“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 gave me everything you had
Every little thing you had
A pure love unrehearsed
I've seen your best and worst
And at your worst, you're still the best
But at my best, I am the worst
It's a curse.”...

Lydia - Highly Suspect






Even doing nothing, Amber Ryan looked like she was someone.

Not just anyone, like the assholes walking down the street in their designer nothings that their credit card companies wept in joy for in a place that bred no-ones as frequently as the Hooters four blocks away got closed down for health code violations. Even the clandestine orange of a shapely ass did little to detract from the cockroach infestation that seemed to just magically evaporate for a couple months for the right number of zeroes.
It was never enough zeroes though, that's why Avalon had only been mildly disappointed by the closed sign on the door- for a low enough wings special even she might have been able to hold her nerve and ignore the skittering of insectoid legs and peek-a-boo of scantily clad cheeks looking for their next tip.

Avalon wasn’t a good tipper. That's why she was there…

No, there were enough anyones and no-ones in Atlantic City. Here they could pretend to be someone, cast off rejects from places far better with a coked up resume and just enough contacts to annoy that they might find a comfortable niche just above the last poor asshole wearing his ambitions on his sleeve and hoping they didn’t rot from exposure.
Someones- now they were a far rarer breed Avalon had come to learn. Anyone could claim to be someone when the neon lights shone on just the right angle and enough intoxicants had been consumed to put down an elephant- or at the very least the plus sized hooker propositioning just outside that no-one would acknowledge they’d slept with the week prior.
Almost all of them had, that's why she kept coming back.

Anyone who became someone quickly came to their senses and left a place like this. In becoming someone they automatically could be anyone elsewhere and that alone seemed like a great enough reward- like a life ring in a quagmire of mediocrity. Graduation night on the Boardwalk was a flyer being handed out saying it was your last night, your name being used to advertise the next no-one trying to be anyone in hopes they might become someone.
It was all quite the headache, Avalon realised as the concept rattled further around in her head.

Amber Ryan was someone. Yet she kept coming back. Maybe because she preferred to be no-one although the idea seemed to rankle Avalon’s sensibilities more than she cared to admit. Not that she’d admit it aloud, such a notion might have seen her take a nose dive off the balcony they both currently inhabited.
Maybe five stories wouldn’t have been so bad… Two seconds, maybe three if she flailed enough…

It was never the fall that really got anyone though…

“Ava, you’re staring...”

“No, I wasn’t.”

Amber hadn’t moved in at least five minutes, Avalon knew cause she was staring. Absent-mindedly of course, trying to make sense of someone who had every right to have half-assed her agreement with Avalon’s parents for a quick payday and instead had arguably done more for the 18 year old than any other school had managed across her entire adolescence.
Mostly for the fact that both of them knew that Amber would have absolutely no issue nor outstanding guilt about putting Avalon on her ass. At first their relationship had been a war of attrition, Avalon determined to get the better of the redhead physically.

It should have been fucking easy. On paper.

At 5’11 and 145lbs, Avalon had a distinct size and strength advantage. Combined with over 10 years of flitting between fight based disciples- while managing to get kicked out or straight up banned from almost all of them- there should have been no way that Amber could have possibly beaten her in a straight up fight… Surely.

Amber had put her on her ass in less than 15 seconds. Threatened to wrench her elbow out of it's socket within the next 60.

That had been a little over a year earlier. Avalon had come close since, but never quite managed to outmanoeuvre… outwit… outlast.

Of course, Avalon already respected the redhead long before that- she’d watched wrestling with her Dad long enough to learn the reputation. Studied enough tapes to the point that she could almost recite the commentary from matches verbatim- much to her families chagrin at Thanksgiving when the mashed potatoes nearly took a dive off the side of the table.
Amber was much smaller in person than she appeared on screen, as though real life had scaled down a force of nature into something akin to… anyone.

“I was looking past you. There was a bird…”

There wasn’t a bird, and both of them knew it. At least Amber had the relative tact not to say anything for the sake of Avalon’s ego as it flopped pathetically to the balcony floor. 

“... it's gone now.”

Avalon murmured as though the self-justification was already on standby before Amber’s silence cleared her of any responsibility. A year had gone by faster than either had anticipated and Amber’s pride had been kept well restrained, but those fleeting moments when she didn’t think Avalon was looking or could see the knowing smile…
She’d told Avalon that she could be someone. Not in those exact words, that would have involved Amber freely admitting that either of them had done a good job and heaven forbid any expression of self-satisfaction. Amber would have much rathered chewing on glass- which Avalon didn’t have the gall to suspect was far from an actual truth.

“Do you ever… you know…”

Unable to withstand the silence, amidst the fluttering breeze rustling between them, Avalon sputtered forth the half-statement as though her better senses seemed to cut in and cut her off halfway through thoroughly embarrassing herself.
They didn’t have ‘real conversations’. Anyone who was someone didn’t have to engage in real conversations, they didn’t have to share their depths or contemplate the greater philosophical mysteries of man and their inner workings. Avalon didn’t have the self-awareness to admit that she actually didn’t know anything about such philosophical workings; however it was worth a pretending on the occasion if only to prove she might be more than just another no-one.

Amber paused thoughtfully, allowing the last syllables to dissipate between them before responding. She didn’t question what the statement entailed- maybe she didn’t need to, or simply didn’t care. Avalon liked to believe that she just knew in the same way she always seemed to just know…
Maybe that's why she was someone, while Avalon was still trying to figure out if she could be anyone.
Even Avalon wasn’t quite sure what she had intended- perhaps it was better that way, made their connection feel more deep-seated than just some professional agreement struck by desperate parents with an unadulterated sociopath in hopes she might be able to rein in their troublesome daughter.

Of course, beneath it all Avalon quietly knew that Amber was a professional first.
A professional always.
A professional only.
As much as she enjoyed the time they spent together, as close as she might have felt to the redhead- there would always be a barrier, a void between them that Amber couldn’t allow to be filled.
Not because she didn’t want to, but because it would become a chink in the armour… A vulnerability in the impassive facade of someone who’d spent their lives cutting ties so that she might not later be strangled by them.

“No… No, Ava. I don’t.”

Settling back with as contented a smile as she might manage, jaw set as though she was further chewing on the syllables of elaboration, Amber turned her head just slightly enough to make a brief eye contact before shifting back almost imperceptibly- as though the movement were a figment of imagination rather than a moment shared between two people, trying their best not to forge a meaningful relationship.
Whether she would ever admit it or not, Amber cared. More than she dared to admit- and those brief moments of humanity chipped away at the barrier between them, the void shrinking further like a black hole with nothing left around it to swallow but itself.

“Ava... You’re still staring.”

Leaning back into the plastic chair with a soft creak, Avalon forced a half-hearted smile. Amber would never say it, but she didn’t need to… No-one who was someone could afford to have regrets about how they felt about anyone.
That at least to Amber Ryan of all fucking people… Avalon Blackthorn might have been someone.

“I told you, there was a bird…”




******


“There’s a common misconception in this industry.

It's one that presumes you have to share some intimate connection with someone, that whoever brings you into this tangled mess of egos and antipathy also clutches a handful of threads laced around your ribs and through the vertebrae of your spine.
You owe them your name, they owe you their legacy. One fails the other and it's the reverse bear trap of careers splattering rookies across canvases they were too green to spread so much red upon.

Mentor. Protege. Protege. Mentor. No one gets anywhere in this industry without someone signposting the way forward- otherwise you end up spinning your wheels trying to convince everyone that you’ll be a big deal soon, right after you do something about the concrete boots you knowingly slipped on cause someone more experienced told you they looked good.
How very 2020 of us all.

Trust me when I say I’m as guilty as every other rookie scrambling to be the one to break through the growing layer of ice that is the blatant gate-keeping done by flailing veterans desperately trying to retain relevancy. Those ones who stand in the doorway and say you can’t enter cause you aren’t wearing the right footwear despite the fact they don’t have a fucking leg left to stand on.
As rookies though we abide by such fallacies, we throw ourselves down at the feet of our mentors in hopes they might brute force a way through for us…

Sometimes they do. Sometimes they hold your hand and they guide you to that fabled promised land, they stand by you and fight your battles when you are too weary to hold your head up and encourage you to be the best secondary version of them that you can be. A perfect facsimile of the version of themselves they can no longer fulfil.
You become the next best thing to what they wanted to be… You become a vessel for their wildest dreams they couldn’t fulfil themselves, a conduit for everything they weren’t capable of. You become better than them, and somehow you find yourself thanking them for achieving the things they never could.
A career built on the foundation of someone else's failures, inexplicably linked and forever tied down to the idea that your success is directly linked to what little they had to offer besides a kind word and a weirdly soft hand…

Other times?
They leave you to rot the moment you make a mistake. The moment you break the illusion that you can be what they expect, what they anticipate and groom you for- they throw you to the side and wait on the shoreline while watching to see if you drown.
Most are lucky that they take that mouthful of water for what it's worth and sink beneath the waves in hopes they don’t have to witness the next poor asshole get sucked down into the same charisma vortex that left you so enamoured with the idea of greatness. Most accept their fates and find a way to move on with whatever they can salvage of the life left after their dreams are handed to someone else willing to change everything about themselves for an image.

