tried to be conversational. Cassie, come on. What's up – what kinda PR mess have I made now that's got you so on edge? I mean seriously, I can feel it from here.”

Amber didn’t bother looking in the younger blonde's direction as she spoke – the rustling of Cassie's sundress as it fell around her knees becoming the only thing that might have touched the silence as it fell between them again. Casual yet scathing, like sarcasm had been framed and thrown into an exhibit as parody and taken as gospel.

“Don’t make me– ”

“You told me you were going to handle things with Masque.”

Amber trailed off before the smaller blonde interjected with an uncharacteristic bluntness, almost shrinking back in her seat a little as realisation washed over. In response though, Amber returned a brief, light hearted chuckle.

“Ah…”

“Yeah. Ah.”

Adjusting her t-shirt sleeve absent-mindedly, Amber thoughtfully considered the moment.

“Let me ask you a question–”

“Miss Ryan, if you are going to try and tell–”

Putting up a finger towards Cassie, Amber’s stare hardened and even through the lens of a cheap pair of airport sunglasses, it hit home far harder than it probably needed to, while Cassie settled back uncomfortably. Amber didn’t mean to be so… ‘Amber’ however sometimes things needed to be said, justifications and reasoning still had their place even in their chosen barbaric societal structures.

“Now, now. Let me finish… Has she done anything untoward since?”

It was an honest question laced within the depths of a minefield, unanswerable without setting off a chain reaction of potential responses as though they’d been rehearsed. Both of them knew, perhaps even before the question had fallen out limply between them and yet, they both indulged freely as though testing for whose legs might give out first.

“You mean aside from what's going to happen in that upcoming match with poor Miss Benton? Or any one of the previous … Can I even call them 'matches'? Feels like that gives it too much leeway as something controlled. Did you see her out there …”

With a dismissive wave, Amber replied ineffectually.

“Towards you, Cassie.”

“I don’t think that embrace actually changed–-”

“Has she---”

Silence for a few moments. Three attempts at forming the words with uncertain lips.

“No.”

Firmly, perhaps frustrated enough to see that the circular nature of their discussion was going nowhere fast, Cassie clasped her fingers together as though determinedly trying to somehow impose on Amber. Amber, however, didn't seem to notice as she idly picked at some stray threads that pulled from the rip towards the knee of her jeans.

“Precisely. So therefore… It is handled.”

Amber could see Cassie’s perspective freely, it was one that she’d held for the longest time. Even now the faint rustle of a 5 year old flyer from the last Boardwalk Wrestling event still folded poorly in her pocket carried that weight of expectation. She understood that from any outside perspective it might have looked like – perhaps as an exaggeration – that Amber had finally lost her fucking mind.

There was more to it than that though, however trying to explain it would never amount to more than disapproving and doubtful stares. Iit was no real secret that Amber and Masque had been at odds for the longest time. Opposing forces fighting for what they believed was right and true, neither willing to give ground, but not willing to advance for fear of reprisal either.

No, things had changed dramatically. Whether Cassie realised, or chose to believe it or not.

Their embrace had cemented a new level of trust between them – as uneasy as the foundation truthfully was. Hell, it left a burning sensation in her chest and a faint bitterness on the back of her tongue when Amber came to realize that she was actively defending Masque in spite of their history.

However, what was easily forgotten by those who chose to manipulate history for their own legacies was that from the moment she returned, to the moment the title was lost… Masque was the only one who didn’t treat the redhead as a victim of her own circumstances. That didn’t think she was losing her goddamn mind on a weekly basis for a trinket.

Throughout everything – for better or worse – Masque was the only one who never treated Amber any different whether she was champion or not. As a person, Amber was given total freedom without fear of judgement and in return perhaps Masque was one of the few who understood how much would need to be destroyed of the Vegas lights, leaving them to bleed sanguine fluorescence all over their best intentions, before they could be rebuilt. Before they could be made resplendent.

“Besides…”

Amber included thoughtfully, whilst trying to sift out all the bile and vitriol that had collected in her tone.

“By proxy, you signed up for all of this. The good, the bad and the criminally insane. You made that decision, so don’t you owe it to yourself to see it out?”

Reaching across the table and using a cursory glance for guidance, Amber rested a hand on Cassie’s forearm, the scars she knew were there hidden underneath a loose, billowing sleeve  as the younger woman flinched reflexively beneath her touch.

“... And furthermore, Miss Mearns.”

A little sarcasm crept in as Amber arched her back in a stretch that cracked and popped, as vertebrae seemed to shift and groan beneath the strain.

“Who else would be as willing to save me from my own terrible decision making… Honestly Cassie, I really don’t know what I’d have done without you in the last few months. Probably gone to jail in all likelihood. I doubt Christian likes me quite enough to be bailing me out everytime something minorly inconveniences me.”

Another offhanded chuckle, this one though didn’t pull nearly as intensely between her ribs. Genuine as she might muster, the half smile cracked through the freckled glacial facade that Amber otherwise wielded constantly. If nothing else, she hoped to put Cassie at ease, even if Amber herself wasn’t entirely convinced of the words that tumbled forth so freely.

“Look, believe it or not… While I’m around, Masque can’t nor will do you any harm. I promise…”

Amber found the words falling heavily before she could do anything to stop them. An avalanche of syllables she hadn’t anticipated bringing the whole damn mountain on top of her already overloaded expectations. Cassie either didn’t register, or was too polite to make mention of the way Amber’s smile seemed to flicker uncomfortably before falling into something distinctly less emotive.

It wasn’t any less true though, Amber quietly admitted. She had no intention of letting Masque claim yet another Flower Girl Named After The Stars – even if this one had far less dirt collected under her nails.




******



“You’re gonna think I’ve gone mad.

Maybe you already think I am. Isn’t that quite the little paradox?

… but I saw the strangest thing today. Jigsaw puzzle pieces just scattered in the dirt, as though someone had dutifully taken a box and just scattered it's cardboard contents out into the universe. Imagine it Levana, a thousand pieces of nothing, meaningless as singular potentials just laying there begging to be made whole. Made tangible.

What struck me was that all the pieces were there… the wind hadn’t moved them, there wasn’t a corner nibbled or a handful of pieces left laying just beyond sight. No, everything that was required to make it worthwhile was right there.

And no one had touched it. I wonder how many had walked by and thought that it was too much trouble just cause it was a little dirty, a bit scattered- but otherwise close enough to whole that all it needed was time…

That's the trouble with what we do Levana, all we’ve got is time and yet it's our fucking worst enemy. Everything we do is predicated on it, our worth is measured by it to a degree- hell, if you speak to Jessie Salco and Mercedes Vargas they’ll tell you that longevity is the key to making your name.
Maybe if you’re content with mopping up the dregs of curtain jerkers, then you’d be inclined to believe them.
Others believe that everything has to be achieved fast- burn bright and burn out, no slow embers here… You show up for your 15 minutes and hope it was long enough that people don’t forget you as soon as the next face makes their way on stage.

Time is a cruel mistress cause a lot of stake is put into it.

It means absolutely nothing- yet here we are still running out of it.

That's where you are right now, I suppose. At the end of your fucking tether looking for a sacred minute to remind people you really weren’t just the flash in the pan that people are making you out to be. You weren’t just that hot little minute in the Blast From The Past coasting at the side of someone who wanted it just a little more. You weren’t just another fireball trying to turn everything around you to cinder in hopes that destruction was the key to memorium.

Don’t get me wrong- I recognize someone with a fire in their belly. One that might threaten to consume them if they allow it to, those fearsome embers that you keep stoking in hopes someone might be the fuel to your flame. Tell me though, are you willing to let it consume you- or do you stay your hand for fear that consequence might take more than it gives in this case?
After all, they say patience is a virtue  but the clocks are ticking and we’ve already come to prove that time isn’t exactly on your side. How many more, with less resilience and less passion than you, are going to pull ahead before you decide to stop waiting to be lit up. How many more breakdowns and falters at the first major hurdle will it take to send someone already teetering on the edge of humanity and reason off the edge like a shot cause falling feels better than standing still, cause at least you’re going somewhere.

From where you were- to where you are now… What little you can pull together and call a career has become a case of plausible deniability.

What I wanna know was where the fuck you have been… Hi there, little girl. I’m looking for the bad bitch who came at me with a venomous diatribe laced with as many obscenities as there were harsh and ineloquent truths from a perspective that needed a voice. I’m looking for the woman who saw everyone shying away and decided that she didn’t give a fuck, that her life had been rendered enough of a forfeit that what she said didn’t matter- only that it needed to be said.
I’m looking for the woman who showed up on my fucking doorstep, when I begged for anyone to just show me a spark- you came and set my goddamn house ablaze. There were no underdogs between us, no deja vu of every other challenger who declared themselves defeated before stepping across the line I had drawn.

See, that Levana Cade came for me in a dark time when I was faced with a flurry of sympathy pleas and mercies unbecoming of the mouths they spewed from. In one moment they’d stake their claim and as soon as I gave them my attention, they wilted and retracted their virulence. You came at me with both barrels- a machine gun fire of brutal and frankly toxic honesty… and I fucking revelled in it. I came away from that match with you sporting a black eye and wanting more.

So tell me, sweet girl… if you see that woman around sometime soon, can you let her know that I’m looking for her cause I think I have something I wanna say to her.

I wanna tell her… that I respect the ever living fuck out of her.

Well, I did.

That's just time I suppose, maybe someone dulled a little of your garish shine. Burning a little too bright to be comfortable, turned down a notch for palatability like you ever really cared about that. Listen to me, talking like I know you… like I get where you’re from.
News flash sweetheart- this might not be a cookie cutter mold, but you sure as fuck aren’t the first person totry and give as few fucks as phsyically possible.

I won’t pretend that you don’t remind me a little of Evie Jordan. That you resemble some of what used to look back at me in the mirror. I get it- you probably hate everything and everyone, you think you should be in a far better place. That you’ve earned better, deserve better- publicly.
Outside the spotlight though, when the cameras stop rolling- the truth is you feel like this isn’t your success earned, that you haven’t done nearly enough to get this kinda attention. You wanna slink back into the shadows while telling everyone how resentful you are of them being cast.
By all means tell me I’m wrong, but accept that I’m right.

No longer are you this unknown quantity diving head first into the mire, no you’ve been in deep water for a little while now and still you keep forgetting how easily hell continues to freeze over. Maybe you’re not the open book you’re made out to be, but I know you aren’t nearly the enigma radiating an aura of un-fucking -touchable… cause lets be real.

Darling, you are very fucking touchable…

… That's why you ended up here.”


******



Bane Household
Las Vegas, ND
21.04.2022
10:29am



If you didn’t know otherwise, it would have been easy to assume that the relationship between Amber and Mac was perfect.

Even down to the way that Amber softly padded around the kitchen of a morning, bare feet almost skimming the floor as the heady aroma of coffee filled every space between them. Mac smiled as he sat at the counter, watching as she drifted like the lovely ghost of a hurricane finally bringing calmer winds to their home.
Under every illusion, it would have been easy to assume that nothing had ever been wrong between them- that the silence was simply an everyday comfort and the flashes of quiet smiles and furtive glances when they thought the other wasn’t looking- just a continued courtship.

It had been a little over a year since they’d gotten married now, the anniversary ticking over somewhere above international waters as they flew back from Greece. Briefly the discussion had been about staying a few extra days but business always demanded their time, Mac being World champion meant he’d made commitments long in advance and Amber- for the first time in a very long time… had time to kill.

“You know, it's been way too long.”

Amber quirked an eyebrow as the mug touched the countertop with a soft clink. Pushed across gently while the contents lapped at the edges.

“Since what, precisely?”

Taking a seat across, Amber’s lithe frame seemed dwarfed by Mac’s- even while seated. Somehow though, they struck a easy balance as Amber’s natural projected aura made her just as 6’6 and intimidating as her husband, even in spite of the gentle knowing smile he wore.

“Since we just sat down and didn’t have to rush off to see anyone or do anything… Probably been months since one of us wasn’t rushing to get out the door for one reason or another.”

Along the front verandah, Couyon lazily wandered through the door. Bear sized paws thumped along the floor, tongue lolling contentedly as he sidled up beside Mac for an ear scratch. Amber made a face towards the dog, who’d initially been hers, mouthing the word ‘traitor’ before resigning herself back towards her own coffee.

“I dunno Red, feels like we never get to just talk anymore.”

“That's because usually---”

Amber trailed off as she sipped from the mug, trying to avoid the chip at the rim. Perhaps it was easier to simply let the rest of the statement hang than force into a confrontation, perhaps she was somehow learning that not everything was determined to be an argument. A lesson still in progress.

“Yeah. I know darling. I know.”

More silence as Couyon panted happily, sitting against Mac’s leg.

“I have to say Red, that Mr McCrae seems like a nice enough guy. A lot nicer than the people who’ve been showing up on our doorstep in recent memory.”

Amber bit the inside of her cheek, swallowing the knee jerk response. She knew what Mac was trying to do- open some doors, break down some walls. Marriage wasn’t supposed to be built on a foundation determinedly left under shadows and tarpaulin- Mac was as open as anyone might be, his past laid bare with all it's good and bad free to be flipped through at leisure.
Amber didn’t feel as easily about exposing the underbelly of her background- not that Mac wouldn;t love her as unconditionally otherwise, but because it had already proven willing to try and cost them everything if she spoke the wrong syllable it seemed.

They’d lost almost everything because of her unwillingness to speak, as easily as they’d almost lost everything because she was too willing to vent.

“Reverend McCrae.”

Amber corrected thoughtfully, trying to pick through the mess of sounds that wanted to explode from her lips. Something twinged inside as she tried to swallow the response, a sense of deja vu like cold water splashed against the inside of her chest.

“Yeah, he’s certainly someone… A man with few problems and almost infinite reasons to solve them.”

Distractedly, perhaps in hopes of deflecting, Amber gently shifted the mug along the counter top between her hands.

“Normally I’d agree with you, however a man like that doesn’t just offer something for nothing… as charitable sort he might be. I just need to know if this is someone we can actually… I dunno… have faith in to do everything he says and what it might potentially cost us.
You know the man obviously better than I do Red, so the question is… is it worth it?”

Bluntly, it was a brave move to step so confidently into the minefield of Amber’s psyche. Each step threatening to be the one that left them in a place of irreparable conflict. Mac didn’t just want a yes or no answer, as much as Amber would have like to keep her response to something monosyllabic.
After everything, perhaps she owed Mac a little more than a vague shrug and a non-committal half truth. Besides- what was the worst that could come of it?

“He’s a man of his word Mac. Guy like that doesn’t get his fingers that deep into things while maintaining a shiny white exterior without being potentially willing to follow through on everything.
Personally, I don’t know him as well… our relationship I suppose was business. Dominic and I…”

Amber paused harshly, the taste of Dominic’s name on her tongue bringing her to a screeching halt. Gasoline fumes and ash. Choking. Smothering. God, how was she still so vividly able to feel that what on her skin…

“... We, uh, we did some work for him. Was supposed to be a step up- you know?
Young and ambitious, I was just happy to be making some real money instead of chasing down people for loans they were never able to afford. McCrae told us it would be more ‘honest’ work, at least on the surface, a more legitimate way to make our names and expand our contacts. Mutual benefits.”

Flashes of memories flooded through as Amber’s expression drifted further away, her eyes dulling as she rolled further back through the years.

“As you can imagine though, it wasn’t enough for Dominic. He wasn;t prepared to just be an underling, despite the fact we were making more in a day than I was making in months in the ring… So he started skimming off payments, using connections to get a hook into ‘clients’ that might have been inclined to do more private business with a ‘friendlier’ face.
Dominic Del Gado got greedy, shock and fucking horror…”

Amber’s fingers drummed against the countertop reflexively, the nervous energy building in a way that she couldn’t express. Mac simply watched on pensively, each word like it's own smaller tale, filling the gaps left between her pauses.

“McCrae told me that I should leave him… that Dominic’s actions had consequences and that I shouldn’t be brought down because of them. Just walk away and don’t look back.”

Scoffing slightly at the memory of her younger self, Amber gave Mac a knowing look that explained what came next without ever saying a word, before she continued.

“It's funny, cause I thought I was in love. I thought that I might actually be able to earn my way into being loved. God, I was young, blind and stupid. I tried to break things off instead of just leaving… like I fucking owed him anything of the sort.”

Something wells at the edge of Amber’s eye but she swiped it away before it ever gets the chance to trace down her cheek. Fury and hurt still radiating after years gone by.

“McCrae wanted to show that actions had consequences. He would have done just that, but Dominic was a brazen coward and left me to his fate. That's when I finally called things off for good.”

Swallowing hard, Amber took a moment to allow everything to process. Perhaps the openness being the first sign of willingness to heal. To change. To be better. Mac’s hand left Couyon’s head, much to the Cane Corsos annoyance and came to rest on Amber’s fidgeting hand- stilling it with a touch.

“Alistair McCrae is a man of his word as much as he’s a man of God, Mac. However that doesn’t mean his hands aren’t stained by just the bread and wine of communion. Whatever he thinks he wants- it's something that he can’t do himself.
As much as I don’t want to put us in that position, I know that the garage might become a project we never find the time to finish.”

Mac squeezed her hand gently, knowing that they’d both made their decision long before the conversation ever started.

“Just the idea of being in love makes us all do really stupid fucking things, Mac. Makes us choose the worst decisions by justifying that theres something there at the end unconditionally… It's the consequences though, that determine whether it was ever really worth it.”




******




“I won’t sit here and pretend you’re stupid enough to believe that things haven’t changed since we last faced.

I can’t pretend like I haven’t been adrift, lost in space recently.
I mean, after all, I lost the title right? The one thing that made me unstoppable… Well, you’d also be pretty fucking dumb to believe that I wasn;t already that before I had the belt- but honestly wonders never cease to amaze me around here.
You’re a smart enough girl Levana, I like to think you aren’t jaded enough by your own failures to start pretending as though you’re still worth a fuck when your win loss record starts looking like a bingo call sheet… 35. 77. 12.

Yahtzee!

I won’t sit here and tell you that I lost and everything was fine. That would make me a liar and frankly- there are more than enough people already lying to themselves around here without me perpetuating the cycle. No, Levana… I went and I hit rock bottom as hard as I fucking could, cause the problem with the top is that theres no where left but down, only they never tell you that theres nothing to stop you inbetween.
No I went and I hit rock bottom, and you know… I’ll be damned if it didn’t start hitting me back.

Tell me, do you feel lucky to find me so low?
Such a grand opportunity to just step across my backbone while I’m still pulling my face out of the dirt, I’d hate for you to simply let it pass you by.
No, Levana… don’t you feel lucky yet? This is your chance, hell I am GIVING you this chance. Do something with it, just anything instead of leaving it pathetically bleeding all over the floor cause some poor bastard just cleaned this carpet.

Really, you shouldn’t… You shouldn’t feel it at all.

Cause luck abandoned people like us long ago.

We didn’t get here cause the universe wanted us to. We both have something to prove to each other after all… Many will say that I haven’t anything to prove to someone whose greatest achievements have all come from winning via proximity, like lions aren’t supposed to care about the opinions of sheep.
You and I though, we aren;t the feline type chasing the end of our nine lives just to see if it really lives up to all the hype- no, we’re all teeth and claws fuelled by a burrowing void that determinedly eats any goodness we might inadvertently attract.
We are poison Levana, and you’d do damn well to remember that fact. Bloodstained and furious at a world that told us we didn’t belong, splattered in crimson derision the moment we tried to be something that wasn;t preordained.

Only you seemed to forget that you have to break through the ice as it tries to close you in, not wait to become irreparable numb.

By all means though, you go ahead and make note of my failure to continue reigning long enough for you to try and challenge- like I was planning on being World Champion when I was 62 years old and you decided to finally get your shit together.
Maybe you’ll say I was simply unfit to last that long, maybe you’ll say I just ran out of gas as though the tank wasn’t already dry two months earlier. Maybe you’ll tell me how you expect Roxi to be as disappointing as predicted despite being the lesser of two evils, cause lord knows the Myra Rivers ‘redemption tour’ is on it's fifteenth lap with no signs of slowing down.
You won’t, though, try and tell me that Roxi was the better woman… cause we both know that I’m still the fucking Queenpin of Sin City, and anyone who walks out of Into The Void as champion simply has the belt on loan.

That's the beautiful thing you see, I’m as irredeemable as I am dominant with or without MY title. I can still reign as Queenpin without a crown and sceptre to mark my rule- that locker room knows me better than anyone who might challenge in my stead. All those champions look over their shoulder for me, not the other way around.
Only thing that's changed really is I can no longer just drape some gold over the massive fucking chip on my shoulder and pass it off as a side effect of success. I’m still the top of the mountain, they just lowered the bar of entry- I built that world title mountain for everyone else to climb and you’re still trying to lace up your spiky boots.

Please do tell me how I was supposed to just roll over for you though like a loss on my record wouldn’t matter. I built this Queendom, but that doesn’t entitle every goddamn stray to take a bite off my plate.
Granted it's really easy to throw shade when you’re always sitting in the dark, but it's a damn sight harder when the spotlight is on and all of a sudden you’re struggling for something meaningful to say.
Granted this time around I don’t have a title to offer you, but allow me to stand yb and bare my throat- truth is Levana, I’ve done it so many times now that the idea of someone actually taking a bite is laughable and yet, you won’t hesitate… not because you think you can bring me down, but because you HAVE to attack. You have to continually be on the offensive otherwise the absolute drivel you sputter otherwise won’t mean a fucking thing.

You have to go out there and back up every syllable, Levana.

Otherwise you’re just another tough bitch with a big mouth and no fucking teeth left.

Yeah, congrats… You got my attention. Just a real shame you have no fucking idea what to do with it…

That's the thing isn’t it?

You need it, to say you had it. You mean more cause of what I’m doing. I mean we live and breathe in an industry that rewards self-sacrifice and selfishness equally. You have to be bigger than everyone else, but you need those around you to make you into that person to begin with.
Hell, we thrive in an industry where dying in that ring is almost as aspirational as getting a gold watch for 20+ years of hard service- as abhorrent as it is, it's something we’ve all considered at least once. We’re out there night after night Levana borrowing time, borrowing successes and borrowing our names.

Come Sunday Levana, I’m gonna change your perspective cause you think you understand this industry… Why, cause you know pain and you know hate so intimately you may as well let them live rent free. You understand the way people tick when they don’t tock and how their insides are just as filthy when they are exposed to the light. However you understand so much more little than you realize- the world might be a cruel mistress, but she’s yet to really show you what she’s capable of when you actually start giving a fuck about who you are.

You’re young and pretty, a lifetime of potential ahead despite how dim you think the lights are- and maybe if you stick it out, you’ll get left with a souvenir at the end of it all, if you’re lucky. A moment of glory that flickers between the concussions, a fleeting memory of that one point when you were finally everything you thought you deserved- and be damned if you don’t cling to it for dear life cause it justifies your existence.
It makes all this misery and horror worthwhile regardless of everything else in your life telling you otherwise.

You have everything you could ever desire at your fingertips… and to watch you just dither it all away cause you’re too pissed off about nothing to think straight.

Maybe you’re just finding your feet, taking all the bad streets to get there. Self sabotage. Addiction. Sacrifice. Eventually you just put on a face and tell everyone that's the best they are getting… except you’re tracing a little close to the line of apathy and frankly that's just gimmick infringement so maybe stay the fuck off my lawn, child.

In the end Levana, we aren’t just beautiful and fragile things to be broken by someone else's carelessness. We are the broken things passing themselves off as whole to the wrong people and expecting validation for simply still being.

You are just like me…

… and I’m going to prove to you why that's the worst possible thing you could have chosen.”

“There are words to describe her, my dear, but one does not repeat them in polite company.”
― Gail Carriger, Soulless




Somewhere in the Suburbs
Phoenix, AZ
22.01.1999
8:42pm




“Looks like it might rain, huh?”

World weary and traipsing into the ninth hour of what was shaping up to be another eleven hour shift, Officer Chris Waterson furrowed his brow softly as he caught sight of the 11 year old redhead in the back of the cruiser. A smattering of freckles across her nose crinkled as she vaguely acknowledged hearing him, busy staring out the window towards an overcast sky that had been threatening a downpour since the early afternoon. Young Miss Amber Ryan had become no stranger to Officer Waterson, this might have been the third time in the past two weeks that the impish pre-teen had found her way into the back of his car. Probably more than eight or nine in the last two months since she’d been taken in as the newest transient taken in by the Russels and their determination to help fix all the ‘broken children’ they could.