Those that don’t… They scratch. They claw and they find a way back to shore and spit on the fucking boots of those who’d have seen them buried for being a little too human, not enough gasoline in their veins to mimic the appropriate sociopathy perhaps.
Those that don’t find a fucking way forward…

See, you two… ‘Go Girls’. Ugggggghhhhhhh. I’m sorry- but are you actually fucking serious…
Is that not embarrassing? That's like the name a shitty promoter gives you when they can’t think of anything less original right before you pass through the curtain in terribly fitting gear with a mispronounced name cause they couldn’t bother getting it right.
Back to my point- you two ‘Go Girls’ are prime examples of column A. Properly ‘trained’ and swaddled in the cosy atmosphere of a caring environment and trained under the guise of those who never quite made it big enough to branch out and do something on their own.
You both just burst onto the scene and immediately sunk into mediocrity like you were always meant to be there, like it was a special spot carved out for you both where you can just get comfortable and know that you’ll never have to do anything more than what brought you to the dance.

Which is… fine.

You’re both Roulette champions in your own right- which is… also fine. You’ve both lost matches to my tag team partner, which is… well that was just expected in all honesty. You’ve both lost matches to Red… which is, also expected but a little more damaging to the reputation given the fact she’s still absolutely a delusional cripple with a death wish and not a single modicum of sense nor guilt about the fact she’s about to go get a bunch of people hurt for no reason other than to satiate her own desperate need to be champion… However, that's beside the point.
What the point is- is that you both managed to go from being the hottest young things on the roster to literally nothing in less time than it takes for Mercedes Vargas to start rattling off her achievements during an unrelated conversation.

Whereas, I came along… and I told the big bad wolf to come and fight me. I didn’t start at the bottom, I shot high… and boy, oh boy, was that a fucking terrible idea.
However… however… however… however- and this is the point I think you’ll fail to acknowledge as easily as breathing or losing matches against anyone with a skill set and a breath in their lungs.
You may not know me, but because I walked in and told the big bad wolf to come blow my proverbial house down- you know who I am. You know who I am cause I came in and did what rookies like you think your pissy little debut into the division did.

You both on the other hand, I knew of you… sure. However that's it, I had to go digging into the annals for sufficient information about whether you were worth showing up to this match for- whether you were worth the time of the real World Bombshells champion twice over.
Whether you were worth the blood, sweat and tears of heartache from your disappointed families cause you fucking lost again and still can’t understand why you’re going nowhere fast.

Keep spinning those wheels, you’ll get there someday.

Just don’t count on that way being forward.

I might be a rookie, I might be greener than either of you combined- but I’ve done more in five matches than either of you have in your combined time in the industry. That's not a brag ladies, that's not boast trying to rustle your jimmies… That's straight up, cold hard fact that you’re going to dismiss cause it doesn’t fit the narrative that your precious mentors have woven around you like precious little snowflakes.
I might be newer at this than you, but I at least can see everything that's happening around here for what it is- not what I want it to be. I’m at least willing to accept that maybe things aren’t as straight forward and black and white as you might like to believe…

Masque… she’s a real piece of shit. Sure. She might even be a monster.

Guess what though, shes the first fucking person in this godforsaken industry who has managed to look me in the eye and not lied straight through their teeth.
I haven’t been made any promises, told I was someone's golden goose or given a chip on my shoulder to carry cause every other little rookie pack mule before me crumpled under someone else's weight. I haven’t been offered the keys to the kingdom, hell I’ve barely even got a foot in the door.

… but she hasn’t lied to me. She hasn’t fucking lied to anyone, and isn’t that worth a seconds thought?

See, you can bring your best or your worst- whichever one stands to entertain before you’re eating your teeth like their frosted flakes in front of saturday morning cartoons. It's honestly not going to make a difference- cause you can fret and flail all you want about having to face Masque again- and for obvious good reason. You might be fucking stupid, but not so much that you don’t comprehend that another go round is akin to diving feet first into a woodchipper.
You’ll gladly discount me though, you’ll pay no attention to the fact I’m a tag team champion within my first 10 matches in another company- that I SURVIVED being trained by another crazy ass bitch who has also handed you both losses while only *technically* being cleared to wrestle after five months on the bench.

Fear Masque all you want, but honestly she’s not even gonna have to lay a painted hand on either of you…

By the time this match is over, you’ll be fucking BEGGING for another round with Amber fucking Ryan as a goddamn reprieve… Maybe if you’re really lucky though, I’ll let you take her place on the sidelines instead.”




******




[/i]


“I still don’t think I quite get it, Ava…”

Cheeks flushed slightly, obscuring the smattering of freckles across her nose, Felicity Morgan readjusted herself on the musty couch- the same one they’d both been complaining about and planning on replacing for more than two years. Between being an emergency room nurse coming home at all ours splattered with the finest wannabe gangstas and drug addled miscreants that the shittier parts of Monterey had to offer and Avalon’s increased sporadic schedule of travel- neither of them had really found the opportunity to do more than simply sprawl across the faded surface and complain.
Perhaps Avalon might have been able to focus more if Felicity had changed out of her scrubs since arriving back and finding her semi-absent roommate digging through fridge leftovers, after not having been home more than six and a half hours at a time in what felt like months. Or simply it was the fact that she’d already tried to explain the same situation four times in the past half hour while negotiating mouthfuls of day-old fried rice past the flood of syllables.

“Well the mask thing is a little more complicated but…”

Felicity waved her off passively, the dark stain down the edge of her sleeve hanging as though an extension of her arm. Avalon mumbled something through a further mouthful, as grains of rice spilled down into her lap and down to the floor. Pulling her knees up, Felicity cocked her head slightly with a curl in her lip that suggested a momentary hesitation- that what she wanted to say wasn’t necessarily about to be what was spoken aloud.

“It's not that- I mean with you and Amber. I get she’s---”

“She’s a fucking sociopathic nightmare with a death wish and determination to take everyone that ever gave a fuck down with her to the furthest corners of hell where even Satan’s like ‘fuck that’. She’s a volcano permanently erupting, expecting that everyone around her brought an umbrella for ‘safety’ and a lying, two faced bitch who deserves all the karma that's eating her alive.”

A tense pause fell between them as more rice sputtered forth between vitriolic derisions and dredged up layers of hurt and betrayal that Avalon otherwise swallowed in every other public and professional setting. Felicity shrunk back slightly amid the outburst, whilst trying to avoid the flickers of rice launched in her general direction as Avalon placed the semi-emptied bowl down with a soft clink on the coffee table between them.

“... I was gonna say, she’s got issues… but yeah. That certainly works too, just maybe don’t forget to tell me how you really feel next time.”

Apologetically, Avalon brushed off some errant food scraps with a loud sigh.

“I’m just… I’m fucking tired of hearing all this sympathy and uprising of support, you know? It's almost like everyone is so willing to forget all the fucking shitty things she’s done to so many other people cause they have a new ‘monster’ to root against.
I just don’t understand Flic, why it's so easy for people to look past all the terrible things from one person, but gleefully and wholeheartedly support the same, if not worse, in someone else.”

Matter of factly, Felicity straightened up as much as the couch would allow.

“Ava, I deal with the worst kind of people all day every day. Thing is though- those assholes, from the ones who cut you off in traffic or cook meth in their backyards and sell it to middle schoolers are all still people. They have friends, families and people that are able to look past their shittiness regardless whether there is actually anything there or not…
Just cause they’re fucking awful and you’d think them better off with an extra breathing hole in their face- doesn’t mean that everyone will agree with you.”

Exasperatedly Avalon pulled a nearby cushion into her grasp as though a shield against the fair and reasonable logic being provided. She was hurt and wanted to continue to feel the hurt, and feel justified for her hurt. Amber had been the first person to look out for her interests beyond how many zeroes were tacked onto a check, Amber had been the one to look past her initial shittiness and offer her a way forward… Sure, Avalon knew she fucked up, that they’d had an ‘agreement’ for Amber to train her in she managed to stay out of trouble…
It wasn’t that easy though- she hadn’t sought out trouble, it had found her and in the end her families ability to lawyer up didn’t match those who’d brought trouble to her doorstep to begin with. It was never her fault, she’d never intended on going to prison- nor had she intended for her sentence to be extended by two further years for the continued determination of others to pick fights in search of dominance.

No, Amber was supposed to have her back. Supposed to be there for her… and instead when Avalon finally got to Atlantic City, using all the money and good will she’d accrued- Amber had told her not so politely where to fucking go.
Of course, it didn’t actually happen like that…Amber’s doorstep had never been the most welcoming place to begin with, but her hopes of resuming their journey together were promptly shattered by the redheads determination to stick to the agreement as though her word meant more than Avalon did.

“I’m not expecting anyone to agree with me. That's not what this is about…”

Digging her fingers into the cushion, the abandonment still rankled even now. Amber had promised to be there for her, and ditched the moment things went sideways- now, she expected that all could be forgiven simply cause she’d nearly got herself fucking killed trying to make up for one of the other fuck-ups littering her lengthy career of continued ethical fuck-ups. Somehow forgiven for almost, but not quite, ‘saving’ Avalon from her own ambitions and youthful vigour.

It was always almost with Amber.

As though the effort being made to begin with somehow made everything okay.

“I just---”

Avalon stumbled over her words clumsily for a moment as though they all tried to spill out at once through a space far too small for them all to fit. Clattering against teeth and tumbling out over lips in a noiseless, frustrated verbal record scratch as the intentions fell lazily to the floor between them.

“Why the fuck is it one rule for one and a different rule for the rest- who the fuck died and made anyone believe they might be God enough that their word means more than someone else’s life. I didn’t want to become a wrestler so I could be someone else’s hand puppet or crutch for their failing legacy Flic, I wanted to become a wrestler cause I thought I could make a difference… I never wanted to be anyones sidekick or protege, I just wanted a chance to be able to stand on my own two feet and succeed or fail of my own accord… How did it become that the only person who seems to really care about what I want for myself is the same person that everyone keeps telling me is wrong?
Does that make their belief in me wrong too?”