Good people, he mused as the cruiser rolled underneath the garish glow of the street light overhead, a little too over ambitious perhaps though. Especially this time. It wasn’t that she was a bad kid- smart and funny with a wicked little smile that kept everyone guessing. Mischievous beyond comprehension, but with a good heart and better intentions that seemed to carry her a little… wayward. Just another troubled kid having trouble settling into a family that wasn’t hers…Nights like this made him wish he hadn't seen it a hundred times before.

He saw none of that in her this evening though, a little more dishevelled than usual and sporting a black eye that was blooming into deep purples and shaded outline of sickly green. Blood splattered the front of her school uniform, but the safe presumption was that it wasn’t hers. Not a mark outside what appeared to be a lucky shot that managed to catch her flush- lithe and lean, she'd heard rumours from other officers that she was a wonder to watch in full flight, although he doubted his sense of professionalism would ever allow himself the honour of letting it occur.
Since getting picked up nearby the 7/11 near the school, loitering on the curb with a half eaten chocolate bar by the time he was called by the clerk, she hadn't said so much of a word. Witty banter and acerbic commentary on his choice of music had died in her throat long before she slipped into those familiar, worn back seats.

“I’m willing to bet that you got the better end of that deal.”

Smiling thoughtfully, Officer Waterson glanced into his rearview in hopes of eliciting something from the redhead who seemed far deeper in thought than many 11 year olds that he’d come across before. Amber didn’t feel the need to respond, the idea of trying to justify herself more than she knew she’d already have to, was exhausting. What was she even supposed to say- she’d watched her ‘new’ sister get humiliated by girls in her year, one above Amber’s, day after day and was always told to leave it alone.
Teachers would say they’d handle it and nothing else would get said, retaliation frowned upon far more severely than the provocation, a three vs one somehow not justifying anything more than a stern word and finger waggle.

Amber had witnessed it today, like they’d staged it for her benefit. Humiliating Heather Russell in the cafeteria to the point she broke down into tears and disappeared into the bathrooms, stealing her lunch money in view of staff and having a blind eye turned when it was too inconvenient to step in. Too much effort for what would ultimately amount to a slap on the wrist.
Heather would never tell her parents, despite the people they were- fundamentally good and looking to make a difference in the world, oddly oblivious to their daughters withdrawl at the mention of school and the existential dread in her eyes at the thought of having to face another day.

Amber would never be able to explain how she confronted those girls on the way to the 7/11 where she knew they liked to hang out, acting as though wandering the streets gave them special rights. Like the world owed them something. It almost brought a smile to her face when Amber realised they’d probably never even made a fist before, not one they’d ever been willing to throw anyway…
It was over in a matter of minutes, all three of them huddled and humiliated as one cradled her bloody nose, another clutching at her face where a fractured eye socket would surely underlie while the third carried the emotional trauma of having witnessed their consequences come to light.
What they’d wrought, exploding forth in a flurry of fury and red.

Some may have considered it overkill, that an apology might have been enough to satiate. Bloodlust wasn’t an answer to problems ,they’d surely tell Amber later on- as always, but it sure stopped the problems from continuing to be so. Peace of mind was worth some bloody knuckles and the notion of good intentions paid for by the skin of her own back seemed like a fair trade.
Thing was, no one would care about the reason once they saw the result- tunnel vision of the outcome would sully the belief of claims that this was earned. That it was thoroughly deserved.

Somehow sending a message didn’t seem to register as clearly once the ink ran a little too red.

At 11 years old though, Amber didn’t care. She’d tried to protect her sister, to tell the world that things weren’t nearly as okay as they seemed. How was she supposed to understand that there was one rule for some and another for everyone else, that retribution only seemed justified when it was for the favour of a majority- that people were willing to overlook gratuitous violence and acts of erraticism until they found themselves touched by the resultant ripples.
How come it was alright for others to act out, but when she did it was considered ‘dangerous’?

Slowing to a halt, Amber rocked in her seat following the inertia of the car. Seat belt straining as she unclipped silently, unwilling to make eye contact as Officer Waterson turned from the drivers side to face her briefly.

“You know, the Russells… They are really good people- maybe give them a bit of a break, yeah?”

Briefly silhouetted in the doorway- Mrs Russel was across the verandah and halfway across the lawn, crunching noisily across leaves not yet raked, by the time Officer waterson had gotten around to open Amber’s door.

“Oh, thank you so much again Officer. I’m sorry she’s been so much trouble recently.”

A brief knowing glance of disappointment muddled with concern was shot towards Amber as she lingered on the edge of the car seat.

“It's no trouble at all, she’s a good kid really…”

Taking the redhead's face in her hand, Mrs Russell immediately zoned in on the black eye and opened her mouth to question it- the maternal fire lit under her in a matter of moments, however Officer Waterson picked up on it before the sound ever escaped and quickly moved in to deflect.

“... Just got into a bit of a scrape. Young Amber here was just trying to do good in her own way, I'm sure.”

A courteous smile followed a wink, however Amber paid little attention. Another figure, silhouetted in the door albeit briefly blotted out by the appearance of Mr Russell making his way towards the cruiser, watched on from a distance. Heather Russell still in uniform, almost serene with initial confusion and eventual recognition before what appeared to be the first signs of a genuine smile that Amber had witnessed in what felt like weeks crossed her features.

There would be consequences no doubt, but for once… maybe they were actually worth it.




******




“It must be really fucking exhausting being a doormat.

Hell, don’t even get me started trying to imagine the absolute garbage that you allow on a daily basis, surrounding yourself with people who just actively let you run your mouth about being a mediocre champion busy tallying her days instead of actually making them mean something. Without fail, you bend to the whims of those who speak louder as though you gave away your personality for a shred of talent and a guaranteed fifteen minutes.

Never lasts long enough, does it?

You get that taste for it, get a little cocky and you start to crave more- it’s your downfall though, it's always your downfall cause soon you start biting off more than you can chew and you start to choke cause be damned if anyone thinks you can't handle your own. You get a little too big for your boots and eventually someone comes along wearing them better and stomps your face through the floor.
It's astonishing how far you’ve come when your greatest attribute is being a fucking sock puppet, constantly enabled and told how great you’re doing when all you’ve managed was… hang on, let me check my notes.

You beat Char Kwan.

That's the accomplishment you wanted to throw in my face?

In your big, bad moment facing down the Queenpin, you bring up how you scraped by beating some literal nobody camped out in catering and earning her dime for taking a licking to validate what little prestige you’d built. Yeah, wow… I’m impressed, Krystal.
Great fucking job- you found a book on generic badassery in the library and wrote the notes on your hand, better recite them word for word or you’ll look like you haven’t worked hard enough on making that impression. I’ll be honest though, I might have missed my cue to be nervous so feel free to give me the prompt as needed cause frankly, it's been awhile since I’ve been worried about being morally brow beaten to death.

Here’s the thing Krystal, if you’re going to try and look down on me… try finding some moral high ground first.

Do you think being some ‘avenging angel’ changes anything? Showing up far too late to make a difference and actively standing by until you picked the right ‘cool moment’ to step up into my face.
I warned Carter that actions had consequences- I never specified they would be directly towards him, that's the thing with consequences though Krystal… It's a butterfly effect. What you say and do affects others, a butterfly beats its wings in the amazon forest and because of that a rookie’s groupie takes an L cause their ‘friends' were too busy swerving into the wrong lane of traffic.

Yeah, instead of realising the magnitude of the mistake- you encouraged the hole to be dug deeper, you CHOSE to insert yourself into something that had nothing to do with you- why, cause you saw the opportunity for a rub and just had to get yourself some?
Ha, no… this is something else. This is bitterness, an unwillingness to accept that you fucked up and that you continue to keep fucking up like accoutnability no longer applies to you. All of this is a manifestation of you trying to foolishly rationalise just how you lost the title and you’re determined to make sure everyone else happens to be as fucking hopeless as you.

You’re looking for someone to blame, and coincidentally  you and the mirror have just had a sudden falling out.

You’re angry and I get that, but honey… I’m not the complaints department- that's out the back of the building and labelled as Las Vegas Waste Control. I’m not your therapist, but be damned if I won’t get paid like one for having to listen to far less.
No, I’m the World Chmapion who is fucking sick and tired of having everything she does put under a microscope by people not qualified to be overanalysing the genetic makeup of their own warm puddle of piss.

Please, do go ahead and humour me… Tell me during which of those 200+ days of your reign were you entrusted with the gift and responsibility of judging me. What the fuck have you done to earn the right to look at anything I’ve done to get where I am and frown at it…
At the end of the day, former champion or not- you’re still a rookie, you’re still a goddamn child in this industry and while I usually have a pretty strict ‘no violence’ against children policy- for you sweetheart, I’m willing to offer up another one of those precious life lessons that I seem to be handing out to all the kids overstepping their fucking boundaries.

I’ve earned my place Krystal, make no mistake about it. Everything I did to earn this title and everything I’ve been willing to do to keep it- I’ve owned every second of it. That doesn't mean I’m proud, it doesn’t make me a good person- but it makes me the World Bombshells Champion and that's something I don’t ever expect you to fully understand.
I’ve never gone out there and told the world I was something I wasn’t. I’ve always been a professional until the option was no longer offered to me- say what you will, and you will, about my techniques but never forget how effective they are.

Until there comes a day that you can stand up of your own volition without one of your posse keeping their hand up your back, until there comes a day when you’ve done more than earn an eye roll at the possibility that you have an opinion about how I continue to handle my business- then might I suggest you get back in your box, you take that box and you throw it off the biggest bridge you can find.
You have no reason to be in a ring with me, no excuse to be standing there claiming you belong. You took 200+ days to make your title mean something, and even then it's only in losing that it became more prestigious…

Isn't that just the saddest part?

Most people don’t care about something until it's no longer theirs to care about. You had your chances to do better Krystal, you had every motivation to take a setback and make something of it- instead you use it as an excuse to jump at the first opportunity possible to do something fucking stupid cause ‘you’re emotional’.
No, you’re a fucking moron who thinks she’s automatically entitled to opportunities that aren't hers to claim and now you’re pissed cause the only people that agree are the ones who can do literally nothing about it.

You’re a fucking moron who thinks I’m just going to overlook her- another half baked idea that gives a bad name to potatoes. That I’m gonna take it easy cause Roxi is lurking on the horizon waiting to pick my championship bones clean.
Theres not one match I have overlooked or taken easy since before I won this belt- you might be delusional, but you aren't any different. Bella thought I would look past her on the way to Johanna, Johanna thought I would take her easily cause she was the proverbial ‘dark horse’ of Wolfslair, Mercedes thought that I’d gloss over her on my way to advancing in Blast From the Past…
Now you, you wanna sit there and tell me the same thing that I’ve heard for almost a year cause no one is willing to admit that they just don’t know how to beat me…

I’ve laid the groundwork, I left breadcrumbs spelling it out all along the way- still everyone thinks that they’re the underdogs, that they’ll be the ones to somehow sneak under my radar… 300+ days proves that I haven’t taken any of this as easy, that I’ve worked harder than anyone else on this roster, that I’ve never taken my foot off the accelerator when running down those who thought that I’d mercifully stop mowing down civilians.

There are no underdogs left, I’ve put a slug between all their eyes. There are no overachievers, they went and migrated to warmer climates cause hell froze over a little further than they liked. There are no good guys and badasses- they all went colourblind the moment I took the belt and did exactly as I said I would.
You’d never have been Roulette champion for as long as you were without me paving the way and showing what was possible, you’d never have been offered a contract beyond Blast From The Past last year if it weren’t for my name being across yours on the marquee.
I’ve taken everything that was possible for Bombshells in this company and I’ve tore the glass ceiling off, still you wanna cling to the walls cause taking a risk at being better is terrifying and somehow shitting where you eat is preferable if only cause you can’t exactly fuck that up.

I’m the reason you have a Climax Control main event. I’m the catalyst for everything you’ve accomplished, Krystal. It's about time you start recognizing all those who have laid that little easy going path that you’re so arrogantly proclaiming as a career.
I’m everything you aspire to be and now you think you hate me for it…

… and nothing has ever mattered to me any less.”




******




Bane Household
Las Vegas, ND
03.03.2022
7:09am




Amber had never expected to feel like a stranger in her own home.

Maybe it was because she’d made things that way- maybe it was because it rarely ever seemed to rain in Vegas. A myth appropriated by years of willful ignorance and subjective memories- people only ever remembered the harsh neons and perverse excess, lights and sounds creating such a sensory overload that something as simple as the change in weather might just be considered another illusory non sequitur.
It had been raining as she arrived, the mud caking onto the soles of her converses as she squelched slightly up the stairs- anticipating being knocked off her feet by a Cane Corso quickly followed by a handsome Texan.

Only Couyon was ‘on vacation’ with one of the garage employees and Mac was in Colorado likely trying to decompartmentalize days on end worth of Mikah complaining about the cold. Part of her was relieved, as she melted gently into her unspokenly assigned wicker chair on the front verandah, that there wouldn’t have to be a charade of awkwardness between them while they tried to sidestep each other's fragilities and stubbornness.
All it felt like they had done in recent memory was argue… but that couldn’t possibly be right, there had to have been more than that left.

Common ground that didn’t leave one of them trying to defend a position that had no traction left to sink their heels into.

Being world champion seemed to be it… and if that wasn’t the saddest fucking reality that she’d forced herself to come to grips with recently, then she wasn’t sure what else could be. Work had brought them together to begin with- at first as professional rivals, Mac had delivered Amber her first defeat upon returning to Carnage after injury in late 2017. Early the next year, Amber beat him to qualify for a world title match- not before dislocating her right shoulder twice for her trouble.

They’d gone on their first date mere weeks after that.

Bonding over a shared perspective that violence was a universal language, that some people would only ever understand when things were put to them in the most base and primal of terms. For some reason, there were those who only ever got the message, once the message was buried half a foot into their chest cavity as they sputtered for rhyme or reason.
That was always the thing- their shared brand of violence was never random, it was never simply for the sake of doing so. Gratuitous with purpose, otherwise it was doing for the sake of physically doing… because they could.

No, there was always a reason.

A justification that their actions meant something- even if it were frowned upon or deemed to be ‘too far’. Yet it was never too far when random acts of aggression were taken out on them, every verbal jab and unwarranted blow. Every chance to chip away at the armour when all they were doing was existing. In the face of an industry that rewarded bad behaviour cause action was equivalent to value, those acting impulsively were considered to be ‘above the societal rules’.
Be damned that their reasons were selfish, if otherwise nonexistent. Be damned if they made the conscious choice to involve themselves in business that never pertained to them and surely be damned if retaliation was taken against those aligned cause they were dragged into the firing line time and time again by another's obliviousness.

Amber had maintained a professional reputation throughout the years of being able to handle her own business- while those who complained about her ethics and morality only ever chose to do so when they found themselves in the crosshairs cause they couldn't blunder out of their own mistakes fast enough.
… and it was one of the few reasons, she was quietly sure, that Mac had fallen in love with her all that time ago.

These days, it might have been one of the only things keeping them together. A sheepish smile crept across her tired features- three hundred plus days of carrying a company on her back had left her chiropractor aghast on a regular basis, and had deepened the lines on her face to the point she was contemplating using them to store her keys and loose change cause women's clothing didn’t nearly have enough pockets.

Mac would have approved of her actions, of the way she’d ‘dealt’ with business. Perhaps, if he were here, he’d liken it to the Amber he remembered so fondly… the woman who’d have done anything to become World champion cause she believed she was good enough to earn it, to deserve it. Recalling the woman who still had enough humanity to pretend like she qualified for real feelings, that warranted being loved in spite of all the atrocities that had been stitched together to create her.
Many would have said what she did to Ariana was overkill, that bystanders didn’t deserve to be dragged through the flames for the indiscretions of those determined to ignore the continued existence of consequences.

Most of those people didn’t have a fucking clue.

Pulling her knees up in an attempt to shield from the cold that forced a flutter of rain beneath the cover, Amber shuddered while delicately cradling a cup of coffee between hands enveloped by the sleeve ends of a hoodie that likely belonged to Mac.
Even against the waft of coffee, she could still smell his scent… Heady and crisp, almost making her eyes water as it mingled with the slightly acrid bitterness of the black coffee still lazily swirling between her fingers. Yeah… it reminded her of the first wisp of frost in the morning after a spring rain and despite everything,  she couldn’t help breathing deep.

Still, it didn’t stop her being a monster. Or a hypocrite toting double standards. Or a marionette dancing at the end of someone else's soul threads… or whatever other insult that could be reasonably levied by anyone failing to rub together their own original take.
In another place and another time, she might have simply made an example of Carter himself- teaching the young star absolutely nothing except how to bounce back, to continue making the same mistakes cause his choices only directly impacted his own well being.
However the redheads patience had worn thin- the continued prodding at her frayed and fractured nerves, the near constant niggling of naysayers and delusional misnomers on social media determined to weasel their way into an opportunity beyond their station, the background noise that was so very determined to demand her attention by dancing on her frontal lobe while teasing an inevitable self-inflicted frontal lobotomy as the only way to fix anything.

… No. There would be no quarter given, no mercy rule applied. Consequences affected more than just those concerned, they were a ripple effect. Tsunamis weren’t just Mother Nature deciding to throw her weight around, they were a snowball effect of a disturbance to the equilibrium- no one ever fucking blamed the deep ocen tremor for their family being crushed by a wall of water.
Earthquakes weren’t the ground getting upset, the result of a shift in things that perhaps weren’t supposed to be messed with- yet no one ever held it against the deep earthen plates when their best friends were crushed by the rubble of a house they were told would protect them.

When it came to the blame game- those who eloquated most of revenge were usually the ones unwilling to accept that they had somehow brought part of this upon themselves. That their actions directly or indirectly lead to someone else being hurt by their decision…
Helluva Bottom Carter made his choice to seek repentance, to walk into SCW and piss all over the floor just to spite the person who was visiting - Krystal Wolfe had jumped in to defend that decision despite the fact she knew better, declaring that it was ‘okay’ cause Amber’s partner deserved it so it must have been fine for Amber to be caught in that crossfire.

As though the stupid fucking bitch knew what it was like to be collateral damage.

Amber’s career had been built off that foundation, that she’d amount to little more as a damage sponge. Another rookie just trying to find their place, stuck between the gnashing teeth of angry wolves determined to take a pound of flesh from wherever they could get it.
Krystal would never understand where Amber had come from, that she’d taken almost as many beatings on her way up simply for being booked as she had the ones she’d actively earned. No, Amber’s road into the industry had been caved in behind her… the path abolished as though it violated the fucking Geneva conventions.

She’d learn though, Amber contemplated as the rain surged through the gloom. Pattering against sand, stone and metal without prejudice. Eventually the storms would pass, the black clouds dissipating overhead- and everyone's double standards would reset to a default of praise and reverence until the realisation that hurricanes didn’t choose which houses to flatten finally sunk deeper than surface level.

Another deep breath rattled through Amber’s lungs as the indistinct beat of rain seemed to mimic the pulsating beat between her ribs, while another lungful of sentimentality and longing for something she’d desperately sought to cling to- despite her best efforts to sever every meaningful tie- left an tightening ache where she was sure her heart had resided before Mac had stolen it from the grips of her being.

She’d have given almost anything to make them all understand the way Mac did, that the justification was more than just because she could… but because of a promise she’d made to the Bombshells division when she became champion.

Be better. Do better.

Or else she’d fucking make them.



******



“At what point of time do you finally start to realise that maybe you’re the problem…

Is it when you have to start justifying yourself to ease the guilt in your chest that says you could have done more, or is it when you have to tear down the justifications of those around you so that yours don’t seem so unreasonable in comparison.
Krystal, honey… I won't pretend like I can’t commend you for coming to the unrequested aid of young Mr Carter when he found himself so hopelessly buried up to his neck in regards to the absolute piss poor effort he called ‘decision making’ HOWEVER that's not your cue to automatically assume that because I disagree… that I’m wrong.

I never defend my partners actions cause it wasn’t my place. I didn't automatically back him cause we were in  partnership cause I respect that his baggage and his business was in fact his own- so just the idea that you felt like you so wholeheartedly had to insert really demeans your relationship and shows that you don’t trust your posse to handle their business without your express approval.
I’ve no doubt Ari would have handled herself much better if you didn’t treat her like a fucking errand girl and instead gave her the ability to grow her own backbone instead of waiting to be assigned one.

I mean, at what point in your SCW tenure did someone say to you that you had the god given right and talent that you could start dictating to people?
Just cause they are rookies, didn’t mean you needed to fluff them up behind you so that you might look moderately important when all they really function as is jumped up meat shields that you purposely throw into the line of fire so you have a reason to get offended when something happens.
Like a mother bird tossing her babies out of the nest and getting pissed when a fox decides to come sniffing around- no, Krystal… you don’t get the right to be fucking pissed when it's essentially your fault that things got this far.

I warned Carter and I warned you. Stay in your fucking lane.

I told you to go cool your jets, pull your fucking head in and take a deep breath before trying to play the ‘heroics’ card… instead, you doubled down and decided that you were too important to be taught anything. That being Roulette champion for 200+ days somehow made you exempt from the consequences that everyone else has to face…
That you were in some way… special. That the conventions of the industry and the people within it no longer applied to you cause the number next to your title reign in the history books meant more than the ink it was printed with.

See, it's one thing to have faith in one's abilities and exude a level of professionalism… but it's another thing entirely to step outside naked and threaten to fight God cause you’re suffering through another minor inconvenience that's surely the end of existence. It's a fine line Krystal and one you decided to massively overstep on your way to becoming absolutely ludicrous and delusional about what you’re really worth in the grander scheme of things.
When it comes down to it- and whether you wanna admit it or not… You’re still a rookie, a moderately successful one, sure, but you’re still a little wet behind the ears and soft around the top of your head. You’re still getting a lay of the land cause you’ve never really strayed from where the light of the kingdom touches…

You’re still learning that success doesn't change the way your behaviours are perceived, the way you’re so thoroughly enabled by those around you. After all, they just want you to do better… and at every given opportunity you fail to do so, cause you think you already are.
Actions never stopped having consequences Krystal- I mean, do you really think going and training with Team Hero changes the absolute bloodbath that I’m choosing to enact cause my patience has worn through to the point that my better nature is tattered and raw. Do you think that Roxi’s ethics and teflon positivity simply rubs off on you cause she chose to lay a hand?

Do you think that actually ‘morally’ ever saved a career?

Roxi, of all people, should have been the first to take you aside and ask what the state of your health insurance was the moment this match was announced- she understands better than most what it means when my hornets nest as been thoroughly punted for the sake of seeing someone else's reaction. She understands my capabilities when I choose to turn off the filters, when I make that conscious choice to accept that the hurricane under my skin cannot be eternally contained in a prison of bone and sinew.

I’m a piece of shit human being, Krystal. Of that, theres no doubt… but everything that's going to happen at Climax Control, you could have avoided. You could have stomped the brakes, you could have stepped off and instead you got cocky… you let all that sense of success cloud your judgement and now you’re walking into a veritable slaughterhouse wielding little more than a resume that reads like a career jenga.

See, this is MY stipulation. This is my speciality Krystal- I’ve pioneered matches like this, I’ve innovated ways of hurting people that torture techniques are now based around. I’ve spent my career proving myself in fights, in the carnage of recklessness meeting pride head on.
There is nothing you bring to this match, no army at your back or tactic learned from the mouth of a hero never quite good enough to finish the job… that can negate the sheer experience edge that I have, let alone my god forsaken willingness to put whatever shreds constitute my morality on ice.

I’ve spent the last 300+ days busting my ass to create a division for someone like you to eventually inherit- and instead of being thankful, of being respectful of my sacrifices and my determination to improve on something long since neglected in favour of petty drama mongering… You question my methods, you have the utter fucking nerve to try and look down on me as though you’ve done a damn thing in this comoany to earn that right.
You scold me for acting in the exact same way that you have praised me for before.

Yeah, you trying to scold me…

What a fucking joke. It’s like functional retardation on a never-before seen scale… Or undiagnosed syphilis.