Running a hand through the tangled mess of brown and blonde that rustled around her shoulder, Avalon shrugged half-heartedly as though her rhetoric had a meaningful answer attached and no one was willing to acknowledge that it was just sitting there between them.
Maybe a sharp stick might have helped- as though she could have prodded at it till something more than the toxic sense of self-awareness oozed from it. Something more palatable than the overwhelming feeling of dread that seemed to spiral when she thought about these philosophicals for a little too long.

“I mean, surely…”

Thoughtfully Avalon rested the cushion into her lap, trying to calculate the words out before they simply fell in a torrent of notions. Each syllable was calibrated to try and cross the void that seemed to be growing further between what she felt was ‘right’ and what she felt was ‘right for her’. Even as the first word fell, Avalon glanced hopefully towards her roommate in hopes of finding a kindred spirit, a modicum of understanding and agreement towards her plight.

She couldn’t possibly be the only person who felt this way… Right?

“...  just because someone else doesn’t like your truth, doesn’t mean that it's automatically a lie.”

“She is dead. Almost certainly dead. Nearly conclusively dead. She is, at the very least, not answering her telephone.”
― Catherynne M. Valente, Radiance





Cassiopeia Mares Apartment
Somewhere in Las Vegas
23.05.2022
7:29pm




“You know Cass, if you’re going to swear under your breath- you really shouldn’t do it standing on the other side of the door.”

With a blase smirk, Amber shrugged cooly. Readjusting her stance as she loitered in the hallway, the redhead was intimately aware of the ecosystem she was actively disrupting and how- with the longer time she spent outside Cassie’s door- the more questions would be evidently asked by those who existances were fuelled solely by a steady stream of everyone elses fucking business.
Amber had plenty of those in her building, she mused counting the seconds passing silently as numbers gently ticked away across her subconscious. Three… four… She’d taken great pride at many points in making them increasingly uncomfortable between the occasional balcony screaming, splatters of mud on the path leading to her doorstep and bloody handprints smeared clumsily across the door handle far more often than they should be.

… five … six…

Amber could feel the growing tension, the indecision almost radiating through the otherwise flimsy locks that separated them. It wouldn’t have been difficult to kick the door in,  Amber mused, however it would have effectively defeated the purpose of showing up to begin with- this was a mission of peace and reconciliation despite the fact the redhead had little reason, at least within herself, to feel as though she had reason to atone for whatever misgivings had been interpreted.

… seven … eight … nine.

“Besides, I can see your shadow from beneath the door.”

It wasn’t intended to be patronising as Amber turned and leaned her back into the edge of the doorframe so that she might face the apartment door across from where she stood, however she made no attempt to veil the otherwise saccharine matter-of-fact virulence. A crack of fluorescence peeked through the door as the hinges protested just behind Amber's lithe frame, the fragment of telltale blonde and a bright, albeit more bloodshot than usual eye impeding the radiating glow for a few telling moments.

“I never told you where I lived, Miss Ryan.”

Insultingly irrelevant, the statement drew a raised eyebrow from the redhead as she pushed to full upright from her lean, rounding on the less than invitational space.

“No, you didn’t- however I couldn’t help but become concerned when you hadn’t returned any of my calls. Or my messages. When those at headquarters had admitted, under less duress than you’d like to imagine, that you’d not been present or active in the office for at least a week…”

Amber trailed off thoughtfully, her expression softening into something resembling genuine concern… or the closest facsimile that Amber Ryan might have otherwise been capable of under the circumstances.

“How did you find---”

Placing a firm hand against the door, not forcing it further open but ensuring that it couldn’t simply be closed without resistance, Amber leaned down slightly to come within eye level of the smaller woman who instinctively shyed back from her position a touch.

“Cassie, I spent YEARS of my life running from my problems. I can assure you that anyone who truly doesn’t want to be found- will make sure they cannot be. As for everyone else, darling? Deep down inside, whether they realise it or not… they are found cause they quietly want to be.”

Softly came the words, however they struck home like a sledgehammer through a chest made of glass and morality. Cassie didn’t respond, simply edging the door open further with a hesitation betraying her otherwise reluctance for the inevitable to occur.
With a dutiful nod, Amber stepped inside whilst making sure the door shut firmly in her wake, emphatically cutting off the rest of the world as though anyone else were to come to the ‘rescue’ of the otherwise quiet girl in apartment 209.

“I didn’t come here to make an ass of myself Cassie. I get you’re probably a little upset---”

Cassie turned on her heel, having managed to keep her composure and professional facade intact until this moment. Indignance shone through the usually passive features of the younger woman as her dress, seemingly caught in slow motion, condescended to her fury as it fluttered at her side.

“Upset? Miss Ryan, you didn’t even hesitate KNOWING I had previously had my jaw wired shut on that side for weeks prior. I find it difficult to believe that it wasn’t as premeditated as it was unrestrictedly vile.”

Cassie didn’t even have to turn her head for the shadowy stain spread across the lower edge of her jawbone smudged across her pale skin. Purples and blacks bloomed viciously, the vague outline of Amber’s best shot seemingly etched into Cassie’s skin like a forbidden masterpiece, an explosion of impulsive fury.

“No, you are right. I didn’t hesitate and truthfully- I wouldn't if I had to again. I made what I considered to be the right decision for US Cassie. You and me. That's what this is about, always has been and I’m not going to stand idly by and watch what WE have built be poked and prodded at like some songbird in a gilded cage.”

Quietly, and in possibly the best decision she had made since deciding this would be a profitable and absolutely not a sociopathic power move, Amber didn’t continue the train of thought where it was decidedly derailing. If anything, the redhead mused silently as the blonde tried to employ blissful ignorance to any justifications, Amber considered Cassie to be a little ungrateful if anything.
How could she so easily fail to see that Amber had acted in their defence, in benevolence and their best interest instead of simply reacting. She had solved a problem before it had become one to be solved- prevention was key and she’d done precisely that and received an undue cold shoulder for the effort.

Granted, it would have been far easier to turn the journalist into the sum of his bloody and squishy parts, and even more likely she doubted that anyone would have sufficiently cared to take the time to piece him back together after stepping so willingly into a malfunctioning meat grinder… however Amber had determinedly chosen the higher road- and while the consequences might have been more steep, there was an actuality of intention that couldn’t be ignored.

It was for Cassie’s own good. For both of their good.

Perhaps one day she might come to understand.

Resignedly, perhaps in response to the continued feigned silence of uncertainty, Amber sighed loudly and dropped to sit on the edge of a nearby sofa arm. Swaddled in comfortable beige, in an apartment like unflavoured oatmeal and tap water dreams housing a soul unsure whether she was a little too intense for her own existence, Cassie paced with an uncomfortable hesitation as though sanctuary in these four walls held no weight in the zero gravity Amber had presented with.

“Look, I get it… I acted a little irrationally. It was a bit of over-reaction but I promise I only ever had OUR best intentions at heart. Besides, what this now means is that we can concentrate OUR energies towards things that are far more productive. Like this fucking tag match for example…”

Earnestly, Amber gestured in a vague direction as though it somehow validated her absurdity. As though Cassie was an active participant in their partnership instead of a passive passenger on the hurricanes roller coaster headed 140 feet straight down.
Unconvinced, Cassie continued to flit about distractedly. Unwilling to spur on Amber’s borderline delusional justifications, but unwilling to disagree knowing the redhead truly believed that her actions had been of a sort of misguided benefit.

“Honestly Cass, tell me… what other option did I really have?”

Logically, the answer was plenty. The answer was innumerable to the point it was almost ludicrous to contemplate counting them out- however Amber’s tone remained endearing, determined to prove itself as more than just another layer. Another mask.
Closing the distance between them, Cassie edged in reluctantly as though finding brief acceptance in Amber's words- or simply searching for a crack, a flaw in the otherwise imperious facade to prove that the redhead hadn’t, in fact, put her frontal lobe through a bleach wash.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Miss Ryan.”

Standing slowly, a hand pushing off the top edge of a knee- Amber reached out towards Cassie's shoulder. An attempt at humanity, drawing the blonde closer with the offer of reassurance- however fine that tightrope might have run.
Gingerly, each tenuous step almost an achievement within itself, Cassie moved within reach and immediately found herself swept uncomfortably close beneath Amber’s arm. That alone, almost terrifying given Amber’s reputation for avoidance of physical contact without reason. Cassie flinched beneath the pressure but soon found herself wrapped tightly by a lithe arm and the faintly heady waft of cinnamon…

Secure. Protected. Beneath the winds of a fucking hurricane.

“You don’t have to say anything- I just need to know that you still trust me… I made you a promise Cass. One that I don’t intend on breaking cause some dirt sheet bullshitter wants to go digging in the wrong cemetery.”

Amber sighed as she loosened her grip on the younger woman slightly, cocking her head so that she might feel slightly closer to Cassie.

“You know, I’m not so good at this shit. All I will say is that this is just another attempt at me trying to fulfil whatever the fuck it is you see in me… repaying everything you’ve done to keep my head above water.
Besides… we have to be fine, right?”

A small reassuring squeeze on the upper arm and a smile that looked just a little too out of place.

“Whatever happens- we’ll be fine. All this stuff with Masque- it's a means to an end. You can’t believe everything you hear else you might go mad. What we have is like a  truce in a war not yet raging,  an exchanged olive branch that's dripping in something that looks mysteriously like someone elses blood… Maybe the enemy of my enemy is supposed to be my friend, but truth be told… Masque isn’t the enemy. She isn’t a friend either- but it's about the best we might hope for.
Consider this OUR gesture of good will…OUR best shot at remaining at the end of a Rapture.”