It's astonishing cause for someone who has so little to their name otherwise, you let all this go straight to your head- believing your own hype cause the little voices you keep around you told you that you were doing great, never mind the fact that you lost the belt the moment the competition actually stepped up a notch.
Fact is, hype is for everyone else to pile on. It's their way of relating and feeling as though they are somehow contributing to what you’re doing instead of resorting to whispering mirror affirmations in a public bathroom. No matter from what angle you approach it, someone always ends up looking real stupid.
That's the thing though isn’t it- that threadlike fine line between being an ‘up and comer’ and veteran shovelling down another two vicodin just to show up fifteen minutes late for a meet and greet.
Confidence is surely key, but don’t you fucking dare have enough to create a solid foundation of self-respect and dignity.

Go ahead and believe in yourself, by all means- but no more than anyone else does or you’ll sound like you’re a burgeoning narcissist.

I suppose we’re too late for that though, right?

I mean it takes so actual fucking nerve to come nose to nose with me, open your mouth and then utterly disappoint me so badly that I felt it all the way down my genetic line. I have great great grand children who are going to be born with the memory of how badly you fucked up in that one moment of badasseyr you so desired.
You wanna ‘bring a storm’... Bitch please. I’ve been called a ‘Painted Hurricane’ for legitimately longer than you’ve had a fucking career. What you are, sweet girl, is a miserable overcast day at worst. Muggy and clingy, with a strong chance of being entirely forgettable.
I fear more for what the humidity will do to my hair than I do about what kind of storm you’re threatening to leave on my doorstep.

Step off, cause your entitlement is starting to show and you no longer have a belt to deflect it with.

When it comes down to it- on your best day, you’re a watered down version of the swill getting passed off as a sideways rub of my worst. Just like every chuckle fuck with my name so wrongly on their tongue, you’re walking into this expecting a little spitshine off my hard work, that cause you had a comparable-ish reign to mine that we’re somehow on the same level…

Apples and oranges, sweetheart. Or in this case… Apples and… well, trash.

I’ve beaten you already, you just don’t get it yet… I beat you in Blast From The Past last year, and I’ve already done it again before we’ve even touched- still you tried, that I can’t deny… God loves a trier, after all, but now you’ve gone and opened your damn mouth talking about things you clearly have no place talking about.
I suppose there is some wisdom in getting all the use you still can out of your face hole before I put my fist straight through it though…

Climax Control, Krystal.

Consider this your life lesson in humility and hubris… for what little you’re left with by the time I’m done.”




******




Undisclosed Church
Somewhere in Southern California
05.03.2022
10:14am




Amber knew, deep down in her heart, that she’d never be a California girl.

Something about the stark white facade against the crystalline blue sky always gave her a distinct unnerving feeling, as though she were walking through a movie scene and soon someone would pull it all down the set pieces, leaving her with little more than an excess of scaffolding and suffocating greyscale.
Nothing about California ever felt real. Tangible. A deep falsified lie told so commonly that it had taken on a truth of its own in an identity it was never supposed to have.

Stepping through the doors- every surface appeared to be bathed in a natural light that seemed to only amplify the carefully constructed mirage of fragile illusions. In truth, she didn’t have to come here… and even now the regret seemed to linger on the back edge of her tongue, soaking into her blood despite her best efforts to swallow it down. Nevada to California, California to Bahamas for the Thunder Pro Duo’s title defence she had scheduled- a defence and then another plane back for a different sort of defence… One of validation and realisation. One to prove something that should never have been in denial or question.

Third row from the back. Close enough to the exit to disappear, not so close that her sideways glances to her periphery seemed as obvious. Always third row from the ---

“If I had known you were stopping by, I’d have made myself available.”

Reverend Alistair McCrae materialised as though expectant of her arrival, his usual religious attire replaced with something far more casual. Beige linens and light taupes that complimented the sun-stolen tan of his skin. She supposed that given his status as an acclaimed televangelist, and his continued generous ‘donations’ to community and church respectively, afforded him some privileges that would otherwise not be up for negotiation.
Warmly, like the glow of his skin under the streaming light through skylit roofing, he regarded the redhead who made little effort to move from her kneeling position. Prayer after all, was sacred and despite not believing a word of it for herself- Amber maintained a level of recognition and revere- despite the fact she was trying to bluff with a man who’d been under the Lord’s service for almost two thirds of his life, perhaps longer than even the redhead could intentionally attempt to mimic.

“It's not salvation that you’re here for though, is it?”

Saying nothing, Amber finally murmured the attempt at a response, quickly falling by the wayside as Amber focused on remembering to say ‘amen’ to herself and quietly seething on all the times he’d been bullied only now actively encouraging children to defend themselves.

“You hide your face, they are dismayed;
You take away their spirit, they expire
And return to their dust.
Psalm 104:29”

Alistair smiled politely as he stood nearby to the pew, so that Amber might have to square up instead of simply disappearing as she was known to do.

“Although, in your case we could readily substitute ash...”

Small talk that Amber could feel in her arms and hands, itched in a subtle throb that seemed to radiate outwards.  Despite the otherwise public nature, words spoken here were considered sacred and yet dangerous.

“Have I become that predictable?”

A humourless chuckle escaped the man with silver well groomed hair and a busty early 20 something looking to be ‘spoiled’ without expectation of reconciliation.

“Predictable? No, Miss Ryan. If anything, I anticipated this visit far sooner.”

Playing his cards close, Amber knew she’d never manage to get onto a plane towards a secondary salvation with this kind of defensiveness from both sides. Clearing her throat as she unsteadily forced herself upright Amber met Alistair's gaze, briefly paralysed and mind blanked by the self-made iceberg of a man who casually drifted wherever his services were dutifully required.
For a fee…
Amber however had little use for his platitudes and less for the drawn out riddles, getting as close as she might dare before aggravating Amber’s nervous twitches to the officers.

“Perhaps there is something you could elaborate on for me.”

Thoughtfully Amber lowered her voice, as though there were shadows to dramatically emerge from and someone vain enough to consider themselves worth talking about.

“What's a pound of flesh worth to a man who already has everything?”

“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.

“Something about her is so tempting to look at. Her anger has a childish aura as if she isn’t made of real evil' just a bratty princess playing with her toy fangs.”
― Cameron Jace, Snow White Sorrow




Undisclosed Fairgrounds
Somewhere in Maine
21.07.2004
11:27pm




Few things in life were more captivating than the crackle of an open fire.

Fire was a cleansing force, one commanding respect and fear in equal measures, worshipped for centuries for its ability to raze and renew. Even in modern times, fire was still a commodity that seemed to draw in the lost, those seeking and craving something that could only be fulfilled with warmth and light.
Despite the smothering summer humidity, a sixteen year old redhead strayed closer to the flames, resting her heels against the stones laid out for safe ‘clearance’ as though the crackling fire were a sentient being to be contained.

Adventure, Grizz had called it, as many of the other long time carnival workers set up their tents in the dying light of day. A way to convince the girls that this was something he’d chosen deliberately instead of a cost-saving measure cause hotels were expensive when the crowds didn’t seem to spend like they used to. Too many lots were being burned by half-assed professionals, pulling the rug out from anyone who might crossover with their wake.
In truth though, Amber didn’t really mind. Something about the expanse of the night sky created a swell in her chest, while the winking of stars above always led her to believe they were simply waiting to share a tentative little secret.

Cast in the low orange glow, Amber didn’t need to turn as the soft padding footsteps came up behind her. Dainty in spite of the softness of the ground, a shadow that betrayed its presence with a stifled yawn. Cassidy Parker dropped in beside Amber, an old blanket draped over her shoulders sleepily as she rested her head on the older redhead's shoulder.
Despite the three year age difference and their vastly different appearances, they’d grown to become like sisters… stubbornly determined and mischievous to a fault. Amber had dutifully taken Cassidy under her wing- for better and occasional worse in hopes that maybe she could change what was otherwise a futile trajectory.

Cassidy could do so much better than any of this, if only she could be convinced of it.

“I thought you were asleep.”

Amber mused quietly as Cassidy nuzzled in a little closer, blonde curls falling around her face as she glanced up at the older girl. Maybe they both could do better- but Amber was convinced that only Cassidy really had that chance.
Bridges kissed by kerosene still seemed to burn for an age wherever she went, even now there were places and people who would never give Amber the time of day regardless what retribution and redemption she might promise. So many more would lie in her future, perhaps that was what the fates had written for her- a lifetime of making everyone else miserable, or so she had joked on more than one occasion with Cassidy on the rides between towns.

… “What do you wanna be when you grow up?”...

Cassidy would ask with all the innocence a thirteen year old might muster in regards to a loaded question. Of course, the answer never really changed- if anything only growing in levels of sarcasm layered throughout.

… “Same thing as I am now- a professional pain in everyones ass… and judging by the look on your face Cass, seems like I’m already halfway there” ...

It was an answer that never seemed to satiate the blonde though, her deep brown eyes determinedly set in pale skin dotted with freckles. She’d crinkle her nose in frustration of not being taken seriously, only serving to fuel the fires of Amber’s shit stirring further.
Truth was, Amber hadn’t given up her dreams of pro-wrestling but they had started to take a backseat to more primitive forms of combat for money. She didn’t tell Cassidy that the black eyes she failed to cover up and the split lips she blamed on being clumsy were from the money that helped put fuel in their tanks or a bed that wasn’t misplaced on rocks embedded in the sun-scorched grounds.

“I was, but then I woke up and you weren’t there so…”

It was a reality that had plagued them both, this idea trapped in the back of their minds that eventually- one day- Amber would leave. Outwardly, Cassidy encouraged it however it didn’t take a trained therapist to see that underneath the girl was terrified of an inevitable that might never come- to the point that at times of peace… she’d go to instigate war.

“Thought you might have… You know...”

Cassidy trailed off quietly, as though embarrassed that the thought had slipped from her lips. Amber draped an arm around her thoughtfully, pulling her in a little closer.

“Oh yeah, just upped and left you know… Didn’t even bother to pack cause I had no idea where I was going.”

Staring through the flames as Cassidy nudged her hard in the ribs, Amber’s train of thought was broken by her own accidental yelp.

“Ow Cass. Jesus… you’d think you were the one training with an elbow like that.”

Deflection was far easier than argument and Amber had been an expert for longer than she should have.

“I was being serious!”

“Yeah, and so was I… that really hurt.”

Amber laughed it off, trying to inject a little levity as the silence consumed them both once again between the crackles and occasional pops that emanated from the fire.

“I’m not gonna just up and leave if that's what you’re worried about Cass… and if I was- heaven forbid- then you’d be the first person to know.”

Truthfully, albeit pensively, Amber rested her head on top of Cassidy’s. It wasn’t as though she lied, she really didn’t have anywhere else to go right now- however the looming thought was one not to be easily dissuaded. If she really wanted this as badly as she’d fought for it… then eventually she’d have to…

“See, I reckon I’d go and open an ice cream shop or something…”

Another nudge, this one softer and more jovial. A realization that Amber’s humour was genuine- if not, infuriating. In turn, the redhead simply chuckled off the sheer unrealistic nature of everything being suggested.

“Seriously though, why would I wanna leave… I’ve got everything I need right here.”

Not a lie, Amber had to remind herself, not quite anyway. Grizz and Cassidy were family, as close as blood without things getting weird and they’d given her a place among them with little more than a promise to be ‘helpful’. No doubt Grizz had taken pity on her all those years ago, she’d seen the same generosity extended to other ‘strays’ over time but few ever really stuck around long- most just disappearing on a whim one day like ash on a breeze.

Family, friends… within reason. Travel. An opportunity to learn from someone who’d built their adult life in the business, only for the pressures and politics to bring it all down around him. Despite being reluctant at first, Grizz caved over time when it came to his mentorship… something he was regularly reminded of when Amber went a little wayward and rogue during sparring matches.

What more could a girl ask for other than diamonds, a seven figure bank account and a delightfully open minded partner to warm her bed and engage in online shopping sprees at 3am. Just the little things…

“Besides, it doesn’t matter what happens Cass- no matter how stupidly famous I might get...”

Another reassuring squeeze followed as Amber’s gaze trailed upwards into the inky abyss above them, her small laugh radiating like a shock wave through the otherwise still grounds. There was a certain fascination that came with the stars though, one that knowing a day would come beyond her lifetime that those heavens full of diamonds would come raining down upon those still daring to walk this place like it wasn’t just on loan. In the meantime, they just sat up there… watching, waiting for them to destroy each other and save them all the hassle.

Another pause followed as Cassidy nuzzled closer to her chest, gaze somewhere in the midst of the flames dancing and twirling in the humidities stillness.

“If you’re so happy where you are… why do find it so hard to smile?”

Amber didn’t respond, not immediately at least. Caught off guard by the candor and perhaps the hole now left gaping in her armour. It wasn't as though she intended on misery, that her resting bitch face and reflective sarcasm was anything more than a defensive mechanism set on a hair trigger.
Curling at the edges of her lips, Amber lifted her head to look down at Cassidy, as though to prove she was at least capable of something resembling sincerity.

“Didn't realize I wasn't, I suppose... You think I should?”

Levelling out her surprise with humour, Amber gave Cassidy a little eyebrow raise as if querying her intention- a smile in the low light capturing the moment for prosperity. Cassidy returned the gesture with a giggle that resonated through Amber's soul.

“Yeah… smile more Bambi. Even if it's just for me.”




******


“Are you fundamentally aware of what retribution means?

I’m well aware that it's like asking a grapefruit how it feels about being cut and consumed, but at least I can expect the grapefruit to actually put up some semblance of a fight about it…

Honestly though, I think what you’re trying too hard to refer to is actually revenge- granted many would argue that such things are interchangeable, that only the intent to harm seems to vary however that's the very simple way of looking at it.
What retribution suggests is that what is given and taken is received by both sides equally. Actions have consequences, right for wrongs leaving us all with this novel concept that everyone gets to leave feeling as though they achieved something.

Realistically though, some people are standing around holding their dicks in their hands while everyone else gets on with their lives and no one seems the wiser.

In terms of what you think you want from me in all of this Bea, I think- like most occasions- you seem to have those wires crossed with the ones that control your self-preservation instincts. As though somehow suggesting a match with me is going to give you any form of satisfaction that doesn’t come with a masochism fetish… I mean no shame or anything, but there are far easier ways to get your rocks off in this day and age than attempted death via force of nature.

Seriously though, I have to commend the powers that be for the absolute travesty of a world title challenge they’re presenting as a legitimate competition. Granted, I do commend your guts in taking this fight Bea as though you forget that mere months ago I put you down like the little yapping mange ridden mutt you parade around as… I commend them so much that I’m planning on leaving them splattered across the canvas as a warning sign to everyone else trying to seek righteous vengeance for basically nothing, right after I’m done showing your husband what the spine he seems to be missing is supposed to look like.

Let's be honest though… you really should be thanking us. Oblivion took what was otherwise a nothing state, mere bodies making up the numbers and put them on a fucking platform they sought, that they didn’t deserve- right before putting them through it for the sheer nerve of speaking out of turn.
… and so then you, in all of your infinite wisdom and righteous determined spousal wisdom, come seeking out the baddest dog in the yard and start pissing on my doorstep.

To think that it's you coming and defending their ‘honour’... Great call guys, really smart fucking idea- I mean that life insurance you took out on your wife, Bill,  must be mighty fine if you’re so eager for her to step into the midst of a roaring inferno to save a half cut pack of cards.

If it were me?  I think I’d rather just throw the whole fucking lot in the bin and start again.

I can’t say I don’t get it though- if my husband made his career out of being a crash test dummy, I’d probably consider career suicide as well. I’d be a little pissed if someone came for my husband, but the truth is- they wouldn’t. Not if they had their wits about them at least...
See, what you need to understand and fast is that this match isn’t about our husbands having a pissing match, this isn't about measuring them up against each other before discussing what kind of inadequacies you might reasonably use to file for divorce…

No, this is about you… it's about me… and it's about the fact that this fucking company loves a good car crash.

What Mac does, is his own business… He’s a big boy and I like to think he can handle his own shit pretty well. What I do though, what I do is on a whole other level than you’re physically capable of comprehending- see I can picture it already, you’ll come in with a blistering promo spitting venom like you somehow earned the right cause you put on your big girl pants this morning and your velcroed your shoes on the right feet- on the second try. You’ll try your damndest to twist this all up like I’m going to need anyones help to leave you in a messier pile than you walked in being… as though I haven’t won match after bloody match without assistance.
By all means though Bea, you go out there and you talk that big game that you have no respectable talent to back it up with- come out swinging and maybe I’ll even make this worth everyone's time.

I mean, I’ll humour you for a little while cause everyone knows I’m a sucker for a puppet on a string- and maybe you’ll even be stupid enough to claim that you’ve been toe to toe with me despite the fact the closest you came to such a claim was my sneaker being jammed into the worst part of your face.

Truth is, for me, this isn’t about some pissant grudge nonsense, this isn’t about you trying to step up in any meaningful way. You wanna come for a pound of flesh, but brought a childs bucket and pail instead of a fucking shovel. You’re showing up to a knife fight with a gun that you forgot to load thinking I might somehow be intimidated despite the fact the chamber is hanging out and is covered in cobwebs…
By all means take your best shot at me Bea, if anything I’m encouraging it… free swing, I’ll even pretend that I’m rattled by it just for kicks if it means that you’ll actually try and do better than whatever the fuck this is supposed to be.

See, I don’t base my entire professional existence around picking the splinters out of someone elses ass nor do I intend to. No, I go out to that ring every godforsaken match, just like I have done for the last bit over a year I’ve been with this company, whether it's against the likes of you… whether it's against Jessie, whether it's against Myra, whether it's against Alicia- hell whether it's against fucking Roxi cause you know she’s not gonna let this die till she figures out what my favourite brand of kryptonite is…  and I raise the standard around me.
You wanna know the reason Roxi and Crystal ended up in that main event- it's not cause they were the best contenders- it's cause they wanted a shot at me the worst. Not the title… at me. I’m the reason people are getting better, getting badder like I’ve poisoned the collective well.

It seems the fact I’m the World Champion just sweetens the deal now…

… and it's exactly the reason they haven’t beaten me yet.

At the end of the day though, sweetheart… There's a damn good reason why I’ve been champion for the past near 250 days,while you’ve spent all of that time trying to figure out which end you’re dribbling more shit from.
I don’t come to fuck around, I don’t resign myself to being the companies worst cheerleader and I sure as fuck don’t accept anything less than what I feel as though I’ve earned…

You wanna come to Climax Control for revenge, just remember to bring your own shovel… cause I’m pretty sure mine might still be stuck in Roxi’s World Bombshells championship aspirations…”





******




Bane Household
Las Vegas, ND
21.11.2021
8:37am



She’d been telling herself for months now that this was what she’d always wanted.

Even from the otherside of the house, Amber could hear Mac come through the back door- from the faint scratching and scrabbling as Couyon practically tripped over himself to slobber mindlessly all over her husband's jeans, to the familiarly heavy cadence of his boots on the floorboards gradually getting louder before they paused in the doorway just beyond her.
He always stopped there, regardless of what she was doing, perhaps a reassurance that none of this was a dream to him too...

Despite living together and working together, their paths rarely seemed to cross for more than hours at a time- disparate places in their existences as Amber scrambled to keep hold of a title that seemed to be pulled in every direction while Mac sought the return of his own.
Outside the spotlights, they’d shared even less… Amber’s poor attempts to cover the cuts and bruises from her drunken brawl down towards the docks after High Stakes only seemed to be mirrored by Mac’s caginess and frequent visits too and from Texas despite the fact he’d admitted that he’d sold his family's land out there already.

Business, that's what they both claimed as though they expected the other to believe it.

In public they kept up the facade as professionals, after all relationships in wrestling came with expectations that devolved into rumour should they not be appropriately lived up to. Everything was fine, when the camera were on and when anyone was looking- absolutely fucking golden- if they were asked. A picture perfect romance in a world that took relationships and picked them apart at the seams just to keep things interesting.
Privately, things were… fine. They were just fine, Amber mused as she sipped from the mug, allowing the steam to cloud up in her vision briefly. Masculine like the sheen of sweat and a certain cologne that she could never quite pinpoint, his smell struck her before the arm that gently slipped around her waist followed closely by a rough kiss on the cheek.

“Hey you…”

“... Hey”

Cursory and polite, both of them willingly stepped into the zero gravity minefield that was their recent private life, as Mac’s freehand seemingly swallowed the mug in one foul swoop. Amber hadn’t bothered to step away from the bench yet, not nearly caffeinated enough to navigate this exchange of nothings safely as the faint thump of his pulse from behind her seemingly fell into rhythm with her own.
Fast, yet manageable.

Both of them knew the other was keeping far more skeletons than the closet could handle- but in their typical shared stubbornness and protective natures, neither wanted to be the first to broach the topic for fear that an over-exposure to the light might make their chosen atrocities far more difficult to swallow than the bite sized pieces they might ration otherwise.

“How was your trip?”

Amber didn't need to ask much more than that, she didn’t dare delve into details for fear that she would revile in what she might find- with a coy smile, she feigned curiosity in it's most generic form. Just smile, everything was far easier that way.
She’d been choosing that path more since just before High Stakes, smiling in the face of all the shittiness the world might just throw in her lap on any given day- if only cause she’d started to run low on her famous misery and intolerance. In all honesty, it didn't make her feel much better about anything, but it sure fooled most people…

“Typical real estate business really.”

Curt and about as honest as she might expect, Mac gave her a kiss on the top of the head this time before breaking the embrace for the sake of taking a seat at the kitchen table, despite his frame towering over hers- their destructive personalities seemed to match closely enough in size and vulgarity to make up the difference. Amber nodded politely, knowing full well that the dirt stains on his jeans and god knows what else on the cuffs of his shirt told a different story.
She wouldn’t delve though, if only for the fact that he’d been polite enough to accept her bullshit story of being clumsy down at the dockyards in Atlantic City- knowing full well she was probably more dexterous when half cut, than sober to the point that the only thing stopping her wrestling intoxicated all the time was the blood thinning effect.

Amber sipped deeply, allowing the mug to obscure the worst of the smile she wore. Sincere if only in intention.

“So, you have a fun match this week…”

Deflection was easier than confrontation on the ebay of days, just side step the hard parts and focus on what you were good at. Mac nodded, almost half way draining his mug with a knowing grin. A smile that had made her weak at the knees more than once, only now serving to bolster her efforts to shield from the inevitable fallout.

“Yeah, something like that…”

Speaking of fallout it seemed. Not that she minded, if anything it was inevitable that they’d bring this back around- something about no good deed going unpunished and all that other good stuff. Oblivion had made their statement, albeit not as anticipated initially… it was no surprise that Amber would catch a little of the shrapnel.

“What is this defense number---”

Mac started however Amber quickly stepped in to finish the thought with a nod of confirmation.

“Nine.”

She didn’t need to say more than that, this was the record tying match and even against a lowlife mange-ridden raccoon facsimile like Bea Barnhart, it was still to be considered a momentous occasion. One that had stuck in her mind since the idea that it might become a reality first flickered to life between some faulty synapses. All of a sudden, this shot in the dark had been forced into the spotlight- under the expectation that with every win, the pressure went up exponentially.

Nine defenses. What the fuck even was she doing…

It was supposed to make sense by now, surely.

By now even Amber had to admit it was a pretty incredible feat, as her own worst critic she knew she’d held onto it by her fingernails more times than she cared to admit openly- match after match scraping by as though it meant any less to still walk away with the title.
Many had told her that they’d be the one to remove it from her death grip, as though trying to take it from her cold, dead hands was a fucking insult or a challenge now… Rigor mortis had long since cinched in her hands on the belt and it’d take a fate far worse than death to release it from her now.

Challenger after challenger had sworn that they'd held the key, that they could untie this Gordian knot of a champion despite being presented with a blade sharp enough to tear it asunder. No, they wanted to do things the ‘right’ way, the honourable way as though the belt promised any semblance of that in return for an undying loyalty.
Amber was always the first person to tell anyone who dared ask that she wasn't the best wrestler, that being champion didn't change the person who you were coming into a reign- that you didn’t suddenly get better cause the belt was imbued with something unseen.

No, what won her the belt was the same thing that kept it in her death grip… and now it seemed to be one of the few things left holding her together as the stitches seemed to fall away under the simplest touch. Being champion kept her grounded, kept her focused instead of pinballing amid the cacophony of noise that seemed to permeate her every sense- heaven forbid the day she lost the title be the day that she finally succumbed to the grief, the regret and nightmares she could no longer swallow, that she’d locked away for a rainy day.

Another silence, deafening in it's acceptance as the norm. Cause this was love… right? Or at the very least, one of the many parts of being in love. Stilted and awkward, the conversation lapsed again although neither found much wherewithal or urgency to pick it up off the ground and dust it off to send on its merry way once again.
For now, it seemed they were perfectly content with lying to each other in blissful silence.

Of course, someone had once told them both, dressed in their white and charcoal best, that love was honest… that they should feel as though they could tell the other everything that bore down on their souls. That open and honest communication was the key to happiness- except that person no doubt didn’t care to listen for the rattle of bones buried beneath the piles of sentimental bullshit.
If love meant lying, meant making them think you were a different person… a better person… then Amber would have gleefully accepted being a liar over anything else- if only it meant that Mac might not look at her any other way than he did right now.

With an untold affection and unconditional adoration.

… Even though he knew, and deserved far better.

Fact was, love wasn’t really honest, not in the way it was foretold in wedded vows…

No, love was knowing that what you could say in truth would hurt them far worse than any of the secrets they thought you were keeping… and allowing them to believe it when you told them otherwise.




******



“I always find that generosity is taken the wrong way.

Particularly by those who don’t understand that the gesture is by all means good intentioned to start with. For example, I came out last Climax Control from the goodness deep down in my heart and I offer up this opportunity for any basement dweller or contented middle of the roader in the Bombshells division to step up and prove that- given the right moment- they can do better.
Now I’ll be honest, I was going to cut the line of contention off right above ‘scraping the bottom of the barrel’ but I quickly realized it might open me up to claims of discrimination against moronic, empty-headed bimbos who try to explain why everyoneis stupid when they themselves can’t win a fucking match.

It's a really specific niche, but I’m also a company girl at heart…

Many would stand to argue that this match is based purely out of pity and a bit of underlying sadism from our delightful bosses cause honestly, betting on a Bea Barnhart match should qualify as a symptom of schizophrenia. Oh, the voices made you do it? Well shit, sucks to be you then…
Others tend to believe that I’m somehow the problem like the fact Bea Barnhart is getting a World title match for being woefully useless isn’t automatically a red flag. Nope it's definitely me putting out a clearly defined challenge that half the intended audience needs a fucking dictonary and some parental supervision to understand…

It's astonishing really, when you think about it, with how little expectations I’m willing to put on you and you still manage to disappoint me before opening your fucking mouth. Wanna know why Bea?
Cause you’re predictable to the point it's actually painful to hear you speak, I can almost verbatim tell you all the ‘horrible’ things you’ll try to say about me when in fact all you’re doing is making a complete fool of yourself with how wrong you are.
I’m not pulling some Nostradamus bullshit though sweetheart, it's just, it happens to be literally the same absolute cack that you say to literally everyone else- like you aren’t their warm down confidence booster after a long few nights.

Seriously though, who the fuck needs a valium when you’re providing the same service for free.

Let's be real here, and this is life advice you might wanna start considering… The whole ‘you’re really dumb, and I’m smart’ argument you seem to make with everyone, including me… it only actually has merit when you successfully win matches. This isn’t comparing apples and oranges anymore Bea, this is comparing apples and fucking trash.
Hell, the last time we met- when you were so convinced you were going to beat me to get a shot at the belt I still happen to be holding- you were more concerned with my life choices and ability to take this title seriously and how little my IQ equated to like I wasn’t about to tear your arm off and thoroughly beat you to death with it.

Thing is Bea, I really do wanna like you… all that pugnaciousness, all that determination. I wanna wring it from your shitty little body, bottle it then sell it for a profit. I wanna see you do more than jump up and down on command cause your husband didn’t trip over his laces on the way to the ring…
I made the challenge because I wanted to raise everyone up around me, yet here I am feeling like I shouldn’t have to stoop so heavily just to punch this low...

When it comes down to it, this is SCW and I’ll be damned if I haven’t spent the last 8 months busting my ass at the top of the mountain just to look down and watch you stroll around pathetically as though your next match is gonna be your breakout moment… just like every other time before.
In the past 245 days I’ve made it my mission to restore some prestige to this title, to make it worth challenging for- and yet once again all you want to do is swing low, sweet chariot.

Lets face it Bea, you’re afraid to punch outside your pay grade despite the sheer amount of garbage you spew… or at the very least, you really should be. You should be terrified of what I could potentially do, how many ways I could legitimately end your career without even blinking…
You should reconsider every word you’ve ever spoken and decisions you’ve ever made irrationally in this business when you see my name…
You won’t, of course. But you should.
See, in the past 240 days Bea, I’ve made it a point to go out there and leave this company better off for having been there- even if it meant razing everything in my path. Time after time I have gone out there to the ring and fixed whatever damage you caused by alienating an audience looking for blood with comedy at you trying to be taken seriously…

To this day, I still walk out there with the belt on my shoulder making promises that only I seem to be able to keep.

That's the thing though, I didn’t just stumble into being World Champion. I didn’t just wake up one morning and find the belt on my side table, next to a couple of aspirin and a glass of water that actually turned out to be vodka cause drunk Amber is a fucking asshole.
It’s not some mistake of the universe, I didn’t just fluke my way through every defense against the biggest names this company has had to throw at me- and to even posture blindly otherwise just serves to discredit what little people were willing to give you to begin with.

Truth is Bea, and this is something I never expect you to understand- you sure as fuck can’t manage to successfully defend any title eight times if you’re an idiot.

That doesn’t exactly change when you get to nine either…

Of course, that's the magic number- isn’t it?

Alicia Lukas in her ‘reign of terror and domination’ did it nine times before succumbing to the pressures of the universe, see diamonds might be made under pressure but too much leaves even the hardest eventually in dust… it's not about being indestructible, it's about holding for as long as you can before you physically can’t hold on anymore.
This is the point, probably Bea, that you’d say that my time is coming now… that eight is a grand old number and that I’ve done little to warrant such achievement and celebration. Thankfully though, no one listens to a fucking word out of your mouth cause dumpster fires aren’t known to be fonts of wisdom and rationality.

No, I’ve worked too hard for too fucking long to allow you to come along like some fairytale bulllshit thinking that just cause you feel entitled by righteous indignance, that you get to simply swoop in and take the foundation of what I’ve built from under me.

If anything, I don’t need to dominate this match Bea, but I will. I don't need to go out and make some grand gesture or statement at your expense- but I will. I don’t need to put you on the shelf and destroy what little remains of a livelihood better left to rot- but I sure as fuck will if it gets my message heard.
Some lessons can only be learned the hard way, and you know what? Hubris isn’t even so bad after awhile, humility stings for awhile but I promise it’ll make the emotional wounds heal a little quicker.

You’ll be pissed. Bill will probably feel a certain way besides underwhelming- but I don’t expect you to understand, considering your career has been a testament to everything I’ve worked against as the World Bombshells Champion.
Fact is, I made the promise to set the bar higher in this division- and if it means cutting some of the dead weight, if it means trimming some of the gratuitous fat and gristle, if it means otherwise committing heinous acts of unspeakable violence between those ropes to ensure a better future for this division…

Well, you shouldn’t even need to ask anymore…

It’s ‘get better or get fucked’.

You had your chance to decide though, and now I’m coming to fix it.

Don’t worry though Bea, I’m merciful if nothing else… and you’ll live. You won’t have much of a career or quality of life, just plenty of time to miserably ruminate on how you ended up so far wrong- but you’ll be alive… I’ll let you live in spite of your crimes of mediocrity against this place.

...

Probably.





******



Bane House
Las Vegas, ND
25.11.2021
5:12am




Grief was situational.

Everyone seemed to swallow it differently, their ability to handle such things dependent on so many factors that there was no longer a default setting in the human mind to process such things. Amber, as with many things, had simply bottled it up inside as though it had no place running freely in her veins. A creeping numbness had become the norm, a slight haze falling over everything like walking through a constant dream state, only one that had an underlying sense of pessimism and loss.

Even now curled up on her favourite chair on the front porch with knees to her chest, shielding from the morning chill that seemed to permeate everything she touched, she couldn’t quite fathom how she missed it. God, in hindsight it almost seemed obvious…
Flicking through the pages, the information never seemed to change regardless how much she tried to imagine it did, that each re-read seemed to cut a little deeper than the last, fresh wounds now where old scars had laid dormant.

Cassidy had changed her name, mere months after coming to look for help… looking for her ‘big sister’ to do what she’d always promised she would. Amber had failed though, her burgeoning career taking a tunnel visioned priority when instead she should have… Yeah, she should have done something, anything,  other than let her walk away alone that night.
Except she didn’t and now the consequences had been laid out in plainly typed black and white, the yellow sticky note betraying condolences she couldn’t help but feel were patronising at best and insincere at worst. She’d left those papers in Atlantic City though, unable to bear the weight of them in her duffel bag…

Vegas was for business, and such miseries had no place here.

Amber pulled her knees in a little tighter against the drifting breeze that rustled through, Mac was still asleep inside- no doubt soon he’d be up and about with the sun rise as though his body were attuned to such natural phenomena. More than ever, Amber had struggled with sleep… if she managed four hours in a night, it was to be considered a good day. If she didn’t sleep at all, she’d tell Mac that she’d just been preoccupied with work- with wrestling and being a world champion in an age where that was considered less of an honour and more of a job descriptor.

She couldn’t tell him all the ways she saw how she’d continually let people down everytime she closed her eyes, how his disappointment in her would always be underlying and intensely overwhelming. Still, it was Cassidy’s pleading eyes that always seemed to end her slumber- watching, waiting for Amber to do better and never finding the solace that should have followed.

Dominic Del Gado, of course, had been dodging her calls since they’d last spoken- as though it could even be described as a conversation. He’d known, he’d known since he’d resurfaced in Amber’s life over a year before and chose never to say a word- leaving Cassidy’s fate like an anvil of insurance above her head. Recoiling slightly, Amber shook the thought free. Word travelled fast, even without a syllable being spoken- and he’d have known, perhaps even before she did that the truth had come out, that should he pop his head out… she’d come to take it clean off.
Give it time, she contemplated, while trying to ignore the pressure building up in her knees and the cold that bit at her toes through her socks. A man like Dominic couldn’t fucking help himself, after all.

It wasn’t healthy, Amber knew, all this dwelling on things that couldn’t be changed. Chasing shadows as though they might lead to something tangible. Swallowing poison and misery didn’t somehow make you immune to it over time- however saying that you did it cause you liked the taste somehow made it more socially agreeable. She hadn’t bothered drinking to numb the pain, she’d spent enough time in a previous life drawing in the bottom of bottles searching for something real. Cigarettes did little to take the edge off and weren;t able to kill her nearly fast enough to be worthwhile… Drugs had never really been her scene, and anything fun left her fighting an allergic reaction.  Therapy had been briefly an option, expressing everything in a controlled atmosphere only to be told she was crazy for far too much money an hour to justify the obvious.

No, instead she’d simply swallow it with a grin. Forcing a smile in the face of unnecessary cruelty became her choice of coping mechanism.

Cassidy had always said that she should smile more, after all.

A derivative of optimism and hope desperately trying to placate an all-consuming void. Be happy, then you won’t be so fucking sad. You know, as though that ever helped anyone not hate everything out of spite...

Yeah, just smile more Amber…

It doesn’t hurt quite that bad.

“you son of a bitch, she said, I am
trying to build a meaningful
relationship.
you can't build it with a hammer,
he said.”
― Charles Bukowski, Play the Piano Drunk Like a Percussion Instrument Until the Fingers Begin to Bleed a Bit




Undisclosed Diner
Atlanta, GA
21.07.2009
9:57pm



It was heavier than she expected.

Although it was becoming increasingly more difficult to tell whether she referred to the CWF Impact title that lay over the top of the worn out duffle bag that she’d kicked under the table, or the breath in her lungs that seemed to amplify with every passing minute.
Even now, with the match more than a hour in the rearview, the sheen of sweat still clung to her skin and slicked back some of the fearsome mess of red hair that fell around her face. It was intoxicating, the way the faint scent of leather and metal polish seemed to linger on her skin after she’d held it close enough to force between her ribs.
Achievement. Ecstasy. God, even just the edge of it brushing against the skin of her ankle as she fidgeted nervously was enough to send those chills through every nerve again. With an agitated sigh she checked her phone again, the luminescent display reflecting little more than her impatience and mounting guilt.

She hadn’t even bothered to change, just a whirlwind of elation and furious guilt rushing out the door pushed by the fear that even showing up on time would somehow amount to being far too late. Cassidy would be delighted, she’d hoped with each pounding footstep on the pavement.
After all, she’d just won her first real professional wrestling title… she did it… all on her own… everything she’d worked for now felt tangible, that price for sacrifice held in outstretched hands. It was real, and more importantly- it was hers.

Regardless what that asshole Dominic Del Gado might have said.

So why did it feel as though she were breathing molten lead?

Maybe cause she’d arrived five minutes before promised, dishevelled and faintly sticky, sporting the beginnings of what would bloom into the fairer shades of a black eye for her efforts. A champion in name and nature despite the fact no one in the diner could bother to look up and care. Breathing heavily through exasperated gasps and the murmuring of a half practiced apology…

No Cassidy.

That had been 40 minutes ago.

Still nothing.

“Would you like me to switch that one out for a fresh one, sweetheart?”

Patchouli and musk wafted as the waitress leaned over the table, removing a half cup of coffee from the edge of Amber’s loosely held grasp. A mothers gentle resignation and a smile of thinly veiled pity followed before Amber had the wherewithal to notice it were even gone. On arrival they’d made small talk about things they couldn’t relate about as Amber tried to ignore the nagging urge to ask about a young blonde girl, with thick curls that bounced around her face and bright eyes that had become bloodshot red with tears.

A girl that was supposed to be here.

Why didn’t she come?

Coffee had been ordered in as many words, no charge made cause maybe it looked as though Amber needed it. A sweet gesture, no milk please, in a place and time where she felt as though she had little right to accept such charity or generosity. Going cold as fingertips tinged in red and the remainders of adhesive where she’d taped her fists tapped against the laminated tabletop- every sound resonating like a fucking gunshot in a church. A scraping of a chair on linoleum may as well have been torture, the opening of the door sent a surge of adrenaline she couldn’t control and the idle chatter of those seeking caffiene and brief complacency seemed honed in on her despite the fact they spoke distinctly of weather and office gossip mongering.

Maybe, in spite of the title belt that had so quickly meant so much, she was wrong.

Maybe she should have just fucking listened.

Forgone an opportunity when someone really needed her. Surely there would be other title shots, right? Other chances to prove that everything she worked for wasn’t just some pipe dream… other chances to show that everyone was wrong about her. That Dominic was wrong about her. No matter which way she tried to look at it, she couldn’t shake the way that pleading desperation tore her definitively in two.

“Just let me know if there’s anything else I can get you…”

She didn’t have to say it. Words were secondary when a picture spoke a thousand words.

Pity, the kind that seemingly fell from one's lips like an errant drool before it could be reined in, was followed by a soft yet reassuring squeeze on the edge of her shoulder.
Maybe if she just waited ten more minutes. Cassidy could just have gotten caught up, gotten busy or lost on her way from point a to point b by detouring through point z twice over. Hell, maybe she was just outside that door trying to muster up the courage to walk on through…
Or maybe it was just some elaborate albeit shitty ruse to make Amber feel like shit, some kind of sick justification for the abandonment she’d felt when the redhead chose to look the gift horse straight down it's throat for fear of never seeing it again.

It wasn’t as though she’d put it past Cassidy to try. Last time they’d spoken before this, Cassidy had been screaming obscenities through streaming tears on her family's doorstep- swearing on everything that she was worth that she never wanted to see Amber again. That Amber didn’t have the right to walk out on them, even for the opportunity she’d worked so damn hard for, only to show up unexpectedly with a stupid fucking grin and sheepish shrug anticipating that time would heal all infected wounds.

They didn’t and they wouldn’t. It was absurd to have ever considered it an option…

Another cup of coffee. Burnt and swirling lazily in a different cup stained similarly. Amber emerged briefly from behind her tousled facade of indifference to acknowledge and show thanks before ducking back into safety before the waitress could make heads or tails of the frantic, guilt-ridden child that played beyond those guarded walls.

“I thought it might be different this time.”

It wasn’t directed anywhere or towards anyone, just a tumble of syllables that slipped off the edge of a razor edged tongue. There wasn’t any need for context, no spider-webbed backstory of tragedy and despair- just another smile that sagged a little at the edges as though unable to fully commit to joy.
No, it wasn’t different and that wouldn’t change despite how much Amber had tried to convince herself otherwise as she hunched a little further over the table.

She’d had every opportunity to make this time different, to change course and do better. Be better. Cassidy’s voice echoed soundlessly between snippets of conversation in the booth behind- this was a cry for help in the most literal sense and somehow it had been lost amid the ‘it's just a bad time’ files to be stored away under emotional lock and key.
Bittersweet, like her coffee if the sugar caddy wasn’t caked with hardened chunks. That's what this title had quickly become- she’d been champion for barely an hour and already she was questioning whether it was worth the sacrifices that came with it.

Of course, the answer came simply.

More callous than anticipated.

Part of her just wanted Cassidy to waltz on through that door and unleash a torrent of loathing into her lap- somehow find a way to justify that her decision was right or wrong instead of somewhere in between. She wanted to see Cassidy running towards her from just beyond a bus stop as she stepped out into the night air, lightheaded with caffeine and swallowing the bitterness that she’d allowed to accumulate on the back of her tongue. She wanted nothing more than to reach out and seize all the hurt she’d created, drawing it through Cassidy’s skin in hopes that she might be able to burn that hatred as fuel instead of watching it fester in someone else…

There was no torrent though, there’d be no cries from a bus stop or expressions of gratitude when all hope seemed lost. There’d be no sorry for everything that came between them, no promises about change- no opportunity for her to lie that she could make everything better.
Amber wanted to be able to look her in the eyes and tell her that everything would be fine… however no eyes rimmed in scarlet found hers, only the hollow nothingness of realization that too little too late had long since passed her by…

Maybe she’d never learn, never quite able to find the line where two rights blurred into something that felt a little less… wrong.

Still… at least she had the title.

That had to mean something, right?




******



“I consider you to be an individual Seleana.

Sentient, with thoughts and feelings all your own.
Of course, it’d be easy to equate you to little more than a puppet that for too long has danced on the end of one of your wifes many tangled strings… a marionette with little more to stand on than the legs given to you by someone else.
Of course, Christina would love nothing more than to hear me spout her name and make this all about her- cause as well all well know, she is the very centre of the universe and all actions and spoken words must revolve around her and what she feels as though she is entitled to.

However, like many other far greater things of importance… this isn’t about her.

No, she gets her soap box at High Stakes to tell everyone about how fucking delightful she is- when in truth her own family resents her and her consistently selfish decisions. 15 minutes is far too long, but the company loves their nice even time increments and so the 17 seconds I’ll willing to dignify her with gets an expansion when it matters.

This match, this isn’t about her.

It's about you though, and the way that you have let everyone else around you dictate your career trajectory.

See, I’ve heard stories. Murmurings even, tales told that you were once someone around here- not just Christina Rose’s long suffering spouse, you weren't just someone else's mother or cousin or dogs aunt twice removed for political reasons.
Your name Seleana, it used to mean something around here- I mean, you don’t get to be World Bombshells champion without showing a fucking shred of talent and determination. Believe me, I should know. Your name used to carry weight, that a match against you meant something.
It was an elevation for those looking to make their mark, a challenge for those seeking one and a benchmark for anyone looking to go anywhere in this division to pass…

I believed all those things when I was first matched against you.

I really thought that maybe you’d show me something that I’d only caught glimpses of from many others. That this division wasn’t all overly ambitious Jessie Salcos and selectively amnesiac Bea Barnharts. You were supposed to be one of those diamonds and instead I walked away trying to wash the soot off my fingers.
From the moment I walked through the door of this company, you’ve barely even managed to underwhelm me. Do you realize how difficult of a task that is to do, you could literally have walked out there and fucking had a heart attack and I’d still rate you more highly as an opponent than the absolute void you’ve otherwise presented yourself as.

Blank. A laminated sheet of paper has shown me more insight and will to be acknowledged than you, and the laminated paper also has the extra benefit of being shiny, as well as cheap and otherwise useless. You’ve shown nothing in the past 6 months that has given me any indication that you want to be taken seriously, that you have any intention of doing any better than where you are in the pecking order right now… Equally contant to be watching from the back as you would be slumming it for a chance to mix it up in a dark match.

That's what really shits me Seleana, it's not that you were a never were- cause you’ve proven that you could do better. You have previously shown that you cared, that you had even the tiniest iota of ambition.
It's the fact you're legitimately a has-been by choice.
You knowingly accepted a role as a trophy wife to the walking epitome of why participation awards are a thing, allowing the Zdunich name to define you instead of anything you ever did in that ring. I mean you know it's an issue when your last name means more to you than the sum of your hard work and god given talent.

Yet I’m gonna sound like an asshole for bringing it up, when it's just a readily known thing that everyone acknowledges and no one bothers to question. Like hummus sitting out all day in catering- by the time you remember it's there, it's integrity just isn’t nearly good enough and you can only long for what it previously was.
Don’t get me wrong, I can't take away everything you’ve done- I just wish you hadn’t gleefully handed it to someone who could so thoroughly tank it, then claim they were doing you a favour when they realize you’ve got nothing left for them to bleed.

You are a former World Bombshells champion who can barely hold her own against the best that catering has to offer, preferring to fall into the shadows of everyone else's pageantry bullshit cause it obscures from the real truth that you just don’t have it left in you anymore.
Just holding onto this ideal that maybe you’ve got anything left to salvage- like winning a hard fought match you should have fucking walked, then thinking you can come start swinging at the top like there aren’t consequeces that come with it.

There’s a phrase for that, you know, it's called ‘bitch, please’.

Ma’am, please return to your assigned seat. You had your chance and you squandered it time and time again for the favour of someone who has done everything they can to actively prove what a fucking terrible idea that was.
I get it though, love rules over all. People kill for love, they die for love. They sacrifice everything for it… even when there's no chance of getting it back. It's a toxic cycle and sweetheart, you’re straight up more septic than my grandma's untreated kidney stones- and she’s been gone for longer than I can remember.
However- that's not an excuse to just stop trying.

Regardless of the way you look at it.

Detritus, Seleana. Skin flakes and dust, that's the mark you’re leaving on this division. A little mess of nothingness settling for the lowest possible level cause you can’t possibly disappoint anyone else if there's no further left to go.
I wanna sit here and tell you how much I hate you, how much I hate this husk of a Bombshell that you stand in front of me as cause it's such a fucking waste of time and good resources. I am legitimately wasting tape and time, and the wear of my sneakers to enter this match knowing that you couldn’t commit to anything more than a solid 60% effort.

I want to just tell you I hate you- but that would require an effort on my behalf that I know will never be reciprocated in mind. It's pretty fucking sad really, you failed at even eliciting any kind of emotional response. I’m not even disappointed anymore…I’m just indifferent.

… and that's far worse than any love or hate.”




******



Undisclosed Downtown Bar
Philadelphia, PA
16.10.2021
10:06pm




Nobody was looking, yet it felt as though all eyes were on them.

It wasn’t as though they could just blend into a crowd- with her shock of crimson barely tamed and cascading down her back, Amber lazily drummed her fingers against the edge of the glass in hopes that maybe the booze would kick in soon and she’d stop caring so damn much. Mac on the other hand just drew an imposing image, his sweet nature buried beneath the harsh Texan exterior of a man prepared to take absolutely no shit. Even in heels, Amber barely scraped Mac’s shoulder although her resting bitch face seemed to make up more than enough of their difference.