Leaning over further, Amber pulled Cassie in tighter once more, finally fulfilling the criteria for an adequate side hug, while allowing the soft florals of the blonde's perfume to briefly dissipate the knot writhing in her chest and quell the bitterness rising in her throat.
Maybe soon, the redhead might have actually believed the bile that dripped from her tongue- if only for Cassie's sake…

Like a little sister.

Like a flower girl named after the stars.

Like another one she wouldn’t dare let down.

“We’ll be fine. We just have to be…”






******





“There are far smarter people than me out there that will tell you that hell doesn’t exist.

There are those that will swear black and blue on all they believe in that theres nothing left for us when we die, we don’t get the option to do it all again nor do we move on and experience the afterlife we supposedly deserve.
According to some people- once the lights go off. That's the end of it.

See, I had the relative fortune of coming across a medium in mid practice just the other day- now, as you can imagine… Not really my thing. If anyone wanted to speak to me from beyond the grave, I’d be seriously asking them if their purgatory is really that awful to want to come and spend time with my miserable ass.
There's this fervour though- this idea that ripples through humanity that we are somehow entitled to something after all of this… that we’ve earned the right to either move on, or some back in a new form.

Reincarnation is an interesting concept cause there are those that black and blue will claim they were someone important in a ‘past life’ and they are the embodiment of that person in a modern era. Others speak more broadly of their ‘experiences’ as fauna and flora respectively.
Personally, I feel like I probably built an orphanage in a past life… except I used the orphans as mortar and that's why the universe has a permanently fixed set of middle fingers outside my existential window.

Imagine though, if we really did have that kind of choice…

To step into a body, imbue it's soul with what makes us unique…

Which makes it all the more surprising that anyone would want to take the form of the universe's worst iteration of horror themed pinatas and yet here we are…
I mean honestly, do they even have candy in them?
My worst fear, you see, is that it's the kind of wrapped sweets that your grandparents thought they were spoiling you with- the ones you were absolutely sure had sat in the same bowl in the same room, tasting faintly like tobacco and crystalized sugar.

I figure that's why we got the toys to play with right?

I won’t pretend like I’m not a little disappointed that our original opponents suddenly and violently took ill the moment the card was released. I hope Mercedes Vargas especially makes a miracle recovery cause I can only imagine that she’s absolutely DEVASTATED that she can’t finally fail to back up any of the absolute tripe that she’s been spewing about me for god knows how long.
Diamond Steele though, well I think we’re all quietly hoping it's a voice loss on a more permanent scale but even then I doubt I’ve racked up quite enough good karma for that little gem to come through.

Instead though, we get… The Metal Maniacs.

Ladies, honestly… I have to ask. Did you even fucking try?

Have you, at any point considered… shit, I don’t know… actually learning to wrestle competently instead of relying on chainsaw scare tactics and dribbling fake blood. Yeah, blood doesn’t quite flow like that you sick motherfuckers but I can assure you that you’ll soon be learning all about the intacies of blood splatter patterns.

Or maybe you won’t cause they usually call in professionals bathed in accident blue and emergency red for that.

Perhaps next time you might actually choose to be something more intelligent and useful… like a coffee table, or a toaster.

No, see the medium waxed poetic about loss and tried to bring humour to mask the excessively generic statements as though humour itself wasn’t subjecting and it made me wonder if we were really better of with nothing beyond the veil. After all, I don’t think Great Uncle Fred really does care all that much about your bunions…
Yet we still so wholeheartedly believe cause we need it… we need to feel like we’ll be acknowledged after we’re gone.

We have our legacies I suppose- I’ve built mine like a ruined temple, long since abandoned for it's hedonistic and overtly violent perceptions. Masque has built hers on what you, yourselves, claimed to have perfected. A personification of what fear is supposed to resemble, what weight its presence is supposed to carry instead of a pair of B-movie rip-offs looking for an extra credit.

I mean, that's the greatest fear of humanity though, isn’t it? It's not devils and demons, it's not the choice between heaven and hell. It's not even the monsters looking for wayward toes in the periphery or black sludge lagoon creatures dripping in ectoplasmic bullshit. It's not even those who look you in the eye and tell you every truth you’ve sought to bury within yourself, dredged for the amusement and enlightenment of others.

No, it's the simple fact that when you die… sooner or later, you will be forgotten.

Lost. Alone. Stricken from any meaningful memory you might have created.

No more flowers. No more kind words spoken. Reminiscing gets less, the conversations segued and sidetracked to more important matters like whats new in reality television and why it's fucking insufferable.

I suppose when you look at things that way though-  it makes it all the more comforting, cause come Climax Control on Sunday, my darling Metal Maniacs…  even though you aren;t dead and gone yet, it seems that you won’t at all be missed.

That no one, at all, really gives a fuck.”





******





Calico Basin 
Mojave Desert, ND
26.05.2022
1:28pm





“Don’t you know the wicked witches wore black?”

Even the comment came off dehydrated as Amber stepped from the truck finally, a cringe shuddered through as she found herself washed over with the kind of Las Vegas desert heat that made her regret deciding to leave the comfort of modern air conditioning.

No, nothing about the place decided to welcome her.

Not the arid landscape that stretched further than the eye might comprehend, nor the glare of a sun determined that it's wrath and might be experienced before the ever-loving heat death of the universe. Especially not the woman who shaded herself almost vainly with a lace parasol that, in any other circumstance, might have brought fits of laughter to the redheads lips for the sheer absurdity. Cotton draped loosely over a frame that belied a devastating strength of will, even the facade of painted white seemed to have wilted under the harshness of the heat- rivulets of paint almost stripped from its surface as though determinedly reclaimed against nature.

Some might have called this place hell, Amber mused as her boots crunched and sunk into the loose sand deposits as she strayed further from the relative comfort and safety of the Oblivion Garage decaled truck and towards a figure others might have proclaimed as the Devil herself.
It wasn’t hell though, and Masque was far from the type to bear horns and a pointed tail- no, this was far closer to the purgatory that Dante had described. Hell had implied a level of suffering, but purgatory in it's vast desolation provided detachment. Hell wanted you alive to find salvation in eternal pain, purgatory though didn’t care if you died nor did it celebrate survival.
Something about the infinite apathy and its ultimate emptiness was far more terrifying than anything hellfire and brimstone might have tried to offer.

Masque merely shrugged off the Wizard of Oz reference. Amber suspected it wasn’t soul crushing enough to have cracked her top five favourite films, however it had been worth the attempt to break the ice nonetheless.

“Still you came.”

A shrug of her own, and a pause for effect.

“Despite my lack of feline qualities, I like to think I’ve got a few more lives to rattle off…”

Amber replied thoughtfully, while watching the gears behind those cobalt blue eyes slowly continue ticking over- threatening to tug the threads of Amber’s very being into the perpetual mechanism.

“Curiosity, then? Even at this late stage, in our penultimate chapter together, you are still not entirely sure what this is.”

Masque made a wide circle with the parasol, a supposed grand gesture in a place that took offence to the idea of life.

“What this is.”

“What this is, isn’t my pressing question. Why we are in the desert during the middle of summer is more concerning – I get that I’ve said before I have a death wish, but this isn’t the way I envisioned going out.”

Bluntly, Amber softened her tone as Masque cocked her head slightly as the rivulet of paint tracing down fell with a defined hiss into the scorching sands.

“This is an end, of sorts. You are here because this is the most appropriate setting for your rebirth.”

Recoiling slightly, the redhead found herself unable to contain her disdain.

“Rebirth? Please tell me you aren’t about to start waxing lyrical and quoting Bible verses – I’m not sure I could emotionally handle having come out here to be accosted by the inaccurate writings of the ‘Good Book’. I swear if I hear the word ‘salvation’ I might actually just throw up.”

Masque began to circle, the parasol still daintily held as though it made a difference. A shark sensing blood, measuring up all the ways Amber might fit in between her teeth.

“Start? Oh my Resplendent Hurricane, we are so very far from where we began. This is not the start – that came when you chose to walk out on the man you thought you loved and left him to my merciful attention, before he was replaced and rendered obsolete. This is not the start, but the end.”

As the sun seemed to arc gently above them, Amber swallowed hard as though there were more than just sand and air left in the back of her throat.

“Bible verses? No. There are no Gods, no Kings. Only men and the monsters they create. Or are. Like you.”

Vehemently, Amber shook her head. Disgust and disruptiveness radiating like a mirage unfathomable.

“Not like me at all. We’ve established that – you don’t get to pigeonhole me cause it happens to self-service your precious Rapture. We are a partnership after all, not a martyrdom.”

“Pigeonhole? Like all the others have already done so? A damsel in distress; a fuckup in need of fixing. I am not the one offering you salvation – they are. I am not the one trying to force their reality upon you and your life. I am the only truth you know.”

Amber could almost taste the paint as it trickled now, the acrid chemical stain almost dizzying under the heat as Masque pulled up as close to face to face as their height differences might manage.

“The Rapture is all you have left, Amber, and before you leave this place, you will embrace it.”

A silvery laugh escaped Amber’s throat, previously confined to a prison of scalding sand and mixed emotions unable to be tangled from the created web of destructive purpose. Perhaps this was the point, the redhead contemplated silently, where Masque thought she might just verbally brain fuck her into compliance. A momentary existential horror broke through the shimmering mirage enclosing around them as Amber’s prior encounters with Cassiopeia Mares reeked of the same tinged misguided truthfulness.

No, not the same. Amber reminded herself firmly. Similar perhaps but not the same- that would have implied that she was some kind of monster after all…

“You know, you tend to say that a lot. ‘All I have left’ but the more I come to think of it… The more I start to wonder if I’m actually not the one walking around with their eyes closed.”