A few stares were drawn as they arrived, the low lighting and mood music giving way to the faintly sickly sweet scent of cocktail liquors and faux lemon scented cleaning supplies. Sure, there were the usual murmurs between those who recognized them- trying to decide if they had enough health insurance to cover them should they try to approach Oblivion. Amber more so than Mac, if only for her seemingly ‘unpredictable’ reputation.
It wasn’t so much that she was unstable though, as many who’d cracked through the glacial exterior had come to know- it was the fact she just struggled to relate on a meaningful level with those outside the business. They smile and make small talk, their questions a variant wording on something she’d heard a thousand times before and everyone expected their answer to feel customized to them, that for a brief moment they got to see behind the curtain.

In truth, there was no curtain. Just a blunt and acerbic tinged nothing that came across as a little stand-offish and blasé.

After all these years, she contemplated in time with a lethargic jazz-esque tune, it still seemed almost foreign to the redhead that anyone might actually be excited to interact with her. She barely wanted to deal with herself most days and others were willing to pay for the privilege.
A few brave souls had approached as they’d set up camp at an elevated circular table, one against the wall where Amber could continue to survey the room and Mac could lean when the booze finally started hitting home. They’d introduced themselves as fans and mentioned off-handedly a couple of matches, moments that had become sentimental and contributed to their appreciation before waiting for a reaction as though Amber could rub together two brain cells and remember what she’d had for breakfast that day.

Smiles and small talk.

Fuck, maybe she really had died. That this was to be her eternal penance.

At least there were drinks. Granted they were way too overpriced for the amount of alcohol they presented- but this venture was never about getting fucked up. No, she could have done that cheaper and more efficiently in her hotel room and without the distinct prospect of rolling an ankle.
No, she’d asked. Insisted even, that they go out together. Veiling it as a chance to spend some time together in the midst of their chaotic schedules- Mac had been back and forth to Texas more frequently, since the funeral, it seemed like he spent more time saying goodbye to her than saying goodnight these days.
He’d been distant, a man on a mission without a word to share. Just lost, like he was now, staring through the bottom of a half-finished drink like the glassy surface would provide him with more than just a neon-induced headache.

Amber had tried to be supportive, her World Title hadn’t been displayed as prominently, instead stowed away until needed for public appearances and moved into her carry on luggage for travel. Salt in a wound that wasn’t healing- they hadn’t discussed it, but the air between them became thick anytime anyone asked for a picture or wanted to talk about how closely she was approaching that all important title defense record.
It hadn’t been her intention initially, coincidence perhaps that the matches kept stacking, that she hadn’t quite cracked entirely beneath the pressure yet. Win after win though, four… five… six… and now seven. God, it was becoming almost unheard of.

“Are you drinking that or staring at it till it empties itself out onto the floor…”

Swirling the remaining ice in her glass distractedly Amber knew that attempting levity wasn’t her strong point, her humour had always been based out of sarcasm and straight up venom. Dry and macabre like her reputation had become, Mac didn’t respond though- too busy having a deep and meaningful conversation with the bottom of his glass.
It had been her idea to come here. A step out of her usual comfort zone landing somewhere between a hare-brained attempt at keeping up appearances in the public eye and a hail mary to soothe her mounting paranoia.

Every couple argued. Every marriage had days where they’d barely exchange more than a couple of syllables, each trying to out cold shoulder the other. For Oblivion though, the days they shared were numbered to single digits a month it seemed- Amber had been so busy with travel, with corporate publicity bullshit and trying to keep her demons from encroaching on the rest of her life… and Mac had grown distant. Time at home was spent mostly at the garage despite the fact they’d taken less projects on otherwise he’d be out somewhere in Texas trying to find peace to grief among the ruins.

They were fine though. They had to be.

There wasn’t another option.

Amber had hoped that maybe this would soften Mac’s edges, that they could maintain their place as one of SCW’s ‘golden couples’ continually setting the standard of what a successful relationship in this godforsaken industry could look like. Instead though, he’d barely uttered more than a few words since they arrived- and most of them had been directed at the fans. Physically he was here, sure… but his mind, and maybe even his heart were deep in Texas.
Not that Amber was helping much- match after match had kept her on her toes, the match for High Stakes was weighing heavily despite the fact the odds still lay in her favour. She’d beaten both of them before, soundly, so why did it feel like the sands were shifting beneath her feet?

Five defenses had become six, and six had become seven.

She wasn’t prepared to lose it yet. Amber knew she;d worked too fucking hard to get this far, in the beginning the idea of taking on records had been spoken to generate hype… Make people believe that she took this shit seriously, that she wasn’t gonna be another paper champion falling to pieces in the first real storm they faced.
Except she kept on winning. Challenger after challenger, main event after main event. Snowball effect and now all of a sudden she was on the cusp of something that she’d spoken about simply to be a cocky asshole.

She’d never held a World Title this long before. It’d been unprecedented territory from defense two onwards- although she’d never dare admit that aloud for fear someone might see that her facade of cocky assurance was built on a cracked and crumbling foundation of ‘I have no fucking idea what I’m doing’.

Mac had always been so supportive- even on her worst nights when she couldn’t sleep or keep food down cause the nerves were so bad, when she could barely walk the day after cause she’d left half of herself splattered across the canvas, when she had nothing but doubts in the face of otherwise near guaranteed success- provided she could just hold it together a little longer…
Now it seemed like he cared from a distance, detached from their reality into an offshoot of his own- determined to right whatever wrongs plagued him and even more committed to doing it without her involvement.

Maybe Amber Ryan was the best wrestler in the world right now, but that was only because she had Mac.

Now it seemed like she had to start figuring out how to approach what was arguably the biggest match on the biggest show of the year, without him.

“I’ll get you another.”

If he responded, she didn’t hear it. A soft smile followed as her head drooped in brief resignation, she could poke and prod all night in hopes of him opening up- but she dared not chip away at the ice wall that seemed to be solidifying between them… instead, she reached across the table, her fingers gently prying his apart so that hers might slip through the cracks, drawing the first flickers of a smile from a man otherwise deep in thought.

“Soon.”

They’d be fine.

They had to be, and if Amber had her way, the world would never stand to know any differently.




******



“There are people that think I’m going to go out and use this match to send a message.

It's not one of those scrawled in a public bathroom stall about calling a number for a good time, it's not a message that drips down a subway wall in hopes of eliciting something from one of the thousands that barely even glance long enough to read someone's heartache slicked in stylised neon.
Maybe it's not even a message stained with the blood of someone who should never have gotten in the way…

Or maybe it is, that's really up to you to decide Seleana.

If I’m honest- I shouldn’t have to telegraph anything. I’m the fucking World Champion kiddies, I’m the one everyone else should be trying to vye for the attention of- all those sob stories and pity parties trying to make me well up, just so someone elses can bring me down at the knees.
It's not up to me to make anyone remember what matters- they already know.
I could easily do a lot of things, Seleana- I won’t pretend like I haven’t threatened to create orphaned children and widowed men from a sideways glance. I don't proclaim innocence of any violent charge levelled at me- to do so would be trite, a lie slipping through gritted teeth.

No, see I own every shitty thing I’ve done to get where I am… and I’ll continue to justify everything I’ll do to keep it.

To make you some kind of ‘message’ would insinuate I have any reason to draw further attention to myself- like I’m not already a beacon for assholes. It’s short sighted and small minded to think about, there is no gain for me to beat you any more decisively than I already will.
I’d call it the equivalent of beating a dead horse, but kiddies…we all know that horse really deserves better. Besides, it's clear that the only person coming to save you is far too wrapped up in these fascinating delusions brought on by bleach osmosis  that she couldn’t stop me if she tried- and I doubt you’ll do little more than throw your hands up and pathetically bleat from behind them begging for mercy as though that's not what I’m already doing.

See, unfortunately for you, I’m not like the postman… cause I always fucking deliver on Sundays.

Bad joke, still probably got a couple laughs cause it's true.

Truth is though, you really need this. Not just for your career, but to prove to yourself and your family that this is still worthwhile. That you still belong, not just a tired relic of a time when fucking anyone could be champion if they cared enough what anyone thought. That you still have something to offer outside of the last remnants of a decent legacy pinata…
You need a win in this match, or at the very least a showing that doesn’t make me wanna splatter your grandchildren's future DNA all over my breakfast. You need to save some kind of face in the same way that I need a coffee in the morning- minus the threats of homicide of course- cause I save those for the ring.

I just need to show up.

I wanna see you bring the Seleana Zdunich who used to walk around with her head held high, instead of waiting for someone else to do it for you… cause recently you’ve just been a wooden doll waiting for someone to stick their hand up your back so that you might say something worth listening to.
Ventriloquism is a dying art, don’t go ruining that for us as well…
That's the Seleana that I wanna see show up- not this bullshit facsimile. I wanna know if there's still a heart that still beats in your chest or a soul that screams for release cause lets be honest- I like to see the people  kick and thrash when I’m pulling them out of their chest.

Maybe I’m the angel of mercy this place really needed- going out night after godforsaken night and ending the agonizing suffering of those left to otherwise rot in the annals of a rose-tinted past.
You give advice freely to those you still consider beneath you- tell me though, do you think yourself better than me… Morally. Ethically. It's no secret Seleana  that you used to have quite the pedigree, but where did all that ‘do good’ ever get you?

Seriously though, I’m looking for a reason to give you the time of day. I want this to be more than just a throwaway on the path to a bigger showcase, more than another stepping stone ground to dust beneath my converses- what you need to understand though is that I can’t keep lifting everyone else up to my level either. Generosity only goes so far and I can’t wring blood from every stone I come across, just like I can’t pull a good match from someone who doesn’t seem to have the will to try.

What you need to fundamentally understand is that I want the best for this division, I have done so since I won this title and have made the same claim with every goddamn defense since- after all, there's no point being at the forefront if everything in my wake is withered and dying. Every person I have left in my wake has been better off for it, they’ve found that extra gear or a side of themselves they forgot existed- when it comes down to it, razing this division to the ground has been the best thing that's happened to it since Alicia Lukas remembered that she was actually a badass. Yeah it's been a little while, hasn’t it, kiddies...

See, come Climax Control I want you to bring all that fire you spit at Bea Barnhart last week… just maybe expect more than a few massacred idioms back. It's perfectly fine if you’ve already resigned yourself to losing- by now we can just consider that your natural state, like the multiverse version of Jessie Salco where she actually wins the big one for once.
You’re skipping down the garden path looking for something to revitalise your career and I’m the big bad wolf waiting for you to stray after you promise not to.

Maybe you could be the one to do the unthinkable- it could be you, it could be anyone to tell me what a big head I’ve gotten before you cut it off with a woodcutter's axe.

Except… Well, I’ve had more title defenses this year than you’ve had wins… so maybe let's just slow down on the hypotheticals before you actually start believing you have a chance.

You’ve been sinking faster than you can kick… so kick for me sweet girl, kcik while you still have the chance before I loose another anchor around your neck.
Not because I don’t wanna see you do better, quite the opposite in fact- I want the very best that you can give me, I want everything that brought you to this title to begin with cause when I beat you, and I sure as fuck will, I want there to be no doubt and no opportunity for your wife to drag your name any further through the mire than she already has.

I want better for you Seleana, even if you don’t want it for yourself- and if it means disassembling you piece by bloody piece, so that someone might put you back together in an actual meaningful way, then I’ll gladly get a little more blood and grit under my fingernails for the sake of this division.
If you don’t bring your best, if you happen to show up on Climax Control and dare to stand across from me and fucking disappoint me- I can promise you that you’ll wish you never took this match.

This is your opportunity to save some face Seleana, and I’d suggest you actually try- before I Picasso you so badly that even reconstructive surgery would no longer be a viable option.

Have a think about it, what else have you really got to lose?”




******



Oblivion Garage
Las Vegas, ND
14.10.2021
12:27pm



“I’m hearing a lot of jargon, all corporate doublespeak… You wanna dumb some of this down for us with the brain damage?”

Cassiopeia Mare smiled broadly in response to the familiar voice emanating from beneath a grey 1970 Dodge Charger, clearly still growing accustomed to the ‘blunt force trauma’ perspective that Amber wore like battle worn armour. In reality Cassie  knew that the redhead was far more clued in to everything than she let on and that the messily thrown verbal jabs were simply to cut through what she considered overwrought pretentiousness.
Optimistically, Cassiopeia straightened up and cocked her head to the side, trying to ignore the heavy metallic waft that seemed to mingle with the everpresent diesel fumes.

“As much as I appreciate your concerns and respect your intentions to proverbially ‘cut through the bullshit’...”

Amber summarily slid out from beneath the grey charger with a raised eyebrow as though expectantly waiting for the finish of the sentence. With tangled red hair pulled into a messy bun and her hands and arms streaked almost to the elbow in automotive filth, it was safe to say that Amber looked far from being World Champion material. Thankfully for her perhaps, wrestling as an industry had long since surpassed being a goddamn beauty contest.

“As much as you… yadda yadda… Let me guess something about my image and how important it is to show people I’m relatable in spite of the fact that you and I know that's very much the opposite. I built my image already Cassie, I’m not going to pretend to be someone else for a fucking Morning Show slot or magazine spread cause they don’t think I’m ‘family friendly’ enough.”

Uncoiling from her seated position, Amber found her feet unsteadily and drawing her forearm across her face to wipe away some errant beads of sweat dripping down the edge of her nose- only to accidentally streak whatever greasy, dark smear across her nose like war paint.

“No, wrestling at its core isn’t family friendly. We aren;t going out there putting on PSA’s and puppet shows- I’ll tell you now that the same parents that rebel against wrestling in the mainstream, R rated movies and sex education in schools are the ones with brats cyber bullying and selling shitty half-cut drugs to other teenagers. There is no rainbow filter to out over what we do- and to pretend anything else is absolute garbage.”

Another cheery smile followed that made Amber want to smack the blonde off Cassiopeia’s head. God, even just thinking about that name brought back a flood of memories- Atlantic City. A girl in a dirty flower dress. An angel with only one wing and a face worn indistinct. Five years was a long time to hold onto anything.
Cassiopeia. It just didn’t make sense…

“Whoever walks with the wise becomes wise, but the companion of fools will suffer harm. Proverbs 13:20.”

If five years were a long time, then nearly 15 was an eternity ago. Plainly dressed, Reverend Alistair McCrae exuded a charisma so fierce that it made Amber wanna go sit in the corner and punch herself in the face for half an hour just to cleanse her palatte. Otherwise unremarkable, Alistair circled around the edge of the Dodge Charger taking a few moments to admire the handiwork while still managing to keep Amber pinned to the spot.

“I hope you don’t mind the intrusion, however you have become quite the distinctly difficult young lady to find.”

“That's probably for good reason.”

Coldly, Amber’s rapid fire response seemed to catch McCrae off guard for a moment before the flicker of a smile tugged at the corners of his lip once more. Reflected in the wire framed glasses, Amber couldn;t help but see herself- confused, nearly alone and otherwise vulnerable. Kindly, he extended a friendly hand out towards Amber who stared at the gesture blankly for what felt like an hour.

“Never did pick you for the man willing to get his hands dirty.”

Mirthlessly Alistair's chuckle reverberated through the space, amused at the less than carefully chosen play on words.

“It is refreshing to see that in such a fast paced and ever changing world, that you’ve worked so hard not to change a bit. To most that might be considered a flaw, Ms Ryan. I tend to see it as a testament to your character, call it a gold star for determination if you will.
I’ll admit it's been quite a while and the last time… well, it turned out to be quite the messy affair.”

Amber swallowed hard, vividly recalling the night in question though there were anyway she might somehow forget it. It was the night she’d sworn she’d never cross paths with Dominic Del Gado again, swore off his kamikaze business venture and sworn off especially the way he’d done nothing but use Amber from day one, as though she hadn’t endeavored to do the same and simply got beaten to the punch. Literally.

“If you’re here on business, Reverend, then I’ll have to be the one to deliver such bad news that we aren’t taking on any further projects and jobs at the garage until potentially after new years. Although I’m sure God will be more than happy to start picking up some of the slack..”

“Business is pleasure Ms Ryan, many become addicts long after the point that the chemicals started changing in their bodies however they cannot be blamed for anything, but their crushing mainstream ignorance and warped sense of justice and entitlement.”

As spry and backhanded as ever, McCrae barely even acknowledged that Cassiopeia was still in the garage with more than just a fleeting nod of vague recognition.

“It's easy to accuse a spider of being evil however it's simply using its most base instincts to survive in the same way that a cow might chew on its cud much to the chagrin of vegans. Of course, no one expects anything different from them despite the fact their ‘choices’ might be viewed as inconsiderate or perhaps cruel.”

Something about the way he spoke seemed to carry unnecessary weight as though certain syllables were dragging, perhaps he spoke in exclamation marks while everyone else around him hushed their whispers.

“No one expects change from nature, yet it's expected from humans' cause we’re believed to be better than that. Unfortunately, it only works in theory as many fail to ever learn from their mistakes…Little birdies Ms Ryan, imagine my innate surprise when they tell me of what feels as though deja vu.”

Dominic. A list of businesses. Sabotage.

Oh god, it was all making too much sense.

Alistair smiled through gritted teeth, the distinguished and famous televangelistic exterior was far from a perfect mask for the ruthless, hard nosed businessman underneath however the cracks only seemed to show up close, where no one ever got to see them.

“No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man. God is faithful, and he will not let you be tempted beyond your ability, but with the temptation he will also provide the way of escape, that you may be able to endure it. Corinthians 10:13.
I cannot blame you though for considering temptation Ms Ryan- as admirable as ever, and determinedly narrow sighted as your intentions might be, I cannot simply allow them to… stand.”

Another hard swallow felt as though razorblades dragged down the edges of her throat, making the twitch under her eye visible and prominent. Uncontrollable like the bubbling in her veins.

“Consider this a charity Ms Ryan. Everything you’ve been offered, in exchange for doing absolutely nothing… Young Mr Del Gado has proven more than once that he is perfectly agreeable with leaving on his own terms- now normally the ‘God’s word’ wouldn’t condone such things- but an eye for an eye, without ever drawing blood.
I’m an advocate for peace, Ms Ryan. I trust you won’t have me show the lengths to which I’d go to keep it.”

Swiftly and without a parting word, Alistair McCrae took his leave, taking silence as compliance before she could quite fathom how he could have possibly known… even she didn’t. It was just names of places, minimal detail for maximum benefit of the doubt. Coincidence, Dominic had told her, a breadcrumb trail only for those who understood where it was supposed to lead… a trail that hadn’t even started before she found herself at a goddamn tipping point.

Fucking bastard.

It was only as Amber sunk back to the floor in a dawning realization, coiled messily in a tangle of limbs, did she finally remember that Cassiopeia Mare had witnessed the whole fucking exchange… with a bright, idealistic smile.

“Already today I hit you twice. Once I knocked the wind out of you, once I knocked the consciousness out of you. Here you are back the third time. You call that smart?”
― Richard Stark, The Jugger



Undisclosed Bar
Somewhere in Southern California
17.05.2009
10:03pm



Amber had never considered it possible to be so in love with someone, and yet still manage to despise them with every fibre of her being.

Yet here she was, sipping on something that had far more alcohol content than what it tasted like and tinged an unnatural pink that she knew would leave her with cotton mouth in the morning, watching Dominic Del Gado schmoozing it up like he’d done it all his life.
Maybe he had. Not that it mattered, everything seemed so heady and indistinct around the edges- bass thundering and drowning out whatever sound they’d tried to pass off as music and a thin veil of artificial smoke seemed to waft through bodies without a source.

Business and pleasure weren’t supposed to mix, but damn it was hard not to find pleasure in business when everything felt so… so …ugh, words. It’d almost become a routine by now, the last two or so years spent almost perfecting the art of wrecking havoc before the dust settled. Jacks of all dirty hands trades, keeping those with more expensive manicures out of the mire for a quietly pretty little fee…
That was the thing with most businessmen of a certain level, they wanted for nothing that money could buy and yet couldn’t stand to see anyone else rise to their standing along with them- as though the idea of shared wealth and influence were offensive.

No, the mountain top was a solitary place and every broken dream left beneath their feet only seemed to elevate their opinion of themselves.

Amber didn’t mind the work so much, running her tongue across her teeth idly, after all she’d spent years playing off petty theft and minor criminal convenience as extra pocket money while cage fights, pit fights and every other malevolent form of entertainment came later as money had become tighter.
Dominic had connections, ties to those with interests in services they might render- and Amber had just enough lack of a conscience to oblige when necessary.
Besides, professional wrestling wasn’t quite paying the bills she’d expected yet- sure a few promising results had gone in her favour, but bookings weren’t frequent enough and the pay packets seemed a little lighter than she’d been promised.

For now, just on the side… maybe she’d be able to stomach the hungry looks and demeaning side eyes that lingered a little too long on a hem line not quite long enough. Long enough to make every lingering stare worthwhile despite the fact no one had come within 10 feet of her since she’d walked through the door- and not cause she was still a month shy of turning 21… but because she’d shown up with him.

Laser focused, but wearing the lazy kinda smirk that just begged for all the wrong kinds of attention- she watched Dominic sidle up between some businessmen , their tie clips glimmering obscenely as an understated gesture of wealth while carefully groomed jawlines seemed a half second faster than the top half of their face. Small talk, introductions- if she weren’t so hazy, she’d probably have tried to lip read whatever spout of bullshit flowed from his lips like sweet honeyed wine- as though she didn’t already know the ‘script’.

Business and pleasure, such a forbidden and profitable taboo.

Yeah, they were using each other. They both knew it- but revelled in it’s profits regardless.

Deep down, while swallowing another sip of sugary facsimile pink, Amber mused about the eventual day he would come crawling to her doorstep, just begging for what they once had all the while she revelled in hard earned successes fought between rope and canvas.
One day she’d no longer need him in the same way he’d said he needed her breathlessly amid tangled sheets.

One day, she’d be able to take all of this… and throw it back in his fucking face.

Across the bar, an errant sideways glance dragged her posture back towards upright from the cliche ‘pretty, bored girl in a bar waiting for a mysterious stranger to approach’ trope that she’d lazily fallen into automatically. Flanked by two of the seemingly enthralled clients that he’d woven is web of promises and potential over-exaggerations, the group approached with drinks in hand and conversation flowing freely.
Straightening up, she still found herself dwarfed despite being in uncomfortably high heels that may or may not have been stuck to the floor- their smiles remained expensively generic and yet something about them simply oozed something oily and smug.

Dominic sidled up beside her, his fingers lacing around the edge of her hip. Flinching beneath his touch, it took almost everything Amber had not to bite through the edge of her lip in annoyance- a fact not lost on Dominic as his fingertips seemed to dig in a little further against the satin of her dress.

“Gentlemen, I’d like you to meet my associate…”

Associate. If she thought her voice might escape her throat- she would have screamed in fury and thrown the remaining dregs of her drink across the front of Dominic’s linen shirt. Without her, he had nothing… without him, at least she still had a burgeoning career and an opportunity to do better.
Which only left her with the bitter after taste of the question of ‘why hadn’t she’.

Amber extended a hand politely as she quickly realized that Dominic had left her high and dry- normally he dominated the conversation, laced his tendrils through every facet of interest that might be expressed and squeezed them for every drop that he might extract.
One after the other they spoke politely and without emotion, handshakes firm without being crushing as though their masculinity wasn't defined by how hard they could squeeze, the only distinct thing about them remained their composed demeanors as the night continued to throw temptation to the wind.

“Amber… A pleasure I’m sure.”

Asher and Elijah. Quite possibly the only men who didn’t seem disappointed as Amber once again played tug of war with the hem of her dress and lost dramatically. Returning their pragmatic smiles, Amber cocked her head slightly while silently hoping that she managed to convey that from beneath the heavy facade of makeup- cause apparently ‘bruises didn’t inspire confidence’.

You know, as if she’d had much say in the matter to begin with of course.

“Amber... sweetheart…”

God, it was almost ugly the way the word rolled off his tongue and yet she didn’t dare slip from his grasp.

“These gentlemen have expressed somewhat of an interest in some of the services we provide, on behalf of their employer.”

Neither Asher nor Elijah responded, their larger frames seemingly making Dominic insignificant in comparison despite barely being an inch taller than the swarthy silver tongued devil. Expressionless outside of their polite smiles, it was becoming borderline unnerving however Dominic seemed oblivious- if only because he was a shark that smelled blood in the water.

“Well, that does seem very fortunate and opportune for us… doesn’t it, darling?”

Amber dargged the last syllable while lacing her fingers across Dominic’s hand, sound rolled off the edge of her lips drenched in passive aggressive vitriol as she dug her fingernails into the skin folds of his knuckles. All the while, Amber maintained her polite yet aloof amusement. To his credit, Dominic didn’t react openly, however every small win mattered in such a war of attrition and this was a blow well struck- one that would no doubt help her sleep for the next week should she be so lucky.

“So it seems, and these delightful gentlemen are willing to set up an appointment for us...”

Amber paused, she’d gone over what felt like a thousand times with Dominic that she had important matches upcoming, bookings that seemed like blue moon occurrences that could be a potential foot in the proverbial door and yet… a small part of her almost sensed in advance that Dominic was about to get his notch on the bedpost back from her fingernails stunt.

“I was thinking maybe Monday in two weeks perhaps?”

Clearing her throat, Amber subtly drove her fingernails a little deeper in hopes they might soon be stained crimson.

“Ah, it might just be an appointment you attend without me then as I have prior arrangements- that we had already discussed.”

Sweet and entirely murderously, Amber caught Dominic’s eye with a glare that matched the malice that soaked through every word.

“Oh, but were you not saying just the other day how we should jump upon every opportunity that presents itself?”

She hadn’t said that. She hadn’t said anything close to that, but now she couldn’t deny it without looking like an asshole. Clenching her teeth, Amber bit her tongue and hoped that the force of her growing fury might not split it in two.
If the men standing across from them, drinks firmly clenched in hand yet untouched, had noticed the blatantly destructive social cues then they had very politely ignored them in favour of businesslike professionalism.

“Mr McCrae would be delighted to make your acquaintances, no doubt.”

“Well, it’s settled then. Shall we discuss the finer details somewhere a little more… well, fitting?”

“It's been a pleasure Miss.”

Asher was the first to respond as Dominic finally untethered his hand from her hip, while Amber silently clawed at every millimeter of flesh she might catch with her nails. Placing an unscathed hand on the back of Elijah’s shoulder, Dominic gestured the pair of men away- murmuring something about fruitful partnerships and potential networking connections leaving Amber to try and adjust the bottom of her dress and unstick her stilettos from the floor.

Watching the men disappear through a different door, Amber allowed herself a much needed scowl as she forcefully swallowed down the last blush tinted saccharine dregs- slamming the glass down onto the counter top as it smashed to pieces in her grasp.

McCrae.

Amber couldn’t quite figure out why the name tickled at the back of something resembling memory, a sugar rush no doubt clouding whatever judgement and decision making ability she’d had left. Resonating a fraction out of time with bass that seemed to vibrate through her bones- the world seemed to cock a little to one side without her ever moving her head, the floor slanted in just enough of a tilt that she found herself white knuckling the bar to stay upright for a fleeting moment.

Perhaps something a little stronger might eventually pry something free…clear her head… unfuck the room a little.

Or at the very least help her find wherever the hell her spine seemed to have ended up.



******


“Grand slam Jessie.

Got a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? A familiar tinnitus as that's all that seems to be tied to your name in a positive light these days- personally I hate to shit on peoples aspirations, however if I stood here and told every opponent how great I thought they were then I’d likely have given up my right to the title long ago.

That being said, you’ve come a long way from our first encounter- although just seeing a tub of ice cream still gives me this warm sense of pride deep within the cold, heartless void of my chest.

No, credit where credit is indeed due. You’ve done more, been more since then… or so I’ve been told.

I mean you’ve made great progress right? Finally set yourself in a direction and heavens almighty are you sticking with it- heres the issue with directionality though that seems to get a little overlooked.
It’s not always forward, surethats the connotation but in reality backwards or sideways are equally viable, or in your very special and very specific case Jessie… so is straight down.

It's no secret that you’ve been here basically longer than damn near anyone else on the roster- it's just a shame that you’ve basically turned that into a punchline. You know, someone new walks in the door and you tell them to make sure you don’t pull a Jessie Salco. I believe that’s where you become a lifer, but have so little to show for it that you might as well be a custodian or part of the ring crew for all that it really matters.

You know as well as I do how we got to this place- match after match, title shot after title shot and just when it looks like the tides might be turning, you remember just who the fuck you are and come careening back to the bottom of the barrel again.
I mean it could be a lot worse- you could have short term memory loss like Bea Barnhart who talks such a big game against absolutely everything with a pulse, gets obliterated by a ratty broom then promptly disregards the fact the match ever happened.

Yeah, pretend like that world title qualifier didn’t happen.

Don’t think I haven’t forgotten the utter garbage you rambled about, acting like anyone- including your husband who seems capable of winning the occasional match- believed that you weren’t just cannon fodder for the masses.

No Jessie, you haven’t quite stooped that low yet.

Maybe if you’re lucky you won’t ever.

That being said, right now- you’re at square one wondering just how many more times you can pull these big time contingencies and hope spots from between your cheeks before your left standing at catering by yourself wondering why your hands smell off-putting.
You’re running out of good will Jessie, as endearing as your story might be- but feel good doesn’t do fuck all, as I’ve so very well proven since I walked in here and took my shot at Roxi.
Besides, you know as well as I do that some of the girls are getting bitter- I mean you cut in on a line they didn’t even realize they were in and the worst part?

Worst part is that it's going to be for absolutely nothing.

I’m sure it’d be real easy to be like ‘third times a charm’, something something law of averages. Stranger things have indeed happened- like real audience members have actually cheered Christina Rose despite the fact her identity disorder is very obviously a cry for help. Not even just the thousand and thirty six members of her and her wifes extended family- REAL FANS Jessie.
That's some stranger than fiction shit right there.

… that's the thing isn’t it.

You very well could beat me.

But you won’t.

… and I can tell you exactly why.

Odds are, you probably havent even realized that you even do this yet.

Before the match has even taken place, before you even peek out from behind that curtain to embrace and accept what is surely a forgone conclusion- you’ve already made a backup plan. You’ve already accepted that theres a chance of losing and you’ve created a contingency for what happens next.
What that tells me Jessie, is that even you don’t fucking believe you can beat me… You’re already worrying about which heavy metal album releases next, who’s nipping at your heels in the SCW Bombshell pecking order and whether another run at the Internet title might be on the cards.

Oh, don’t get me wrong… I think it's absolutely delightful that you’re so organized.

It's just… it means you don’t take this seriously. Not enough anyways. You’re so much more concerned with your image and the fallout that you haven’t even braced for impact, choosing to stock a storm shelter you’ll never userather than  taking cover back in your house of straw.
You’ve taken the opportunity to move on before the match has ever taken place. How do you expect me to consider you a real threat to my title when you’ve already mentally checked out in favour of something a little more… achievable.

When it comes down to it- you’re another ‘aim for the moon and land among the stars’ analogy, except you forgot to pack a space suit and you’ve got about thirty seconds to give me a reason not to rip you apart in a vacuum before your existence is snuffed out.
Most of that locker room will argue that you don’t deserve this shot- and arguably, ona  fundamental level, they’re probably right… but see they aren’t the powers that be and they sure as fuck aren’t the champion otherwise I have some serious issues going on upstairs.

If people who ‘deserved’ a shot were the only ones to ever recieve them- then it’d be the full time dregs with their sob stories and underdog tales of rising to every challenge would take centre stage, everyones pity party laid out on the table to be rifled through to see who is the most tragic. It’d be the assholes who seem to win on a minor stage then blow it under the spotlights repeatedly getting chance after chance cause they won just enough matches to keep them ahead of the next try-hard doing exactly the same thing.

Deserving a title shot is a revolving door of inevitability.

I don’t believe people deserve a title shot for showing up- I believe in giving it to those who prove they want it badly enough. Who are willing to give, who are willing to sacrifice just for the chance to say they tried and failed. I’d much rather eventually lose to someone who absolutely worked their ass off to be better than me on the night, than just keel over out of fucking boredom and let some lucky asshole on their fifteenth attempt get a sneaky little pin while the medics perform CPR.

So make the most of your shot Jessie, really savor everything it has to offer cause whether it's a food fight, ultraviolence fight, standard catch as catch can fight or some fucking petting-zoo-glitter-bomb-chocolate-pudding-rainbow-sparkler-upsidedown cake-extravaganza match… It doesn’t change fact. It doesn’t change who you are, what you’ve done and the direction that you’ve already pre-chosen.

I mean, I won’t lie… I’m fucking pissed about the stupid goddamn gimmick and I’d tell Candy to her face if she didn’t run screaming everytime she saw me down the far end of a corridor- but it doesn’t change the here and now. Besides, I’ve got plenty of time to be annoyed about it after I’m done scraping the last of the whipped cream and sprinkles off my title plate…
In the grander scheme of things, this little ‘stipulation’ means absolutely nothing- kinda like the perfect analogue for your career to date and arguably the subtitle for your 23 page career autobiography where you detail all six of those wins you’ve had since the last time you were champion.

See, you’ll come into this match as the odds on underdog, a house of fire with nothing to lose and everything supposedly to gain... and you’ll leave just the same way- only with a few more bruises on your ego for the fucking gall of it.
Keep on shooting your shot Jessie, just don’t point it towards someone who outguns you on every meaningful level maybe...

Breathe in and breathe out, yeah deep breaths just to make all this feel real. I want you to really take this all in and revel in what could one day be- cause this really is it… This is your proverbial freebie, your pity opportunity, your bluff called and raised on the table, your golden chance to take everything anyone has ever said about you and your incredible choke artistry and shove it straight back down their throats.

This is what it comes down to… everything you’ve ever wanted.

… and honestly? I’m not even going to feel bad when I turn those hopes and dreams to cinder between your fingers. Again.”



******


Vegas Airport
Las Vegas, NV
26.08.2021
7:28am



Just smile with your eyes.

It isn’t that hard.

Surely.

Amber adjusted her facemask slightly as fervent and ecstatic thank yous and middling praises were left hanging as another pair of fans disappeared back into the terminals midst. She couldn’t help but quietly admit that she at least appreciated the subtle artform in only having to emote from the cheekbones up as fans threw up hand gestures with broad grins hidden behind fabric facades.
It wasn’t as though she hated the fan interaction, if anything the idea that anyone considered themselves a ‘fan’ of hers to begin with still remained a foriegn concept, if only cause they’d unlocked the secret to liking her that she hadn’t quite figured out.

Across from her, quietly content with watching the world pass them by, Mac sipped away at a coffee cup that seemed far too small in his calloused hands. He seemed to enjoy the road life as much as she did, his ability to socially adapt somehow made the more daunting aspects of travel feel far easier- and her vaguely control freak nature kept them efficient and targetted.
While they both loved working out of Vegas, if only for the fact that they’d had some semblance of time occasionally to devote to the garage, the idea of stepping back out into the greater landscape filled Amber with a sense of exhilaration and independence.
It's just the whole belt thing was a bit of a nuisance.

Not that she’d have changed it for the world, her foot nudged softly against her carry-on bag finding the faceplates upper edge. Fans always asked to see it, as though in disbelief that they actually carried a physical embodiment of their achievement, while others were determined to live out a fantasy that seemed all too far out of reach.
Mac was always the more agreeable one on such matters, as if there were any surprise. Dragging his SCW World Heavyweight title from the clutches of his beat up duffel (that she’d told him more than once to just throw out cause it was practically falling apart at the seams) always got the reaction and admiration it so properly deserved- the ohhhs and the ‘can I touch/hold it’ questions seemingly endless.

He endeared himself in the way a champion was supposed to.

In the way that Amber couldn’t bring herself to oblige.

Deer in headlights stares would follow as her reluctance would bubble up to the surface, perhaps so used to the request just being acquiesced to- many couldn;t comprehend why the answer wasn’t automatically what they wanted.
It wasn’t as though they didn’t deserve to see her SCW Bombshells World title, it was the fact that the belt deserved a far greater spotlight than shitty airport lighting. It deserved to be centre stage, the prime focus rather than some fucking novelty pulled out for a quick rubberneck. Eventually she’d cave in- and always after a knowing glance from Mac- and the fans would leave with their pictures and stories about how much larger than life the ‘golden couple’ really were.

Back into her bag the title would then go, nestled atop her gear. Earlier in her career, she’d probably have just checked it all in and given a non-chalant shrug- however a gear mishap with an airline losing her luggage within the first few matches in her career left her scrambling to fit into someone elses sparkly hot pants in hopes that she didn’t jeopardise future opportunities.
Admittedly it had also been at a distracting time- when personal and professional lines were blurred beyond the point of a recognizable change. Stardom and success seemed laid out at her feet, stretching into the distance and little things like ‘keeping ones gear with them’ seemed so incredibly minor in comparison to the side business scheming and in ring notoriety building.

“Y’know you’re actually allowed to smile under there Red.”

Garnering a little half smirk, Amber said nothing at first, allowing the man in her life to revel in this easy victory.

“Give me a reason and I’ll consider it.”

A small chuckle followed, unable to stay morbidly serious for too long in Mac’s undeniably charming presence. He put her at ease, made her a better person… a better champion. If it wasn’t so fucking obvious, she might have tried to pinch herself in the hope it wasn’t just another concussion.

“You mean spending time with me isn’t enough?”

In mock offense, Mac took a long sip of coffee.

“Seems like I need to up my game.”

Running her fingers through the tangled mess of hair trying to hang over the side of her face, Amber gave Mac a knowing eyebrow raise.

“We’re married remember, things aren’t as easy as they used to be. Besides- bullshit gimmick week seems to have finally caught up with us. Well, me at least…”

A loud exhaling laugh emanated from somewhere deep in Mac’s chest, hearty and warming as though filling the air around him with delight.

“Ha! You trying to tell me you’d rather do the glitter nonsense… even after that match with Roxi.”

She didn’t need reminding, but he brought it up regardless. Amber’s last encounter with glitter had also been the site of her last singles loss in the company- the second of three matches against the hero, cementing her place in the Bombshells hierarchy.
Glitter. Ugh. Even now the memory left a bad taste in her mouth, worse than the sludgy mess no doubt left in the bottom of her coffee cup now she’d let it start to get cold.

“Least yours gets to be a death match. Besides, a few hundred showers and you’ll get that shit off…I always did wonder what your beard would look like with a little sparkle.”

Gimmicks were a part of wrestling. Always had been, always would be- simply a way to drum up interest in something that could otherwise be seen as pedestrian in a world where violence was the status quo. Most of the time there was a reason though, something undeniable in the way that two people wanted to hurt each other for a perceived disagreement.

“Food though… I could be smelling like cake and mashed potatoes for weeks potentially. Nah, fuck this bullshit- I’d have rathered all this just to be straight up and let the limelight shine on where it really matters.”

Violent Conduct. Myra Rivers. Again.

It wasn’t as though Amber was looking past Jessie, but the looming shadow wasn’t exactly difficult to miss either.

“Never would I thought I’d hear the day that you of all people would be upset about a match without rules.”

“That's the thing though, it's not really a match, is it?
A food fight isn't inherently related to what we do- it's an exhibition you put on when two people aren’t good enough to stand on their own and make magic happen between those ropes. In this case it's a crutch for two people who are perfectly capable of walking without assistance- we’re being hobbled in the same way the gimmick would usually be wielded to help and disguise.
Death matches I understand- it has history, it has meaning. You say those words and you know what to expect, even if there happens to be glitter on literally everything.”

A long sigh escaped the Bombshells champion, her foot idly tracing against the edge of the faceplate inside her bag.

“I get it. I really do, the fans are fucking weird like that… I guess just for once I’d have liked something a little more… conventionally macabre?”

A slight inflection at the end of her sentence caught even Amber a little off guard.

“Like, we’re going into the most violent Supercard of the year… I’m going out there and defending my world title in a fucking prop match. If they wanted things to get a little crazy- all they had to do was ask…”

With her eyes falling back to her coffee cup and a new set of fans approaching, nervously excited while practically tripping over the words in their head, Amber murmured quietly with a faint hiss.

“Besides, a little blood never hurt anyone.”

WRITERS NOTE: This first flashback sequence is an immediate continuation from the one featured in 'The Business of Personal Business', so if you haven't read that oen the this one might be a little harder to follow in places.
Otherwise I hope you enjoy, and to Myra and Cross- good luck <3





“Here he is, the man who knows things and who should want to help me. But it is so hard to bring up things with any weight at all to a man like this. A man like this doesn’t have real conversations.”
― Megan Abbott, Die a Little




Undisclosed Hotel
Woodstock, VA
04.11.2006
11:37pm



Another shove, rattling and violent.

It was desperation now as her strength wavered against the stopping power of well crafted Italian leather shoes that seemed far too grown up for the boy wearing them.
Amber snarled something, although it didn’t really come out as words- instead she doubled down, biting into her lip out of instinct before the flash of lukewarm iron spilled across her tongue and started dribbling just a little down her chin.

“Come on Amber, you’re being unreasonable.”

Dominic Del Gado edged his foot further into the space, finding a little more purchase as the strain in Amber’s bruised and battered body took its toll. Spite was no doubt a powerful motivator, but it wasn’t a long term solution.
She could imagine it now, a common sight for a place like this perhaps, a well dressed 17 year old boy trying to force his way into a room that he obviously wasn’t welcome in- around here though, no one would intervene even if they did walk past.
Personal business stayed that way and nobody here was paying enough to be bothered by the muffled grunts and expletives of yet another domestic dispute.

“I really don’t understand why you’re so adamant about not hearing me out.”

In all honesty, Amber hadn’t really considered much of anything outside of being petty and inconvenienced. Dominic walked around with his head held so high he had little other choice, but to look down his nose if he wanted to see where he was going- and wore privilege like it was last year's trendiest laundry basket. Maybe it was just the idea of him wanting anything from her, or somehow ending up in service like some blood splattered pawn trying to ignore all the dried puddles of red staining the board.
No, the only thing someone like Del Gado would ever want from her was something that money couldn’t buy…

“... Cause you’re a stubborn asshole who can’t understand someone not wanting to grovel at your feet.”

A small chuckle crept through the door as he eased off slightly, as though her perspective was some kind of minor epiphany.

“Is that what you think this is… Don’t you think that if I just wanted a yes man, I’d pick someone who doesn’t punctuate it by telling me to go fuck myself. Honestly, I wouldn’t be standing here arguing with you if I didn’t think it was worth both our time.”

There was something oily about his words, something vaguely unsettling about the way that they left a residue smeared across her logical thinking. Now felt like the perfect opportunity to slam the door down and the idea of him going to pay someone to polish out whatever scuff it might leave was a small, albeit kinda pathetic, win on her part. Now felt like just the moment to prove how she’d grown into her backbone, that she’d become just as prickly on the inside as she had out, that a few choice words and the illusion of choice wouldn’t allow him to just walk in like he…

… and he was already halfway across the sparsely decorated room before Amber found her wherewithal once more. Hand still resting on the door, while her brain frantically tried to compute the blank spot in her immediate memory. Just a moment of time, mere seconds perhaps- brief yet rather poignant and now entirely lost in a blur she could no longer remember finding herself lost in.

In spite of his social status, he said nothing of the sparsity of the room nor it's woefully outdated decor and cigarette smoke stained carpets instead just briefly rubbing the sole of his shoe into a small burnt patch that crunched slightly under his weight.
Amber, on autopilot closed the door softly whilst trying to put the pieces together, the momentary loss of time almost more worrying that the fact she was now alone with Dominic Del Gado and she had no reasoning to either problem.

“Look, I know you just well enough Amber, that you like to earn your money. Granted I’m sure you’re perfectly capable of getting punched in the face time and time again for it, I like to think that it might grow thin eventually- what if though, I could offer you something steady. Something far more real than the promises of a wannabe tough guy trying to play bookie.”

Amber didn’t move from the door, watching through narrowed eyes as the 17 year old conducted himself like a businessman more than two decades into his trade.

“You sound exactly like the guys you’re telling me you’re better than. Besides, there are a thousand other no-names who’d give you their right nut for the same bone you’re trying to throw me.”

“There are indeed, but you have a work ethic that surpasses their highest potential. Besides, we both know there's little future in all this fighting nonsense- you have all of this potential, yet you’re so determined to waste it on what exactly…”

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Amber could hear the springs straining and bending as Dominic bounced gently to gauge it's support- his poker face briefly betraying a vague disgust before the torrent of slick syllables flowed from his lips once more.
He wasn’t wrong, there were plenty of other ways of getting paid that didn’t involve waking up, feeling like she’d been hit by a train- but it was hers…
That being said though- trying to explain the bruises to Cassidy, without falling into a full blown argument, was getting tougher. Hell, even in spite of Grizz’s insistence that she’d eventually get picked up by a professional organization- she couldn’t help but wonder if it was simply another act of false hope to buoy her spirits, a carrot dangling just that little too far out of reach… Placating in hopes that maybe she’d simply just be happy with what she had.

“Besides- as good a mechanic as you might be, you know for being a girl and all, there are few beyond this collection of shoddy tents and death traps who’ll take you seriously… and that criminal record of yours, that doesn't just go away Amber. People look down their noses at the smallest whiff of delinquency so you have to wonder what it is you have to lose?”

Discontent with the state of the bed, Dominic stood slowly whilst adjusting his posture and brushing a few errant creases out of his shirt.

“What I’m offering you Amber, sweetheart, is something that you might not ever end up getting without my help… A real life. Not just some blurry existence on the fringes, but something legit.”

Amber wasn’t sure why she hadn't seen it earlier, maybe the faint haze around the edges of her vision had sunk further beneath her skin or that she’d been so determined to block him out that the now less than subtle nuances of his body language glowed a garish neon with realization.
Approaching, he stood only a few inches taller- but his presence left her drowning in his shadow, he extended a hand out to her as though convinced she’d see the world through his particular lens now she’d been given a glimpse.

Pity. That’s what she felt radiate off him, that she could almost taste on his cologne. All he saw was a fucking charity case he could keep under his thumb, right where he could see her and squash any fuse that burned a ltitle too close to her powder keg personality.
Maybe he really thought he could help her, that he was doing something good- but the way he looked at her made her wanna lose the last dregs of bile her stomach clung to.

“That's all well and good, but you seem to be forgetting something.”

“Oh?”

Sucking in all the air she might manage without choking it down, Amber straightened herself up as far as she could in an effort to exhibit some form of self-authority.

“I like this fighting shit Dominic. I guess I like getting my face kicked in and burying my fist through someone else's teeth gives me the kind of satisfaction that people pay good money for. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I’m not exactly a pet project that you can polish up and put on your mantelpiece nor do I intend to sit by your feet patiently waiting for instruction.
If I’m honest Dominic, and this is with all due respect… but I think I’d rather die a nobody than be rebuilt as anyone's charity case."

Clearing her throat, Amber steeled her glare.

"Now if you wouldn’t mind…”

Not even bothering to gesture for the door, the pair simply stared past each other for a moment as though daring the other to be the first to break.

“You’ve had a rough night. Just… just think about it maybe.”

Piercing blue green into a rich espresso brown, Dominic’s gaze softened as a half smile crept from the corner of his mouth as he took his empty outstretched hand and laid it on Amber’s shoulder just long enough so that he might gently squeeze it as he passed her by.

“It’s just, I’d hate for you to end up making a decision you might regret”

Whether he meant for her to hear or not became quickly irrelevant as the sound of the door opening and promptly closing at her back punctuated whatever thoughts she might have managed to spark, and now alone again, Amber couldn’t ignore the return of the nausea and radiating ache from behind her eyes- only this time the pangs and knots in her guy weren’t from the fights or the stench of cheap, warm beer in her nose… but this niggling, nagging idea at the base of her skull that maybe...

… maybe she had made a mistake.




******




“Can you feel it?

Theres electricity in the air and it isn’t just because someones been fucking with the power plugs again, no… theres this feeling of anticipation building cause opportunity is at stake, a chance to be on of the biggest shows of the year instead of waiting in the wings as just another spectator.
It's real easy sometimes to forget that for some- this is a blue moon occurrence, this isn’t just a given and that every moment spent in that ring has been scratched and clawed for and that all the hard work can somehow be validated simply by a spot on the card before the potential outcomes are ever mentioned.

See, it's a little strange to me cause for the last year or so… there hasn’t really been a big show without some form of representation from this tag match. Time after time, we’ve shown up and made everything better for us being there- Mac Bane, Mark Cross, Myra Rivers… and yours truly. Main event after main event, show stealing moment after show stealing moment and accomplishment piled upon accomplishment to the point we may as well start getting disqualified from these discussions otherwise no one else will ever get a mention.