Deflective and derogatory, Amber's defiance forced through the space in her vocal chords in hopes of masking the inner maelstrom that she’d unintentionally created in her chest. However Amber finds little time to revel or celebrate in her ill gotten victory as Masque’s prosthetic hand, captured briefly by the combination of the suns glare and an unhealthy level of dehydration into an ethereally glowing weapon that Amber could do little to counter.

Flat footed, the prosthetic caught her cheek… through her cheek… her legs forget the existence of knees as her body contorted in a state of over balance and counter productive hypertensions. Sand sprayed as her body sunk below it's loose surface briefly, partially buried by her own momentum, eyes squeezed shut avoided the worst of the sand blast however her clothing seemed to capture more of it- withholding it's prizes as she struggled to find an equilibrium that might have been knocked clean of her existence.

Unsteadily, Amber drew herself out of the sand enough to loudly swear under her breath- however the willpower and grit that might have brought her back up swinging had contentedly buried it's proverbial head in the disrupted sands. It wasn't a situation to be met with violence, nor devolved to be as such. Civil until it no longer could be…

Amber had seen the line approaching and had done nothing to stop that step across it's threshold from taking her legs from beneath and the last breath of clean air from her lungs.

“I’m gonna pretend like I did something to deserve that…”

Trying to ignore the thick strings of red entwined with saliva as she spit loudly into the sand, congealing into something unhealthily solid in the harsh sands. Amber scraped the words out, trying not to choke on the heat and dust  washing down her throat.

“Cause if I don’t… I’m worried that this is just going to devolve into something other than the civil conversation we were otherwise engaged in …”

Forcing an inaudible chuckle, Amber drew up to her knees with a distinctively familiar smirk.

“Which, basically, what I’m trying to say is… Are you fucking done?”

Stepping across, the parasol did it's best to shade from the sun while thick trails continued to cut swathes through the once impeccable facade of the blonde.

“I am bored of this.”

Of course she was. Amber couldn't even consider herself surprised as her stare remained fixed on Masque.

“There was a little hope that you would reach this final stage in your rebirth independently, but I can see you require one final push. It is not a question of if I am done, but whether you are.”

Dropping to her knees, Masque spun the parasol creating a patterned shadow effect across the ochre sands as they shifted in an imperceptible breeze.

“Tell me, Amber. Did you ever answer the question you did not think you had come to ask me all those weeks ago? About what you did, and why you did it …”

Those words stung more than Amber would admit, as the blood pooled beneath her tongue once more. Indignation gave way to anger, which gave way to resentment and guilt- unfiltered and raw, running roughshod through her veins.

“Did you think about him? About all these people who inexplicably step in to save you from yourself without invitation, without need? Oh, the list grows so very long now. Fexxfield, Knox and the man you profess to love today, at least. Your husband. Tell me, Amber … Did you lose the World Championship on his behalf?”

“You don’t get to stand there with a God complex and try to tell me that you understand [i[everything[/i] as though you’re somehow infallible. You bleed, you die. You’re just as fucked as the rest of us – so lets cut the proverbial bullshit perhaps so that we both might not die of delusion.”

Fury finally broke free of it's oppressive bonds of determination, her patience and ability to simply accept having finally depleted to the point it became unhealthy to engage- however obsession and guilt drove her further to stay. As though Karma might have demanded it, only they didn’t know for whom it might have been drawn in by.

Emphatically, Masque twisted and otherwise tore her prosthetic free and threw it towards Amber. Heavy fingers grasping for nothing grazed Amber’s skin before it fell to a halt at her knees.

“Infallible? Are you blind as well as willfully ignorant? Are you stupid?”

Aggressively Masque pulled at her neckline to expose thick knots of scarring, as though Amber didn’t have her own twisted art tracing across almost every possible inch of skin.

“I have bled more than you ever will,”

A lie that Amber forced herself to swallow the response to.

“Even now, you wrestle with such pathetic feelings as guilt, remorse. For your lost heart, for his lost Championship. Could you have done more? Should you? Was this all your fault? Poisoning yourself with compassion.”

Mac. She wasn;t wrong, she never seemed to be. Amber had watched Mac fall into the same trap she had, only he’d had the benefit of hindsight… of watching her collapse under the weight she’d brought upon her shoulders. In that fleeting moment… the moment they’d lost focus, the moment they allowed themselves to empathise… the moment they started to care about something that wasn;t the debilitating weight on their shoulder.

They’d lost everything.

Amber had fought almost a year before she’d slipped in her own hubris, her own inability to separate thought from feeling. Mac though, as a wave of resentment and disappointment flooded her veins, he hadn’t learned- or simply hadn;t paid attention. Which, in itself, might have been the worse crime.
Deep down inside, as much as she wanted to tell him that she was proud and that he’d been a great champion, there was a pervasive voice disgruntled that he ‘should have known better’ and instead had chosen the heroes route straight off the fucking cliffs edge.

“You mewl like a doe, uncertain. Lost, while professing strength and power. You talk of gods, but it seems that you are truly divine given your ability to deliver three hundred and fifty seven consecutive miracles with such insipid, tender, flaccid weakness. I have only one question.”

Part of Amber felt regret- that she was to blame for his loss. She’d been the poison in his veins, the reason he’d felt the need to ‘white knight’ for her reputation as though she had anything worth salvaging from her interactions with a certain Matt Knox.
… However, Amber had also been the one to tell Mac not to go down that road, and he’d done it anyway.

Perhaps she was starting to only now grow bored of those around her not heeding the weather warnings that flashed red and neon before their eyes…

“When will you wake up from this distorted reality and emerge the vengeful angel you were always meant to be?”

“Mug your destiny in an alley and punch it until it gives you what you want”
― Catherynne M. Valente, Radiance



Undisclosed Construction Site
Atlantic City, NJ
14.10.2014
9:37pm



There were certain life lessons that could only be learned in the deluge of rain.

For Amber, among the sickening stench of hydraulic oils and wet metal- a cocktail borne upon the smog of traffic fumes- she wasn’t quite sure what that was yet. Perhaps it had something to do with the way her throat tightened and nose ached with every breath, the weight in her pocket infinitely out of proportion to the fragile necklace laced around her knuckles.
Miserable night. Miserable city.

Miserable redhead.

Ahead in the rain slicked gloom, Amber could make out a male figure slipping through the chain links into one of the many Parkwood Construction Ltd sites dotted across the cityscape- perhaps it would have been far easier to simply ignore such happenings. A regularity in a place that bred desperation as easily as it did vice. However with fedora tipped low and shoe leather sinking deeper into the mud- Amber found herself intrigued as he circled the virulently yellow excavator parked mere feet beyond the threshold.
Valuable? Probably. Subtle? Hardly. A bit too cumbersome for her stickier fingered tastes.

“If you don’t mind me saying… Might be aiming a little high. Can’t say theres a huge market for bright yellow excavators out this way.”

A token effort was made to conceal a cardboard tube, Amber dismissed it idly. Something about the mans demeanor had her far more invested than what banal secrets were here to hold.

“Was never much for speculating,”

Glancing back towards Amber, he began with a thoughtful nod.

“ …Seems to me that something so powerful must be worth a little to someone, even if it’s seen a touch of action. Heavily involved in aftersales for industrial machinery? Or is it more of a passing interest? Could sure use your advice either way …”

Amber sucked down a caustic breath.

“Colour me more curious of a man seeking solace in the cold embrace of industry. If you’re looking for advice I’d have suggested an umbrella, but we both seem a little beyond that point.”

Smiling, he slipped the sodden fedora free from slicked back hair to match before turning it upside down to sag in the rain. Pushing his cheek out, he blinked away some of the rain that trickled across his features.

“Real sucker for a hard-luck story. Knew a guy who once said nothing easy was ever worth having; and nothing in this miserable city ever came easy unless it arrived at the point of a gun or the tip of a needle.”

Amber scoffed quietly.

“Was that too dark?”

He mused, as Amber weighed it up until that same stink of oil, churned mud, rusted metal and nitrogen dioxide settled in an all-too-familiar craw nestled right in the back of her throat.

“A little. Only considering I’m out of hard luck stories as well. Perhaps you’d settle for meaningful conversation- cause I’ll admit I’ve never taken on a canary quite so ‘imposing’.”

As he ground his toe cap further into the mud, splashing a little water made iridescent by the streak of hydrocarbons, the realization washed over that Amber wasn’t simply going to let this go. Relentless, determinedly curious- somehow these things always seemed to end with a very long walk off a very miserable-looking pier.

“Never been a fan of places underneath where I plant my feet. Mines, oceans … Not a huge fan of those big tops circuses bring to town either.”

Wringing out the fedora, the grimace crossed as it squelched between clasped fingers.

“Conversation? I’ve been known to dabble. Name’s Terryl.”

Reaching out with a straight palm, the gesture was short lived as fingers curled away instinctively.

“Don’t even know why I made that gesture.”

Amber couldn't restrain the smirk of her own, worn like plate armor on an apathetic facade.

“For a man who has a depreciation for oceans of clowns, you certainly picked a curious place to plant your feet.”

A further biting stab in the dark, as Amber's narrowed gaze drifted towards where a handshake might have taken place.

“Congratulations though, that might have been the first sensible thing you’ve done in the last… ever since this conversation started.”

“Stick around. Conversation’s not over just yet … Not unless you’ve got someplace better to be?”

Amber made no effort to move as Terryl’s smirk mirrored her own.

“Guess not.”

Both of them looked out over the silver-steel skeleton of the high-rise taking shape nearby, bathed in painful-white spotlights,  scored with orange corrosion as the city’s financial slowdown accelerated the rot it usually kept at bay.

“What’re they building here anyway?  … Interested from an investor perspective, of course,”

God loves a tryer, indeed. Amber chuckled internally while allowing the hasty comment to slide by for it's sheer audacity.

“Take a guess. Exactly the same as everything else- originality died a long and painful death before it ever got here.”

Amber’s expression softened reflexively as her stance shifted into something more neutral.

“Investment wise- pretty sure I saw an old apartment building on my way looking for some love, a not-brothel looking for ‘financial support’ and about 15 high rises to be completed 4 years ago.
One might argue that you’re spoiled for choice, Terryl. Me personally though, I’d like to see them razed to the fucking ground.”

“Was hoping you might know more about the proprietor, actually … I guess I could investigate, analyse, evaluate, do some good old-fashioned soft-stepping, see what the streets are saying behind well-to-do backs, but it’d probably save a whole bunch of time if you had some major scoop that saved me a few hours. Then I could get back to all the messages Madeline hasn’t bothered taking on my behalf.
Don’t know why I keep her around,”

He sighed, then chuckled.

“Can’t lie straight. I absolutely do.”

“Could do alot of things. Most of those would see you at the end of someone else's tether if you played your cards right… or wrong… doesn't make much difference with those types.
Another heir with too much money, not nearly enough sense and an inflated sense of self-worth that would make God himself blush- seems almost criminal that the Parkwood name has escaped your grasp for so long. Might wanna get your ears checked in that case, otherwise the streets aren’t nearly as talkative as you thought.”

Only now the smile dissipated from Terryl’s face. Glancing up at the floodlights illuminating a sickly-overcast inky sky.

“Know exactly who Parkwood is. Just didn’t know where to necessarily find his interests …” 

Another knowing look back at the redhead landed flush.

“ … Until now.”

Amber opened her mouth to respond but found her words choked by the thick smog swallowing them whole. Defensively, her fingers curled into a clench and jaw set a little tighter.

“Seems like such a struggle for such a simple request. If you told me you were planning on taking him out at the knees, I might have drawn you a map.”

Terryl mused quietly as Amber tried to fore her instincts out of the unmistakable tension they had taken on.

“Not so much looking for the man, but someone close to him. Or someone he’d prefer close to him perpendicular and six feet down. Don’t suppose you know any flower girls named after stars?”

A shrug, A vague rhetoric set out into the universe- one that landed with a little more precision than Amber felt comfortable expressing immediately.

“Cassiopeia is quite the curious constellation choice. A little esoteric for my tastes…”

“Can’t do much stargazing on a night like this, but I’m in the neighborhood for a cartographer. Over on Apollo Square. Third floor, Point Prometheus Building. It might take a while to answer because Madeline never does her job. Would be something special if you decided to swing by …”

Terryl, without missing a beat, eyed Amber as though she herself were perhaps made of stars.

“ … Unless I’m aiming too high.”

“Turned out fine for Icarus. Besides, I’ve found looking up too much is an easy way to get put down. Drawing skills aren’t much, but I like to think I get around compass points well enough. I find myself far better equipped around a lock than a pen on most days. Besides,  the most interesting things happen in doorways after all.”

A nod, as he chewed on his lip perhaps giving further food to his thoughts.

“Make yourself at home – except the desk. And the chair. Those belong to the proprietor of Fexxfield Investigations, Incorporated.”

Flickers of amusement danced across Amber’s features as she took a look into the vicinity of lights.

“I’ll have to remember that when I finally make his acquaintance.”

Overwhelming sarcasm landed heavily between them with a wet thud before she continued.

“Might have to leave a word of advice about heavy machinery and concrete gardens, while I’m there.”

“Well, while you’re there dispensing that sage council …”

He ventured, examining a noticeable paint chip on the brilliantly yellow mudded surface.

“Know anything about ceiling fans?”

“Can’t say I’ve had the time to watch them thoroughly enough to form an opinion.”

Something contemplative washed over Terryl's face, chasing alongside the rain tracing across his brow.

“Shame. You’d be surprised what you think about when you let the mind wander for a spell …”

Amber shrugged thoughtfully, interest dissipating as the mud on her sneakers seemed to cake and crack at the edges in spite of the rain. Stepping back, Amber allowed herself three deep breaths before turning her back on the sodden Fexxfield.

“Good night Terryl. Try not to get caught up in too many hard luck tales…”

“Real curious to know your name …”

He began, before shaking his head knowingly.

“Get the feeling you probably wouldn’t give it to me straight anyway. As for hard luck tales, always been a sucker for happy endings. Think if I keep stumbling through the bad ones, bound to find the one that ends in a yellow-brick road.”

“Most people know me as ‘Red’...”

“Never thought I’d wind up meeting a Red Lady on some stormy night. Funny how things work out.”

Looking back over her shoulder with a raised eyebrow, Amber contemplated briefly. Venom and virulence soaked through the tip of her tongue- however she swallowed and allowed the bile to settle back before responding in an equally vague tone.

“... but you, well, you can call me Amber.”

As her footsteps padded wetly back through the mud, meeting pavement with a scrape and leaving the remnants like a poorly concealed breadcrumb trail to nowhere pleasant- Terryl Fexxfield lowered the fedora back onto his head with a cool smirk, tugging the brim down against the advances of the wind.

“That’s one beautiful name. Real shame about the weather …”






******





“You know, I used to be fascinated by people who played chess when I was younger.

I don’t mean everyone who owned a novelty set and immediately crowned themselves grandmaster cause they cheated against their 10 year old sibling, created house rules for their friends and absolutely cracked it when they lost to someone who could *actually* play.
No- I’m referring to those who savor every moment of the tactical war crimes they are committing, those who’s carefully thought out  maneuvers cut through unguarded defenses like surgical strikes against a stagnant enemy.

I like to think there's a certain level of mental trickery that comes from a game with absolutely no hidden information. No subterfuge beyond what you allow your opponent to believe and the implied slights that might come with assumptions made recklessly.
It's astounding that wrestling has any real tangible connection- and yet it seems delirium induced by everything being laid out plain as day holds a firm grasp around the throat of what we do.

That is how you end up with six women walking into a match thinking that they are all somehow entitled to royal status, beginning of a worse joke when you realize the outcome is entirely inevitable before a pawn has even moved.
Hell, the awful reality of the situation here is that half of the women in this match have already booked themselves into a World Bombshells title match before they’ve spoken a sideways word. Bell hasn’t even rung and they’ve coronated themselves emotionally.
Meanwhile the other half of the equation are trying to prove that their name isn’t a typo by loudly proclaiming that they ‘deserve’ to be here. If you think this refers to you, then it probably does and the truth is you are actually only deserve to be here cause you managed to barely convince the powers that be that you suck just a little less than the absolute nobody standing next to you.

Not that it's ever stopped anyone believing with such fearsome whole-heartedness that they belong.

Krystal Wolfe, prime fucking example… A woman with a mouth too big for her brain and her talent level. Overdue for a fucking reality check that doesn’t simply involve someone being remotely better- I mean honestly, it must be really nice to have something to say all the time- even if a majority is garbled bullshit that deserves a mute button planted squarely between your eyes.
Wild challenges thrown out cause you wanna be better… You wanna prove yourself… Face better opponents and lose

Honey, you had your chance to prove yourself plenty. You held that Roulette title and flaunted that trinket like it was worth half of what you claimed, you went and told everyone that if they wanted a piece they could stop on by- determined that you were on a level that you weren’t even scraping on your best day.

You spent a lot of time comparing yourself to me and I get it, you were a proud champion. So was I… but you continually put yourself on a pedestal you hadn’t earned. You needed that title to make you important and the moment you lost it- you may as well have shuffled off this mortal coil and no one would have even noticed. I was someone before I was champion, and I still am now.
Now you're telling us that you’ve got something left to prove- yet instead of doing anything about it, you’ve skulked and scrapped waiting for someone to remember that you might deserve a second look.

You’re tenacious and hungry Krystal?

Well, I suppose this should be common knowledge to you already but catering is over yonder, and perhaps you really should start getting used to seat warming instead of shit talking cause you’ll no doubt be spending more time doing it after I’m done with this match.

Hell, talking about cluttering up catering…

Sam Marlowe… welcome back.

Said basically no one. Another underwhelming legend of the division still trying to remind everyone that she was good at some point- can’t remember when that was really, but it happened, right?
Seriously though, I should put a little more respect on your name- considering what you’ve done. Former champion, SCW Hall Of Famer looking to revitalize her career cause that sickly sweet southern belle former star thing only has so many legs.

I mean, you must be a little out of touch- right?

You claimed Alicia Lukas was the ‘centre of the bombshells division’, if I recall correctly. No offense to a woman after my own heart, of course, but Alicia Lukas hasn’t been a threat since the last time she claimed to give a fuck. You know, right before her crippling choke artist compulsion drove the World Bombshells title into the arms of a woman that no one thought should have even got that match.
Maybe at one point she was Sam, maybe when you were still kicking it towards the top of the marquee Alicia Lukas still cared about being the best, that Evie Jordan was setting the bar and Mikah didn’t have an obsessive failure avoidance disorder.

Maybe you need a little refresher. Reintroduction to Bombshells division 101.
I’ll be your guide through the utter fucking shambles- on your left you’ll see the washed up and the wannabes scrapping it out for matches against opponents who can throw a decent punch On your right, the delusionals… We ignore them where possible cause it's not yet proven whether it's contagious or not. Ahead, a level that you are predestined to never achieve cause the bar has been so decisively raised that trying to compare the current crop to the foundationals is like comparing apples to, well… trash.