… and yet the powers that be, they take all this information. They take a year and somehow manage to roll it into a match given away for free- it's actually rather impressive when you consider it.

Here’s the thing though, they couldn’t just let us be… they had to go and incentivise it.
Ladies and gentlemen, kiddies of all ages allow me to explain something that you will only understand once you’ve been to the top of the mountain- you don’t get where we are without always wanting more.
There’s no such thing as enough, cause the things you always thought would satisfy always seem to leave a little space that you can't fill, there's always a void demanding it's fill and a taste you can't quite wash off your tongue.

Now this might be the point where everyone starts salivating at the prospect of Myra and I verbally eviscerating each other before we ever get on the damn boat, this is where you’d expect me to start saying that whiles she good, I’m better and all the usual crap that comes with walking around ten pounds heavier on one side. 
Thing is though, everything Myra has said about respect so far… She’s not wrong.

Shock and horror, please pick your jaws up from the floor cause it hasn’t been mopped in weeks.

Seriously though, few people in this industry can walk up to a microphone and tell the world they respect me and have me believe it- and as such, out of the very same nature of respect… I’ll refrain from saying anything too inflammatory.
Maybe some will call it cheap, but the fact of the matter is that Myra deserves my full attention and at the Supercard, she gets that. Undivided and honest to a fault, she deserves to hear what I might have to say without distraction and disruption…

Besides, our match is winner take all, so why mince words when there’s nothing yet at stake.

This match, however, does pose it's conundrums- and to say I’m intrigued is a vast understatement. Each team is logistically at odds with their partner yet forced to work in cohesion for the sake of momentum- if it weren’t genius I’d almost call it cruel.

Or was I thinking of it the other way around…

Of course everyone wants to win, but to do so as a bystander almost feels like getting pushed on a swing by a kick between the legs. That's the thing, wants to be the one to win the match, to say they have that advantage and that they were the ones to earn their match the rightful top spot- as though it's not already well claimed as ours to begin with.
We face a conundrum with little answer and to anyone who says they can work as a unit and not care if they aren’t the ones to actually win the match- then they’re a fucking liar and deserve to take the proverbial ‘L’.

Sure, this might be framed as a tag team match but I’ll be damned if we aren’t a bunch of individuals in this situations trying to play for our own marbles, where out interests loosely collide with someone close by. As far as I see it, the sooner we accept this, then the sooner we can differentiate why it is the women- as per now the norm- absolutely deserve the main event spot.
Fact is, and I’m sure Myra would hesitantly agree with me- we’ve taken titles that were driven into the ground and made them worthwhile, we went from mid card snoozefests to record breaking and must see while the poor guys are still trying find their feet again after one too many nose dives.

Of course, it's not necessarily their fault. Sometimes they get a little too preoccupied with pissing up a wall to remember that it only really matters when you do it between the ropes.
Oh, don’t get me wrong- I’d be immensely proud if Mac managed to get into that main event, and I know better than most how greatly he deserves that opportunity- however, he also knows that I won’t simply stand aside cause he asks me nicely to.
Between you all and me, I’d just as soon kick my darling husband in the face to get the match I want as I would anyone else on this roster- maybe that makes me an asshole, but it also makes me a fucking professional who understands what that spot on the card truly means.

You see, we are called Oblivion for a reason- it's not some cutesy pun-worthy name or something to be picked apart by playground vultures still trying to learn how to string together an original insult. We came together almost by accident while trying to avoid the career abyss that threatened to pull us under, we fell in love under the constant pressure of our lives threatening to crumble around us on any given day and we’ve spent the last few years of our careers being told that whatever we’d done elsewhere meant nothing. That we were irrelevant until proven otherwise, just more relics and ruins destined to be forgotten the moment they stepped from the spotlight- so we refused.
We refused to step into the shadows so someone else might fail to appreciate its warmth, we refused to accept anything less than the top cause we spent so long being told that it wasn’t for us.

Time and time again, oblivion nips at our heels and we hold it at bay by throwing whoever is in our way into it's gaping maw.

Don’t get me wrong- this match may just be for individual success, but I’ll have there be not a shred of doubt that we’ll be cohesive and like-minded until the time comes to be otherwise.  Make no mistake kiddies, I’d just as quickly save that man as I would bury him under a ton of bricks professionally if it meant getting something I wanted, just as I’m assured he’d do the same thing in my position.
We’ve fought just as much as we’ve teamed and spilled the better parts of each other across enough canvases- and in the end, as we always do… we go home, curl up on the couch together and be cool with it cause we both understand that it's just business.

Can you say the same thing Myra? How about you Mark… I’m intimately aware how capable you both are with different partners, your combined adaptability makes this whole thing just a little more spicy and frankly, I’m kinda enjoying the heat.
That being said though- this is a matter of pride, an indistinct need to be proven as the best and I can't help but wonder whether that's a potential fissure that even your silky smooth tag team partner transitions can’t quite smooth over.

If nothing else, Blast From The Past was proof of that. Mac and Myra took every team to the limit, a dark horse that shouldn’t have been painted while Mark, you got a second chance when everything looked at its most dire and you took advantage in the biggest way in spite of where you’d stumbled previously.
That being said, there were circumstances that were out of control and to say that this kinda feels like a touch of closure might be underselling things. Fact is, we’ll neve truly know how that semi-final was supposed to end and whether that would have changed everything that has led us to the here and now…
Dark horses and underdogs, the scrappers and scroungers somehow made their way to the top and now everyone pretends like they expected it all along…
Credit where credit is most certainly due- everyone in this match has earned their place in the main event of Summer XXXtreme, but that spotlight is only big enough for one.

That's what this comes down to, isn’t it?

At Climax Control we’re all going out there trying to make a statement on behalf of our matches and our titles- we are literally taking that spotlight in our hands and gifting that to the same person we’re trying to beat into sand.
I won't lie, I’ve grown accustomed to that spotlight, even before becoming champion I started making it my own and I’ve gotten a taste for the big time that I’m not ready to part with. Besides, I’ve been told that I was never very good at sharing my toys...

That's the thing, I’ve been going out in top level matches, high end of the card and main events for the last fucking year- this is my home turf, this is my comfort zone and I’d politely ask you boys to wipe your feet on your way out. Come Sunday, I’m going out there to fight for the right to maintain the status quo and I’m giving my opponent the opportunity that she’s come so close to having- if any opponent of mine deserves to share a main event right now, and man I hate to give credit, but it's Myra Rivers.
You don’t get higher profile than the two most dominant women in the company squaring off…

I promise you that I understand the same result occurs if Myra somehow beats me, but the truth is that it's just not the same. Pride doesn't come at the expense of momentum, you can’t have your cake and eat it too, until you’re the last one standing in that spotlight with head held high and strap held higher.

You don’t know this yet, but you will soon enough Myra… but you actually want me to win this match. For us… for our match… for everything we’ve built in this division.

For a year in the making- this is the one time I promise you’ll smile while taking a three count.”





******



Bane Household
Las Vegas, NV
01.04.2021
11:14am



“You gonna answer that, Red?”

Playing ignorant, Amber glanced over towards the phone lying on the coffee table suddenly lit up in harsh fluorescence, ‘Private Number’ begging for her attention on the screen- no doubt the same private number that she’d already ignored almost a dozen times since Dominic Del Gado showed up at Oblivion Garage.

At first it was annoying, just the knowledge that he’d gotten her mobile number had left her sour, but then it was text messages and the emails that went deleted without being read, sometimes a note left on the garage door that promptly went into the bin without ever seeing the light of day or a shiny car loitering a little too deliberately outside a gym.
She knew what he wanted, and the more determined he became- the easier she found it to overlook.

“Hm, probably a telemarketer or something. Had a call from Amazon supposedly the other day saying I needed to update my account details or I’d get billed- I told them I cancelled my Amazon account almost 7 months ago and good luck to whatever poor bastard fell for their nonsense.”

Mac raised an eyebrow, her deflective technique on the rough side and always less convincing than she thought it sounded. He knew, or at least he knew enough to know she was being petulant- the history and depths to which her relationship (a term used very very loosely) with the Del Gado’s didn’t need to be scoured and nitpicked. Dominic had come out of the proverbial woodwork in Grizz’s passing, and she’d be damned if she let him under her skin simply cause he thought it comfortable there.

Dominic just wanted to talk, but Amber had no intention of listening.

“So, how long do you plan on ignoring these telemarketers then- granted they seem awfully persistent. Saw that note crumpled in the rubbish by the way, probably a good excuse to empty the office bin occasionally if you don’t mind me saying.”

Amber bit her tongue, curling up a little tighter on the couch. There’s been a note in Atlantic City too, one she’d surreptitiously forgotten to mention, that the building landlord had told her about it- although Amber had quickly shrugged it off as potential fan mail or something equally inane.

“I dunno, as long as it takes for them to get the message I imagine.”

“... and if it doesn’t?”

Amber hadn’t really considered that, chalking it up to simply hoping that he might eventually grow tired of the chase and disappear back beneath the rock he’d crawled out from. Wishful thinking of course, but it certainly gave her one less headache to mitigate.

“What's stopping you just talking to this guy- you know, just get it over and done with. Tear it off like a bandaid?”

Earnest and sincere, Mac gave her that all knowing smile that tore through her facades like paper.

“These things don’t just get over and done with Mac, you pick up the phone to a telemarketer and next thing you know you’re getting offers for things you’ve never spoken about aloud and nigerian princes determined to hand off their family fortunes”

“That's an email scam, love”

Amber sighed loudly in frustration.

“You don’t read your emails, do you?”

“Do I look like the type of woman who spends their spare time reading emails darling, if some asshole overseas wants to give me money they can show up on my doorstep with a bag marked with a dollar sign… and If Dominic Del Gado wants my attention then he can earn it like anyone else.”

She hadn’t meant to say his name out loud- but the satisfied smile that curled on Mac’s lip suggested he’d been waiting and expecting the verbal slip to eventually come. Admit fault, admit weakness- it only hurts for a little while…

“Look Mac, I don’t have the time nor energy to be dealing with him right now. If I thought talking to him achieved anything besides falling in deeper and giving him space rent free in my head- I’d have done that by now.
Fact is though, I have a far more pressing issue right now named Myra Rivers and if I don’t give her my full attention then this world title is as good as gone…”

“I know but-”

“There’s no buts Mac, there's no side-stepping cleverly around this one. I make a mistake and it's done- right now I’m a world champion standing on the edge of a cliff knowing that if I don’t jump, then I’m gonna get punted off the edge. Hell, I’m like a skydiver with just enough short term memory loss to forget whether I packed my parachute or not…”

Unfurling slightly, she could feel the tension in her knees ease briefly.

“I don’t doubt that you’re gonna go out there and do what you always do… but this week, I’m just not sure I can stand by and watch. I’m not worried about losing, I’m worried about winning… you winning. Cause if you do, then I’m not in that main event and right now that feels like my lucky charm- every defense I’ve had has headlined the show.
Maybe I’m fucking out of my god damn mind and I’m letting superstition creep in where it doesn’t belong but the fact of the matter is I can’t afford to leave anything to chance. Not this time.”

A resignation echoed slightly in her voice as she searched for the right words.

“I love you Mac, truly…”

Sincerity could only mask so much, the hardened professional stepping across the loving wife with a steely gaze.

“... but I can’t just let you have MY spot.”

“I found it."
"People find pennies," Gansey replied. "Or car keys. Or four-leaf clovers."
"And ravens," Ronan said. "You're just jealous 'cause" - at this point, he had to stop to regroup his beer-sluggish thoughts - "you didn't find one, too.”
― Maggie Stiefvater, The Raven Boys




Annabelle’s Family Diner
Mt Pleasant, SC
14.11.2001
7:39pm




Amber had to quietly admit, this wasn’t what she’d envisioned when she left home.

Somehow in her mind she’d dreamed of garish neon and interesting people, of rumbling engines fuelling rides that drew screams of adrenaline from riders in their 50th go around the same way they had done in their first. Spun sugar and sweat on warm summer evenings wafted loosely through her memories while the writhing mass of humanity with pasted on smiles paid absurdly to prove they were dumb enough to be tricked into a state of competitive pride- all of this never feeling further away than it did right now.

Even at 13 years old, this was supposed to be her chance to reinvent herself before she grew up to be disappointingly mediocre at best and blandly self-destructive at worst. A chance to be perceived as something more than a ‘problem child’, something more than the lesser part of the heartbroken shell of a woman her Aunt had become in recent years or just another numbered  inconvenience to whatever family she’d get shuffled off to next, those that thought they were the only ones who could change a life by being falsely optimistic about the absolute level of fuck-all they really had to offer.

Instead she found herself sitting in a diner on a highway in nowhere in particular, watching snaking raindrops chase each other down the glass, waiting for the interesting part of her life to begin.
In truth it wasn’t as though they could do much in this weather- unexpected in it's misery, it felt as though it had been days non-stop though in reality she imagined it being little more than a few hours determined to drag its feet.
Across from her, Grizz made small talk with the kindly waitress who’d dawdled her way towards them- with warm eyes and a ruddiness in her cheeks, she reminded Amber of those kindly grandmothers on TV who baked cookies and doted on grandchildren, the type that would encourage a shy child one minute and then  smile sweetly while delivering a delightful one liner to the cued up canned laughter.

Though this one lacked the TV presence, she seemed nice enough although Amber paid her little mind. Far more preoccupied with the frantic zigzagging pursuit taking place in front of her- only for it to end in a draw as they touched mere inches from the edge of the sill, the young redhead lazily started to draw a smiley face in the faintly fogged surface of the windows interior.

“Aren’t you bored?”

Her finger squeaked against the surface as she reached the edge of the disembodied faces crooked smile before slumping back into her booth. Grizz gave her a toothy grin in return as the waitress returned with drinks- the wickedly acrid stench of coffee filling the space between them before the mug ever hit the table. Amber wrinkled her nose in disgust- everything about it seemed terribly off-putting and yet given the opportunity Grizz would drink gallons of it in the span of a day.
In front of her, Amber had settled for orange juice- the waitress had offered hot chocolate to perhaps compliment the weather outside, and although it was tempting she’d had to decline for the way milk seemed to turn her stomach inside out and back again.
Now though, watching the faint outlines of pulp drift listlessly in the glass- she almost welcomed the ungodly consequences that a steaming hot chocolate would have brought.

Taking a satisfied sip of his coffee, Grizz eyed her curiously. Oddly in good spirits, especially in spite of the literal dampener on his day, he leaned across the table slightly while coming a little too close to steeping his beard in his coffee.

“There’s far too much in life to ever be bored, Bambi.”

Amber cringed slightly, Grizz had been determined to make it stick- and so far it was working although only he and his daughter Cassidy were allowed to say it to her face. Cassidy wasn’t on this trip though, a fact only adding to the redheads state of melancholy, apparently she was away visiting her mother for a few weeks- and although Grizz smiled politely when he talked a little about her, he couldn’t hide the sadness and loneliness in his eyes when her name crossed his lips.

“You say that- but then you look outside and---”

Grizz threw up a hand to stop her, tutting assertively as he did.

“Now now, that's some bad omen, sweet girl.”

Matter-of-factly, Grizz leaned back into his booth seat as the frame groaned slightly beneath his large frame.

“Never let your fellow carnies hear you talk about bad weather, otherwise you’re inviting the weather to follow you…”

Amber scoffed in such a way that only teenagers seemed to manage, incredulous and petulant in equal measures and yet entirely irritating to boot.

“You honestly don’t believe that... do you?”

In spite of her own feelings, she couldn’t help the inflection of vague curiosity in her voice.
Superstition. Bad omens. It all sounded like scare-mongering to Amber, the idea that peoples lives revolved around quirks and false belief was enough to make her head spin a little, even as she sipped from her glass- the pulp cloying on her tongue and the acidity making her squint a little- she couldn’t help but wonder why someone like Grizz would get so hung up on such… nothings.

“Why wouldn't I? It's the same as carrying pennies or not tearing off the bottom right corner of a two dollar bill…”

Grizz trailed off slightly while sensing the apathetic raised eyebrow he was receiving.

“What about this, would you ever open an umbrella indoors?”

“No”

“... and why’s that?”

“Cause it's rude.”

Grizz chuckled slightly, accepting that she’d stepped around his train of thought perhaps without even realizing it.

“Okay, fair. How do you feel about walking under ladders or black cats crossing your path, what about breaking mirrors and lonely ravens…
Not saying you have to believe any of it, but what's the harm in it?
Sometimes it's just nice to know that something is for sure- regardless whether it's real or not, it makes you think and be more careful. Look, I get that stepping on cracks might not break your mothers back, but it might one day stop you face planting into the pavement or holding your breath while passing a cemetery might not allow spirits into your body, but you won’t be able to be disrespectful to the dead either.”

Grizz paused thoughtfully, drinking deeply from his mug before casually inspecting a chip at the rim with his thumb.

“There’s no one in this world that can tell you what to believe and be right about it- however in a life like ours where nothing is certain, it's nice to have something to fall back on. Real or otherwise...”

With a wickedly infectious, almost mischievous smile Grizz leaned in towards Amber while motioning for her to follow suit.

“Why don’t we come up with our own thing- just you and me. Our own little something to believe…”

“That sounds kinda dumb.”

“It probably is, but I’m also not gonna take no as an answer- and if you don’t give me anything I’m likely gonna make it ever stupider.”

Amber shook her head knowingly, somehow in these fleeting moments managing to forget about the melancholy and loneliness of the pouring rain that begged for her attention as it raced down the window.

“Ugh, fine. How about everytime you call me Bambi, I punch you in the nose.”

“That's not a superstition.”

“It's a bad omen, cause when you say it something bad happens.”

“Nice try Bambi- how about something…”

Taking up his coffee mug, although now barely half full despite it's sloshing against the sides, Grizz softened his smile slightly.

“... like when you take your first sip of your favorite drinkl, you have to make a wish.”

“What if it doesn’t come true?”

“Well, then you probably need to do something to change that, don’t you?”

As the growing patter of rain seemed to lessen the silence that fell between them, Amber couldn’t help but find that melancholy once more as well as a faint pang of regret that she’d already taken a sip from her orange juice- as harshly unsweetened as it might have been.
What would she even have wished for- just the idea of it seemed so stupid and yet she felt strangely compelled to at least try and so, with a now better understanding and the last of the pulp seemingly clear of the back of her throat, Amber sipped cautiously from her glass while looking inside herself for a wish… A wish that would take more than some elbow grease and a good attitude to achieve, one that for the longest time felt so close within reach and yet unattainable for more than a few moments…

A wish… for real happiness.





******




“Have you got me all figured out, Courtney?

Am I just another open book, flat back on a table with my secrets laid bare for you and you alone. I mean I have no doubt that you know what it takes to beat me and that under pressure you’re the one who could possibly do it- triumph where others in your spotlighted position have failed to capitalize.
Tell me, have you started to tell yourself yet that you aren’t going to fall into my ‘traps’ and that the mind games just don’t work on you… After all, I couldn’t possibly get in your head cause you won’t let me.

You’re better than that, right?
Definitely smarter, cause who the fuck would spend their life doing all the stupid shit I do and consider it a really good career move, you’re definitely younger and probably fitter and maybe even stronger- I drink a little too much, sometimes I forget I quit smoking and go out making some dumb decisions and picking fights cause theres an itch that needs to be scratched.
Maybe you even have more willpower and determination- you won’t simply be goaded or lulled into a false sense of security cause you’ve worked too hard to get back here, to prove you deserve the opportunity you were already owed.

I’m sure you’ve seen my type before- you’re a classic student of the game so how could you not?
Coming up and being trained by some of the best isn’t anything to be turning one's nose up at- you’ve got a pedigree despite your rookie status and be damned if you aren’t gonna uphold it. 
I have no doubt that you’ve probably picked me apart a thousand times in training already- you know my game probably better than I do, watched all the tapes and maybe even spoken to a few people unfortunate enough to have had this little black cat cross their path.

Up to now, it's arguable that you’ve done everything right.

So why is it that, after everything you’ve done to get back to this point with the spotlights shining down on us headline Sin City Wrestling’s Climax Control 300- that the result remains inevitable.
How can it be, when you’ve done everything to prepare and approached this meticulously and professionally as anyone in this business likely could be- that it's still not enough to dethrone a painted hurricane draped in gold.

Quite the conundrum, isn’t it?

I mean, you’d certainly think so on paper. Stats against stats and you should have me all, but dead to rights. Of course, that's the way most matches seem to look though- paper and ink have a funny way of obscuring reality, and like a damn good book I’m certainly more than I show on the cover.
Here’s the thing sweetheart- we aren’t some paper dolls cut from the pages of a great american novel, there's no instruction manual written that comes with what we do and there's no straight line to where we wanna be lined with neon arrows to direct us when we falter from our path.
All the training in the world, from the best of the best, means virtually nothing when it can’t be applied and unfortunately knowledge doesn’t simply transfer by skin parties and osmosis…

Don’t think for a second Courtney that I don’t take you seriously, that you’re just some blip on the radar on my merry way to my next big win. I didn’t get this far in my career by underestimating anyone just in the same way I didn’t survive cause I gave anyone who faced me any quarter.
As far as I’m concerned, you’re as serious as a heart attack- it's really up to you to prove whether you’re a widow maker or just some nasty indigestion masquerading as something far more tragic though.
Personally I think you’re fucking delightful and that your potential knows no bounds, but potential means absolutely nothing if you simply say you’ve got it and let it fester until you resent the word as much as Jessie Salco resents the existence of icecream.

Honestly, it's the gift that just keeps on giving.

You deserve this Courtney. You’re already proven that- I mean you did something that I haven’t in winning Blast From The Past, and while I could cuss out a certain jealous someone who pretended to be a champion so she could use the belt as a prop to talk about herself more, and blame the fact that we didn’t win on her acting like fucking petulant child, I’ll refrain. She knows what she did, and this belt on my shoulder is proof that she received SOME of her penance…
It's an achievement that can’t be diminished, as much as many try, nor taken away as proven by the belated opportunity to make good.
You took all the right roads from the start- getting trained by an acclaimed professional with the relative (a term used loosely cause very few ever do) support from your parents, blazing a path to greatness and then facing setbacks with a level-head before coming back to polish up the few flaws in your game.

I gotta say, you’ve damn near fulfilled the ‘Idiots Guide To Being A Pro-Wrestler’ step for step- you did it the way that everyone is told to do it and proved it can be moderately successful. Traditional and proper, I dunno maybe it's that some greatness rubbed off on you or maybe they just lied and said it did cause sometimes a placebo is as good as the real thing.
Either way- you took the ‘right’ path Courtney and I commend you for that.

Problem is, there are certain things you can’t simply learn from books and teachers. Any great instructor will always keep an ace or two up their sleeve, even when not wearing a shirt- and a notepad can’t teach you how to cope when you’re staring up at the lights with no memory how you got there and why it feels like there's something viscous running into your eyes.
There's no way to learn how to endure- how to get back up when your skin is tearing away under your fingertips and you’re inexplicably missing an eyebrow.

As damn good as you might be- there is one very important factor that keeps someone like me, out of the range of someone like you.

Okay, so the title makes that two things but still…

Tell me Courtney, honestly if you can…

What's the worst thing you’ve ever endured?
Is it an injury, a setback to the promises you made to yourself. Maybe it's heartbreak, as your heart crumbles between your ribs and you forgot how to breathe for a little while. A broken promise perhaps, one you made that you couldn't fulfil or someone saying something sweet only to take it back before it means something to them.
How did you cope exactly- to me, you aren’t the curl up in the fetal position kinda type. Maybe you get a little lost in your own head, you start to doubt everything you’ve been told and lose a bit of confidence before someone helps you rebuild what you’ve lost.

Tell me if I’m getting warmer- and when you tell me I’m not, I’ll call you a liar.

Allow me to be blunt for a moment, as if I haven’t been already.