Guess it's time for Miss Marlowe to resume her career whack-a-mole and finally pull her head out of the sand, so I can claim hers to mount on my fucking wall as well…

… and that brings me to you, Bella.

A former challenger full of bright sparks and brilliant potential- you were one of the few that I truly believed might have been competition back in December.
Not because you were *better* but because you actually wanted it… you wanted to be there, you wanted to be champion and you know what- I fucking belieevd it.
Shame on me, I suppose.
You fought hard and honour- you still get your kudos for that. However… everything since?

You took that loss and you used it to self sabotage every opportunity since. You went against the best and lost Bella, now you’re content slumming it with the curtain jerkers cause you didn’t live up to ‘expectations’?
What fucking expectations do you think there were outside of maybe surviving… It's not to say you can’t beat me- which you can’t - but you fought the best at their best. Now it's all excuses, it's bratty attitudes and self-serving self-loathing to a degree that would make any therapists wallet blush.
Everything you worked for, you threw in the bin cause you went out and did what everyone thought you would…

Hell, I’m more disappointed now in your lack of concentration and ability to pull your fucking shit together for two seconds than finding out Satan wears My Little Pony pyjamas. You have been there, you were there and you earned your way there- now you’re scrapping with fucking Candy of all people for the ‘right’ to be in this match.
5 months since you challenged for the World Title Bella, and now you’re clawing for relevance against someone who can’t decide if they actually wanna compete or if they wanna commit animal abuse by giving their puppy a pink glitter mani-pedi. Honestly- the fact that you have fallen to that level of consideration, against an opponent literally distracted by their own reflection, should be lighting an inferno under your ass.

Instead, it's woe is me. It's ‘I can’t do anything right’..

Wanna know why- cause you aren’t fucking doing anything at all. You went from surprise contender to literal afterthought in a multi-man clusterfuck.
Wake the fuck up Bella- you aren’t nearly as entitled as you’re making out to be, as cowardly and meek as you claim. This is Queen for a day and you’re an excess pawn complaining you nearly didn’t make the board.

Reach out, take this match by the throat and prove you wanna be here- cause otherwise I’ll go out there and I’ll show you what it truly means to be able to do absolutely nothing.

See, the truth is… I don’t need to win this match as badly as the rest of you. I don’t need a crown and cape to prove that I’m still the Queenpin ripping throats out for every sideways glance. I don’t need to be told I’m special and put up on a pedestal while I book a card, I don’t need to give myself every advantage possible to skewer my own title intentions with claims of rolling crooked dice.

I don’t need it like the rest of you- but know this…

I said it while I was champion, I’ll say it until I have no breath left to speak with.

I will ALWAYS want this more than any of you.”






******



Bane Household
Las Vegas, ND
04.05.2022
4:17pm




“Hold up. Let's just rewind a second.”

Through narrowed eyes, Amber casted a serious gaze over the young blonde seated across the breakfast bar from her, with hand still firmly planted on a mug of coffee that gently steamed between them. Perhaps it was the mixed signals and misgiving in the redheads tone that sent a small chill through Cassiopeia Mearns spine, although she tried to pass it off as simply readjusting the gathered sleeve that cuffed delicately at her wrist.

“What do you mean ‘asking questions’?”

Almost squinting now, Amber leaned forward scrutinizingly as though searching for anything in Cassie’s demeanor that might ease her quick firing nerves. Paranoia crept up quickly, as though it never left- and hell, maybe it didn’t- crawling through every raw nerve that Amber had worked hard to bury beneath a layer of emotional concrete.
She wasn’t supposed to get rattled this easily, and yet her knuckles were turning a brighter shade of white with every passing second. Cassie straightened up properly, taking on further posture as though she ever really slouched.

“Just as I said. He said he was just enquiring about whether there was anything that might be of interest to, how did he phrase it? ‘The greater informational wrestling community at large’.”

“So, dirt sheets.”

Amber replied bluntly, taking a sledgehammer to the notion of subtlety and professionalism. Fidgeting, the proverbial hackles were raising down her spine at the thought of yet another parasite trying to profit off of the drama and misery that seemed so prevalent in their industry. Another nameless face on the interwebs determined to make his mark at the detriment of someone who had worked hard enough for long enough to create scandal.

For Amber, this bit particularly deep. It wasn’t as though she were any stranger to disaster or drama- there were enough skeletons rattling around in her closest to populate a cemetery comfortably, however that didn’t mean she wanted said bones to be paraded on a public forum for critique of how to be a slightly less shitty person.
Between her past misdealings with people who knew better, her own continued self-sabotages, deals made with the devil in all faces and forms and the consequences of irrational decision making… Hell, the tumultuous states of her romantic life alone would have sent the sheets into a frenzy. Between her intensely private relationship and subsequent marriage to Mac and their recent… issues.

With a brief shake of her head, trying to refocus, Amber silently mused that there were innumerable sources for the dirt sheets to dig and comfortably bury themselves amongst the skeletons she held too tightly on.

“How did he get onto you then?”

Amber started, quietly knowing the answer but forced a sip of coffee past her lips in hopes of hiding the very visible twitch flicking beneath her left eye.

“Well, I’d like to think my work speaks for itself, so it must be a relatively well-known fact that I’m in Talent Relations---”

“--- and that you have strong affiliations with me specifically.”

Amber cut in matter-of-factly, perhaps briefly causing Cassie to flinch noticeably.

“Seems reasonable, however …”

Amber didn’t hear the rest of the sentence as the blood rushed up into her ears, the deafening pounding of her pulse overwhelming as a flush rose into her cheeks. Even coffee couldn’t disguise the physical change as her jaw clenched tighter. Bone on bone to the point they might crumble to dust without intervention.
Did she bite her tongue, was that why everything tasted fiercely metallic?

Maybe that wasn’t important.

“I do have to ask, if only for professionalism's sake, Miss Ryan. What has you so concerned, so worried?
I’d hoped by this stage I’ve demonstrated  enough … Experience … with your background and having spent significant time in your company to understand that you have a certain,”

Cassie paused, searching for the word.

“Legitimacy… that you’d perhaps prefer not to be prodded, but I have to presume that---”

The smirk at the edge of Amber’s lips had become almost as disingenuous as the venom that dripped from the syllables that followed.

“Cassie, sweetheart. Let me ask you this… How many peoples back do you think you’ve had to stand on to get where you are? How many people hold a grudge against you for your successes cause you managed something they didn’t?
Unsolicited calls from private numbers asking for distinct details about your personal life to try and fuel the rumor mill another day or random journalists lingering by your car waiting to ask you about how many days late you might be for your fucking period.”

Bluntly, Amber placed the mug back on the benchtop with an audible clink.

“I didn’t get where I am being a good person Cassie. We aren’t here cause I’m a fucking upstanding citizen- as much as you might try to see the ‘good’ in me, no one finds true success in this industry without hurting people along the way.
Into The Void is legitimately just around the corner and I’m not in the world title match- that alone is enough to send the rumor mill into overdrive.”

Still clenching the handle, Amber’s jaw shifted as she tried to pick through the quagmire of words building at the back of her throat.

“I’ve made enough fucking sacrificies in my career to believe that I’m afforded a certain level of respect. Yet none of those dirt sheets really care about who we are or what we can do- just in the same way that no one in the Queen For The Day match gives a damn about what some nobody wants to dredge from my personal life.
I care though Cassie… I care cause I made my name as a professional. I continually put my body on the line as a professional and for my efforts- I get absolute nobodies trying to trounce my name through the mud for their own gains and fallen stars trying to use my back to springboard them back to a level that they aren’t capable of maintaining anymore.”

Planting her free hand on the cool benchtop, Amber leaned in with a sincere look. Something behind the inferno almost pleading for understanding, the girl behind the curtain of fire trying to relate to what lay beyond ash and cinder.

“In the end, WE have worked too fucking hard to get where we are and stay there. I refuse to have MY opportunity to pull on everyone's strings and upset the status quo, be demoralized and degraded by someone elses break.
I’m not interesting to any of those parasites- in and out of the ring beyond becoming a martyr for the successes and a target for their frustrations. Whether we like it or not- you and I both know that WE need this match to go off without a hitch. WE need where this takes us next.”

Clearing her throat, Amber pauses with a furrowed brow and faint flare of the nostrils.

“What WE don’t need is someone tugging at threads better off left to fray. Frankly- if this situation goes ass up what do you think happens to you… let alone what it means for me in this goddamn nightmare clusterfuck.
Frankly, WE need for the world title to return home, otherwise I feel as though your place in this whole charade becomes a whole lot less secure.”

Silently Cassie’s fingers curled beneath the hem of her summer dress, playing with discrete ribbons of scar running up and out of sight.

“I think you’ve forgotten what it’s like out here in the regular world with normal people like me, Miss Ryan. We don’t come and go like you do …We don’t burn brightly then flare out.”

A small shrug and pursed lips from the blonde echoed loudly.

“Just sort of pulse for a long time. Glimmer, really. Consistency is the name of the game. I’ve got longevity, security – assuredness. Probably more so than any of our talents. Yourself included, to be honest. I don’t stand to lose if you choose to make this something … But I think you might.”

An expectant glance was met by apathy and silence before she continued.

“I think the best thing to do would be just letting this whole thing lie. He isn’t the first reporter looking for nothing to turn into something, and I’m sure he won’t be the last. I’ll do my job, and you can focus on doing… Whatever your job is now”

Amber felt as though she moved in slow motion as her hand gently wrapped around the rounded edge, a rippling wave of calm radiating off her as she stared down into the swirling void. With little indication and less notice, the mug found itself violently flung across the room- shattering it and splattering it's contents explosively in a brief rain of caffeine and ceramic.
Immediately the redhead flushed with regret and, to a lesser degree, confusion. Momentarily startled by her own outburst.