I have done things in my career that would make you regret getting into this business to start with- things I’ve done to others, things I’ve endured that perhaps I never should have. Dive into my archives and I might put you off this business for life- oh, but this match isn’t ultraviolence so how does this even apply… I’m sure I’ll hear you ask.
It doesn’t need to be, cause the fact is I’m still standing here with a stupid smile on my face after everything- every up and down alike, every setback that took years from my life. Fuck, I went andI knocked on Death’s door and he told me to get off his doorstep if I wasn't selling Thin Mints…

Maybe I’m not the best. Maybe you could be better than me- but the fact is, I’ll outlast you. I will out endure, I’ll be here among the fucking cockroaches holding this belt when the nuclear apocalypse comes for us all.
Like it or loathe it, my survival instinct Courtney is second to none- and like any cornered animal, I’m always most dangerous when my back is against the wall.

I spent my whole career fighting from beneath and from behind just to reach the same stage as someone like you- I didn’t do the whole wrestling training through a reputable school, I didn’t have some of the best in SCW as allies I could call upon to spar with when I needed to work on my ground game.
I’ve been rolling in a ring since I was barely a teenager-and maybe I’m not known for my technical prowess, but I’m a damn sight better than you’ll give me credit for.
Odds are you’ll call me one-dimensional, a spot monkey and gore whore for lack of a better term- that I’m only useful with a weapon in my hand… Thing is, my hands are the weapons and I hit just as hard as anyone on this roster only with worse intent. Fact is, it’ll be a damn good night for you if you walk out with a mouthful of teeth.

Maybe I just got lucky- yeah, maybe that's the one thing to focus your energy on. A few breaks and all of a sudden, abra kadabra there's a belt on my shoulder and Christina Rose is pretending like she didn’t fucking blow it the moment she made things personal.
Honestly though, it doesn’t take luck to get where I am, to be champion among arguably some of the most talented women in this industry.

If anything, I’ve spent my career being unlucky- travelling a path that should have led to my grave multiple times over and instead of being granted the boon of no longer killing myself for a god damn fucking belt- I’m back where I started telling the world that it doesn’t hurt that much while I put on another brave face, cause the last one got too smashed up.
I’m a bad omen in this industry Courtney, I’m that piece of shit you hear about from the veterans willing to kill or be killed to prove their worth- if only cause it's all they learned how to do. I’m like a raven in a tree just waiting for the next corpse to shamble on into my crosshairs…

When it comes down to it- I’ve worked too damn hard, for too fucking long to simply be pushed aside. I’ve sacrificed more than what would be considered fair, and I’ve taken the weight of this division on my shoulders cause the last few women who thought they wanted this didn’t like the way their knees shook. I want to be Bombshells Champion more than I want my next breath of oxygen or next sip of coffee to pass my lips.
I dare you to try and tell me that this belt means half that much to you.

Maybe you think I’m standing on a pedestal begging to be knocked off for my hubris and insolence, broadcasting to you live from atop my high horse- that maybe I deserve all the karma that I’ve brought down upon myself over the years and you’re just the next step in the evolution of this division.

A breath of fresh air where things had started to decay.

I’m everything wrong with this goddamn industry and then some, I took the path less travelled and burned every bridge I ever crossed while I was still on them just to make sure no one could have the misfortune of following my path- and here I am, Bombshells Champion staring down the barrel of the future… Of the betterment of this place, and I’m telling it to pull the trigger cause I know they’re all cocked but firing blanks.

Don’t get me wrong Courtney, you’re a special kinda talent and I appreciate everything you’re bringing to this match. You have fire and enthusiasm that I almost envy at times- and I have no doubt that you’ll be champion.

But it won’t be at my expense.

And it sure as fuck won’t be in the main event of Climax Control 300."



******




Brighton Park
Atlantic City, NJ
09.05.2021
6:41am



One foot in front of the other.

Step after step and breath after breath, the rhythmic impact of her sneakers against the concrete path seemed to fall in line with her breathing. Amber hadn’t really gauged any kind of distance, hell she’d done this path so many times it was a wonder that her sneakers hadn’t simply left a wear line in the grass. Most mornings started this way- the ones where she could wiggle her toes well enough to stand and didn’t feel an overwhelming urge to vomit from sitting up too quickly.
Mornings where she had some semblance of the night before and minus a crippling hangover that would have her intermittently vomiting and napping through till the late afternoon where the hair of the dog waited patiently for it's time to shine.

Perhaps earlier in her career she could have afforded to be more reckless with her schedule- younger and slightly stupider Amber would have only worked in preparation for matches just enough to say she’d put in an effort. Granted a natural athleticism and sheer undeniable grit got her a long way in those early days but she became aware as time wore on that the amount of maintenance it took just to stay in one seemed to gradually increase.
All night benders and crippling hangover no longer became a choice, but a coping mechanism to burn the candle at both ends- trying to find the middle ground, a best of both worlds where the overlap ceased to exist years before.

Now? With nearly 18 years in the rearview since the day of her first match Amber found herself working harder than ever just to stay still. It was no secret that the industry was getting younger, and even nearing 33 didn’t make her that old- but experience wise it felt like she had a decade plus on some of the women that now threatened at her doorstep. With an easy gait, Amber rounded on the fountain with the constant trickling water only serving to remind her of the beading sweat that traced down the side of her face- distance meant nothing, she chose gauged her pace and relative fitness by the way her muscles burned and the way her knees and ankles seemed to grind bone on bone.
Years of bodily abuse wore as heavily on her skin as it did through the rattle in her bones, though a loose t-shirt did it's best to disguise the worst of it- after all, the workload never stopped as she’d made the transition from perennial challenger and outright threat to champion once again.

Perhaps that's where her view on the world differed from others in the same position- despite the addition of an extra 10lbs or so in her luggage, nothing else really changed. Nothing about who she was or the way she viewed the world had shifted, the workload stayed just the same as it well should have to keep up with the ever evolving wrestling industry… Sure, there was pressure, but she’d borne that from the moment she’d stepped through the doors and told the world she was gunning for the all-round good girl and called her out as a hypocrite for all the world to see.
Pressure wasn’t new, expectation had already been set at a standard that defied upper limits- being champion wasn’t new, it wasn’t a passing flight of fancy, there was no newlywed or honeymoon period the moment the belt touched your fingers.

Mac. God, that man was a saint… Though she’d never tell him that.

Married all of a couple weeks, they’d barely managed to see more than a passing glimpse it seemed despite both working for the same companies- between being booked in singles, Amber’s jaunts and need for space taking her back and forth from Atlantic City semi-frequently and Mac ironing out the last details of their garage opening in Vegas- they’d had little time to just enjoy the fact they were married.
Even in the morning sun, the glint of the diamonds on her finger still caught Amber off guard- a whirlwind of everything she’d never realized she wanted so badly sweeping her proverbially off her feet and into a spin she’d barely gotten her bearing back from.
Mac had understood, or so he’d made her believe- hell, he’d signed up for the shitshow and taken it upon himself to somehow bring it all under control, to find normality in a perpetual hurricane of chaos.

He saw something in her that no one else did, and to think… soon they’d be double champions together.

A pleasant thought admittedly, and one that tried to distract from the growing buildup of lactic acid in her calves as the footpath stretched out ahead of her, as though urging her ever forward while the raggedness of her breathing punctuated the otherwise almost uninhabited urban cityscape.
Looking back, her career hadn’t been as draped in gold as many others and 18 years passed with many a drought between meagre title reigns- her career had been classified by some as inexplicably high profile for the sheer unrelenting violence that accompanied much of it and for the horrific atrocities she’d not only partaken in, but endured.
Much of the last 18 years- she’d been told she was too much of a liability to take a chance on, too unpredictable to be reliable, too one dimensional despite proving there was depth beyond the blood churned surface waters… Too… Amber.

As her lungs swelled and smouldered at the edges, she made for the shade of the trees just off the beaten path- a small dirt track would lead down to another, and then a few alleyways between office buildings where she got a little kick out of the stares from over-starched businessmen and women rushing to be the first to reach their dead end deadline… From there maybe she’d swing by the Boardwalk if only for the fact that she could get through these days without having to duck and weave trying not to trip over tourists determinedly trying to enjoy Vegas-lite.
No, for the longest time she was told to be anything else except herself- you’ll get more shots that way, people will like you better, you’ll be more successful and maybe even if you smile a little more then people won’t think you’re moody and unapproachable.

You know, as if that was a goal.

For her efforts, 18 years total had gifted her five world titles… Each opportunity torn away with a new excuse, a reason dragged from the silt and sediment in hopes that maybe if they talked a little too long that the silly little redhead might simply get tangled up in the words.
Every sacrifice to be anything, but herself rewarded with a step closer with little more than the ability to now only acknowledge the person in the mirror as a stranger. Even then the gold slipped away quick- companies shut down cause she was a bad omen as champion, an ill wind from an ominous place. They’d considered her triumph a failure on their behalf- unable to reconcile, the doors closed and another belt went from priceless to barely worth its weight in scrap.

Only two world titles she’d held passed the point of company closure- one she lost in a first defense,while  the other was the only one that had ever made it past a first defense, and even then it was scraped by in an ironman match with extra time only being agreed upon cause her opponent was just as much a sucker for punishment as she was.
Now, with a division on her shoulders she was supposed to just walk like her knees weren’t shaking and that her back wasn't ready to buckle from the weight left from those unwilling to carry it prior. A weight she welcomed gladly if only cause it gave justification to everything she’d done- that tooth and nail had really meant something when things seemed at their most bleak.

Maybe that's why she fought like every fucking match threatened to send her tumbling back down again- cause she was far more familiar with the sensation of falling than with the views from whence she came. Scratch and claw for what you have cause someone will always want what you have, even if it's nothing- just because you have it and they don’t.
Many would never understand it, they’d look at her like she was a force of nature determined to pull down the very walls that she stood among. They’d never follow that path- looked upon liek a murder of ravens presiding over the future of a division knowing that the reaper would soon come for his pound of flesh, only to take far more of her pride than she’d bargained for.

Approaching the tree lines, a flutter among the branches caught her attention- the rustling noisy and disruptive in the otherwise near deserted space. Somewhere to the left and less than a hundred yards away, two athleisure moms decked out in their finest brunching activewear pushing overpriced gadget filled prams gave her a disparaging stare that she felt long before she caught sight of them exchanging glances before looking back towards her.
Amber knew she’d never be the one to fit in- she wasn’t conventionally pretty and long since ruined the aesthetic symmetry of her face with a faintly crooked nose and equally broken smirk. She’d long embraced her status as the black cat stepping into the path of potential, derailing the young guns as they stormed their way towards what had been promised to them among other gratuitous praise.

As Amber slowed, a solitary raven flitted down from between the branches before landing just off centre of the dirt path with a rather quizzical gaze. Breathing heavily, Amber came to a stop in an effort to give the bird a chance to startle itself and disappear- however instead it hopped around a little, surveying the remains of something she didn't dare inspect just towards the path's edge.
Curious little thing, Amber contemplated although slightly impatient, maybe she should have just kept going and pretended that it never existed- superstition couldn’t do shit if you didn’t acknowledge it, right?

It wasn’t as though the raven was going to disagree.

Eyeing her warily, the yellowed eyes sparkled from their sunken alcoves while puffing out it's feathers tauntingly before resuming it's foraging. Must have been quite the sight, no doubt, a redhead juvenile delinquent long since past the phase of showing I.D at a liquor store staring intently at a space between some trees.
Superstition wasn’t real, she dutifully reminded herself, as though she didn’t have routine-esque quirks she put down to a need for life structure and a minor form of OCD. From always starting with her left sock to the now near recognizable way she always wore two different coloured converse sneakers in the ring- a habit caused by mistake and mistiming which led to a years long ‘habit’ that needed to be maintained.

Some things were just… lucky.

Nothing to do with superst---

“... Caw … ”

Obnoxiously the raven hopped a little closer, staring Amber down as though trying to size her up. People spent years, perhaps even decades looking for signs that their life was on a track of any kind, their existence dictated by a set of unwritten rules that two bored minds might have come up with between listless staring and banal conversation- and yet here one was, checking out the integrity of a smoother than normal stone.

“Yeah, and boo to you as well…”

Murmuring her response, Amber scraped the toe of her sneaker in the dirt a little while a small scatter of dust and stone seemed to cake around her ankles. It wasn't as though she expected any kind of intelligent response, but somehow it seemed almost rude to simply ignore the attempt at communication.
Bad omen to bad omen, unkindness to unkindness- Amber took a moment to run her fingers through her ponytail and flashed the bird a mischievous smile that she was sure might have matched its own…

Another guttural cawing sound and with a flutter of ink stained feathers, the raven had disappeared back into its tree as though unwilling to allow a fellow blight on humanity to pass into it's path.
Allowing the silence to pass for longer than deemed necessary, Amber went to move off again, only pausing momentarily to try and find the raven in the tree- just as a precaution, of course. Finding little more than a din of feathers and leaves shaking branches above her, Amber shrugged in hopes of finding her rhythm once more.

A lonely raven. Harbinger of bad news.

Many would have told her that she was being too cautious and not nearly enough so, that she should have ignored it just as much as she should have turned and gone another way. She'd always been labelled the same as well though- a perrenial bearer of bad tidings and worse beatings.

… who knew, perhaps two wrongs could potentially make a right after all.





******



“Was it worth the wait?

Three years is a long time by any stretch of the imagination, time ticking with an urgency unseen and never in any of our favours- we’re slaves to the clock, the passage of days to weeks to months to years just another inevitability.
Yet as humans we carry with us this strange notion, an expectation that a place we walk away from doesn’t change in that time- it's not allowed to or else it might change the way we remember it. Familiar faces become strangers, names become far more convoluted in an effort to be the biggest badass on the swingset and nostalgia tints everything with a faint rose colouring cause the way it was always seemed to be a little better than it is now.

SCW isn’t an exception for you- three fucking years, and I’m sure this place felt just as much of home as it did foreign and unsettling. Despite your rookie status, you KNEW this place, you knew what to expect and what was expected from you in return- you understood the standard set and you rose to meet it accordingly.
After all, that run you and Fenris made through Blast From The Past is well documented and it's something even I, with my razor blade tongue and sarcasm ever on standby, cannot take away from you. It's an achievement that can’t be demoted cause you did everything right- you went through as a team, you dominated as a team and the moment it all ended… It went to shit.

Injury sucks. I get it better than most- I’ve sat across from enough doctors telling my career was over that Benny Hill music starts playing in my head every time I enter a goddamn medical facility.
They tell you that things have to change, and you agree… but inside you know that you won’t. That everything around you will be just the same when you come back- that you can walk through that door and pick up where you left off…

Except it was three years and the whole fucking world changed.

Champions of esteem and error alike have traded the belt that I now carry- the best and the worst alike adding their names to a list that now you seek to become a part of. I walked into this company and I told everyone I’d become champion, that there was nothing that could be done- and within a year I did just that whereas three years after earning a shot, now you get to cash in and I’ve got to wonder if you really understand just how behind the times you’ve fallen.
See, for me I made this title mean everything it does now- I carry it with pride instead of as an oversized fashion accessory. This belt doesn’t make me important around here, I make this belt no longer an oversight, no longer a disappointment to those who once made it also mean something.

So you’ll have to excuse my rather blase approach when I say that I wonder why the fuck it means anything to you now.

It's not like you just walked back through the door- you could have stormed in here and demanded your shot, after all it's not like anyones forgotten what you did before. Practically steamrolling through the tournament with upset after upset and win after win- there's every possibility that the moment you walked back through these doors that you could have been gifted your shot at the belt and no one would have bat a fucking eyelid.
Instead- you lost a few matches and everyone started to wonder if you still had it, you won a match now they’re singing your praises like you never left. I’m all about that ‘one win changing everything’ life, but this isn’t just a little exhibition for shits and giggles… You’re swinging for the queen, and I’m swinging for the fences.

There’s no doubt a reason we are the main event, when you’ve got names on this card that deserve the spot just as much as us- maybe even more… It's not because I’m planning on rolling around and showing off some little niche bullshit in my skill set, I’ve got nothing more to prove than why I’m the champion and why I deserve every goddamn main event position I step into.
Whereas you Courtney, it's all at stake for you… Really, your reputation and everything you did to earn this shot depends on how you conduct yourself in this match, what you bring to the table and whether you’re ready to come out with hands up and game face on.

Regardless of whether you stand a chance of winning or not.

Put on a good show darling, please the crowd and remind them of just who the fuck you are.

… then get out of my way cause I’ve got a supercard to headline.

Maybe you think I’m being cocky, that I’m so far up my own ass I can’t see past my own bullshit but you have to remember- you went away Courtney and the standard changed. I’m a proven commodity year after year, with every injury I come back just a little different, a little crazier like that extra bump to the head loosened another few screws, evolving with the times cause while you might be a damn good strategist- I’m never the same woman twice and if you don’t start acknowledging the shifting sand beneath your feet you’ll soon find yourself the smartest woman beneath the sandbox.
I’m everything they told you I am and more, the name you don’t say into a mirror unless sufficiently caffeinated and begging for a facial recon- I am the SCW Bombshells champion and it's time you step up and appreciate that.

Nothing I say or do makes me popular, I’m never gonna go out there and win most liked while Roxi Johnson still breathes. I came in and I wanted this belt more than I wanted anyone to like me- so I have to ask with all the sincerity I can muster…
How badly do you really want this belt?
For all the time you’ve been away, is this what you dreamed of… did it consume your waking thoughts or is this just an opportunity of convenience, a strike at the top before the ladder is burnt to cinder like everything else I touch.

How badly could you possibly want this, when it's only now… Only now after being back in the company that you get this shot. You could have had your chance at Christina, arguably you might have even beaten her and we’d likely be having a very different conversation- it's not like anyone else got pushed ahead in line before me, and at least you’d have had a semi-decent reason.
Probably wouldn’t have even really considered it an upset by that point- but you didn’t. Management didn’t.

Gotta wonder why right, why is it that they’re choosing to feed you to the big bad wolf in little reds cape?

I think it's cause you’re a different kind of challenge, that they want to see what is left in the tank- cause a disappointing match after a disappointing result has a way of making people a little sour on what you have left to offer. I bring out the best and the worst in people Courtney, this is a test and you’re already being set up for failure before I even step into that ring…
It's not that anyone wants to see you lose, they’re just accepting the fact in hopes that maybe you’ll surprise everyone and put up a better fight- oh, don't get me wrong I don’t expect this to be anything close to a whitewash. I trust you’ll be everything promised and more- however momentum is fickle, and I’ve got a tsunami at my back while you’re still splashing in puddles.

See, the thing with me Courtney is that I’m not that woman who feels they need to set the standard. I’m not the bar you need to clear- sure, you need to beat me to win, but I’ve never really been that ‘lead by example type’. No, see as far as I’m concerned you bring your best, you set the standard and I’ll clear it- if I can’t be better than your best on any given night then I don’t deserve to stay champion.
Besides, what's the point of setting a standard when you’re already at the top, your perspective on what's good anymore becomes skewed and unrealistic- so I want you to  show me what I’m up against and in return I’ll show you just why I’m here.

Why I’ve got the belt and you’re wondering why you came back off the injury list at all.

Fact is Courtney, contrary to popular belief… I don’t need to be the best, I just need to be better than you.

Now, if you’ll excuse me… I have another Blast From The Past winner to dismantle. I hope you’ll understand.”





******



Amber’s Apartment
Atlantic City, NJ
06.05.2021
8:11pm




“... I’m sorry to inform you Miss Ryan …”

It was Bane-Ryan now, but Amber supposed they didn’t know that nor likely cared at this point. Hell, it wasn’t as though she wasn’t expecting the phone call eventually, the somber nature of the greeting already betraying its purpose before the point was ever approached- it’s just that old bastard Grizz had held on for far longer than anyone anticipated. A week became several and even in those dire days- he’d even seemed to get a little better like some kind of divine power just wanted to fuck with the known universe a little more.
Now, a few hours in the wake of a conversation she could barely remember amid a fog of grief and guilt, Amber found herself curled up on her favorite plastic chair on the balcony of her apartment trying to resist the urge to smoke till her lungs gave out.

An irrational part of her brain wanted to blame the whole thing on the stupid raven she saw that morning, a harbinger of bad news that she’d paid nowhere nearly enough respect to while trying to justify that superstition was just really fucking stupid. Coincidence, that's what this way, an eventuality that coincided with something inane- like a last laugh from the man himself on his way off the mortal coil.
Shifting slightly, pulling her knees in a little further as though they didn’t already ache under the strain, Amber searched the Atlantic City skyline for anything that might assuage the sickly regret that was radiated from somewhere beneath her sternum.

It was easy to forget that she had responsibilities- constantly travelling and trying to juggle obligations that she didn’t remember agreeing to, perhaps it was simply inevitable that balls would start dropping when her hands got a little numb- sometimes it was a choice what to let fall away into the abyss of non-priorities but other times it was gravity that made the choice for you… and it was always the ones you couldn't bear to lose.
She was a goddamn world champion for fuck sake, few things in her life could be more important- all she’d sacrificed even just the point of getting another opportunity, the time she’d spent working to try and keep herself head above the proverbial water of talent took from her a chance at a honeymoon.

Fuck, both of them had even agreed to move their wedding to the morning just so that they might fulfil obligations of matches they had to work that night…

Professional always took from personal- that had always been her commitment. Years before it had never even been a concern- occasionally a short term relationship might blossom with a shorter term attention span fellow co-worker but soon things devolved into the single life of drinking and self-loathing till sleep mercifully stole her away.
Mav had changed a lot of that- but the work life balance only seemed to stray further askew.

She’d made promises that now seemed further than ever from keeping- she’d promised Mac she’d be back in Vegas tomorrow for the opening of their garage, yet another endeavour and time sink she’d fallen heads over heels with. Now though, she didn’t feel any more motivation than to watch the wispy curls of steam start to dissipate off the mug of black coffee she’d nearly forgotten she’d made.
Hell,  she’d promised Grizz that she’d do everything in her power to try and help him make good with his estranged daughter before he passed- now the leads were drying up and slipping through her fingers faster than she could try and grasp for. Sticky was in the fucking wind and Grizz was gone- no closer to finding Cassidy Parker and perhaps finally settling her own penance.

Snaking her fingers around the mug, Amber briefly revelled in the radiating warmth through her palms with the realization that she hadn't neglected it long enough to go cold yet. A small comfort as everything else around her personal life seemed to fall into disrepair the moment she turned her back- bringing it up to her lips, she paused as faintly acrid yet heart soothingly pleasant aroma filled her lungs… Among the promises she'd made in her life, one had been lost before many other, a stupid little superstition that Grizz had tried to create in an effort to connect and make the redhead understand a little more of the way his world worked.

She’d been young and ignorant, the idea of superstition and bad omens little more than nonsense and scare tactics to make children behave. An angsty teenager unwilling to adopt anything that didn’t make her feel more edgy- and making a wish on the first sip of a cup of coffee did little to appeal.
He wanted her to appreciate life, rather than revel in what had been left behind- focus on things she might be able to control instead of throwing caution into the wind and wondering why it came back and whacked her in the face.
He’d asked her to fulfil something so that she might not see the world through such dark lenses, that she might cultivate her own light instead of simply fading into the darkness. Of course, she didn’t get any of that, it was stupid and immature and she was far too cool for that, humourlessly though she’d agreed in the moment and made a stupid unforseeable wish before promptly forgetting to ever try to make it real.


Even now, nearly 20 years on, on a balcony overlooking the neon lit cityscape of Atlantic City- Amber slowly realized that maybe the wish did eventually come true- albeit a bit later than she could anticipate. In this moment, she had arguably everything she’d ever wanted- love, success and maybe actually a couple of people who she considered friends when they weren't trying to kick her head for her insolence and smart fucking mouth.
She’d managed to do incredible, unknowable things and brought down the consequences on her head far more times than she dared to recall- defying odds just by standing in a ring and telling everyone that she wasn’t going anywhere.

Impossible never felt so… achievable.

As Amber sipped deeply, the bitterness on her tongue a welcome embrace, she found herself searching for another wish- one that might rekindle a light she’d allowed to extinguish, one to honour the memory of not only Grizz but those who’d she’d loved and lost along the way.

In fact, the answer was more than simple although she’d never have admitted it aloud- and as she closed her eyes to savour the moment, she thought she could hear the distant cry of a lonely raven as a wish crossed her thoughts as though sung from the tattered depths of her soul.

A wish… to do better, to be better. To never let anyone she loved down again. No matter the cost.