“Whatever my job is… Sounds as though you’re clearly more invested in the state of your own skin rather than what earned you the right to speak so candidly.
Personally I like to think that my position isn’t as fucking disposable as you make out, that everything I’ve done to elevate this place doesn’t purely come down to the fickle whims of paper pushers. Cassie, maybe you forget this sometimes- but it's my bones that break out there, it's my skin getting bruised and torn. My sacrifices are what add zeros to your cozy little paycheck.”

Sucking down the deepest breath she could manage, Amber shifted her grip to the edge of the counter in hopes Cassie couldn't see the way the blood seemed to drain further from her knuckles.

“I might be the one out there killing myself- but this is supposed to be a partnership. An understanding. Maybe I’m a little on the edgy side- but can you blame me… Fate and fortune is sitting 15 feet off the ground and standing on my tiptoes isn’t fucking helping anymore.
I need my World title back Cassie, more than you know, and I need you to help me get there… but I can’t fucking do that if theres some jumped up asshole trying to pull at Supermans proverbial cape.
Hell, maybe I’m wrong…”

Amber locked her blue-green stare onto Cassie’s softer gaze. Desperation like that of a wounded animal caught in a vicious whirlwind of it's own design.

“... but what if I’m right. Everything WE have built. Worked for. Sacrificed for. I can’t just let this be like more sand through broken fingers. Another chance going begging for nothing more than a gut feeling.
In the beginning, it was you reaching out to me. You wanted an understanding…”

Throwing her hands up as though in mock surrender. An effort to dissipate the heaviness lingering between them as Cassie looked on with a nervous resignation.

“Well, here it is… Maybe I am disposable, a dime store angel of death seeking penance and retribution for acts against the righteous- but perhaps you can at least allow me the honor of finding out.”

Swallowing hard, Amber made little effort to recover the shards as they scattered limply across the wooden floor. Dark stains reminiscent of something more visceral spreading in the absence of containment- Cassie meanwhile, having been verbally turned her inside out tried to speak, but there was no way to leverage a silence wide enough to insert her piece.
Hands wrung together similarly to how every synapse had been left desiccated in Amber's destructive wake, only passive acceptance remained.

“ … Miss Ryan, how are you going to make this go away, exactly?"

As the serenity of calm uneasy calm washed back over between them, Amber’s hardened smirk faded into something resembling a genuine smile saturated with malice.

“I’m sure I’ll figure out something.”






******



Have you ever considered the difference between truth and fiction?

Many would have far more complex associations and analogies dissecting both concepts down to their core elements, picking them apart at the seams. There's a certain poetry to it, a mythos surrounding the mythical barrier that purposely lies in between, a beauty in the negative spaces between fantasy and cold hard canon. Some romanticize it, honor it with dedication and loyalty while others scoff that the divide isn’t so great to be crossed by mortal hearts.

No, fiction has to make sense.

Fiction requires a logical progression otherwise the mind will devastatingly eat itself in search of the line from A to B, it requires a suspension of disbelief and a willingness to accept that fairytales exist beyond the realm of the everyday for a very fucking good reason.

Truth though, truth is a far more cruel mistress. She’ll gladly take you by the hand and lead you down the garden path, whispering affirmations of sweet nothings before walking you straight into the loving arms of a slaughterhouse cause you had the fucking audacity to believe them.

Somehow the truth is supposed to set you free though… That's how it goes, you speak honestly and are granted all of the rewards that come with it. No one ever speaks about the fact that the truth is ugly and takes its pound of flesh while it's still attached to your skeleton. No one likes to admit that the truth is that black sheep family member that everyone claims they didn’t invite to the family reunion, but shows up for the sake of starting a riot.

Truth is glorified and reality is treated as though a preferable state of living. Promising you everything you ever wanted, while managing to take everything you care about- as though the sacrifice is somehow worthwhile in the end. Truth feeds the delusions of competency with a silver spoon, those self-aggrandizing minimal successes blown out of proportion and supplemented by the occasional affirmation that someone, somewhere is still just a little worse than you.

I mean, that's the entirety of your career summarily nut-shelled really, right Keira?

Let's be blunt shall we, cause if I’m honest I legitimately don’t have the time nor number of breaths left to try and quantify the level to which your parasitic career has been a mish-mash of lucky breaks nd unfortunate circumstances leading to ill-gotten gains never intended to be yours.
That's the thing though, isn’t it?
You don’t even have your own definitive identity- you’re Roxi’s wife. You’re the malevolent sex pest of the Bombshells division swooning after any woman that dares flutter their eyelashes in your wifes general direction, or willing to enable your garish flirting techniques. Everything you’ve achieved, everything of worth that you’ve ever been known for- is off someone else's back.

It's not just Roxi though, it's every poor and morally bankrupt soul that has had the utter misfortune of having to co-exist with you and your brand of utter fucking bullshit that you try to pass off as a mediocre career. It’s every single person that has had to sacrifice their morality to not just deck you on the spot- friend and foe alike.
Imagine, the sum total of your whole career being based on someone else's limelight spilling over the edge of your toes and then having the sheer nerve to claim it as your own.
Honestly, it's on the same level as Christina Rose's obsession with being amidst everyone else's 15 minutes- minus the rainbow of personalities that just poorly parody legitimate mental illnesses, but in screaming nightmarish technicolor.

It makes it all the more astonishing that you’re so intensely opinionated for someone who chokes so easily when presented with a legitimate challenge- by all means though, you keep practicing those justifications in the mirror and hope no one remembers that you’ve recycled them before.

Keira, you legitimately intimidate me less than a poorly baked banana bread. I have more doubts in my abilities when I’m comparing Jessie Salco to the equivalent of vanilla ice-cream than I do in any given match against you.
Not because you aren’t ‘good’. Everyone in SCW is ‘good’, but you’ve gone and taken that distinction and used it to replace any semblance of personality you might have once had. Taken the idea and substituted it into the void where your talent is supposed to reside- I mean to call your title reigns embarrassing is a further insult to those who you ‘beat’ for them.
Hell, h about we consider this your yearly foray into the big time- and allow me to be the one to plant my boot between your shoulder blades and kick you straight back down the fucking mountain where you belong.

Perhaps then you’ll do us all a favor and wash your mouth out with buckshot before I’m forced to do it manually.


Speaking of modifying someones smile- welcome back Alicia Lukas, nice to see you have stopped giving a fuck again… Shall we mark that on the tally or are we waiting to see how long you last before the smile falls off your face again?

You’ve always meant to be the one though- the fabled Alicia Lukas, legend of the industry. A pioneer on her best days, and a startlingly frequent choke artist on your worst- how is it that you manage to so effectively disappoint everyone the moment that you get them to believe you’ve really changed this time is beyond me.
Watch out though cause the big bad Alicia Lukas has found her mean streak again, she remembers who the fuck she was and is gonna… do absolutely nothing with it. Honestly I’d take a threat from fucking Candy more seriously than anything coming out of your face right now- cause at least she’s not repeating herself like a child scared that their fart joke will be forgotten.

You’re walking into this with your head held high like your name means half of what it used to- reputation can only carry you so far before the memories of former failings seep through the poorly repaired cracks in your ‘dominant’ facade.
Lets be real here, the moment things aren’t going well, you will legitimately fall to pieces. Crumbling under the weight of self-imposed expectations. You chose to build your legacy out of sand Alicia, and now you’re wondering why you can’t get rid of it from your shoes.

Good for you though, cause while everyone stopped giving a fuck about you a long while back- you’re still flying that ‘dominant bitch’ flag like it's still yours to wave. See, while you were off ‘soul searching’, I stayed on top sending every challenger down the River Styx for their impudence and audacity to square up.
Hell, you were one of them after winning this exact same match last year…

Yeah, look how that turned out for you.

Queen For The Day and you squandered it, Wolfslair takeover? Good fucking luck, I’ve seen mewling sheep with a more intimidating presence than whatwalked through the curtain that night.
By all means though, you milk that achievement for whatever it's worth to you- cause it was the last one you actually had…
Seriously though, in the time it took for you to lose and regain your identity- I took your records, I rebuilt your division and I beat you when you had nothing left to lose.
If I’m honest- I’m still waiting for the Alicia Lukas that I’ve heard so much about before to show up and give me the match we always wanted. You know, the one we deserved instead of the husk of a defeated woman who showed up hopped up on Ritalin and three hours of sleep.

Maybe that's now. Maybe it's never.

Maybe you have your confidence back, the smile of a woman who hasn’t lost before she entered the ring- and that would be great if I thought you had the slightest chance of backing it up. By now, you’re little more than a proven shadow puppet, a peep show without substance, a talking head without a decent punch left to throw, smoke without a flame and a pride junkie with no good vein left to tap.

When it comes down to it- at Into the Void, you best believe that I’m back on my bullshit kiddies. I’m still the one to beat, that hasn’t changed nor will the addition of hardware happen to change that. I’m still the motherfucking Queenpin of this division and I sure as fuck don’t need a crown and robe to tell everyone precisely the number of routes to hell they can take.

Whether you like it or not, this is my match to lose… My World title to regain.

Unlike chess though, strategy has no place left here, there's no hidden agenda or secrets left on the board to find. Everything you ever needed to know is painstakingly laid out in front of you- I’ve given you all the opportunity to do your worst, and instead you chose to stay your hands. Chances and tools to stop me in my tracks… still nothing.
War isn’t for the passive, chess isn’t for the fools. Stupid games win stupid prizes, but we’re all out of participation trophies this time. Planning ahead only means something when your first move isn’t guaranteed to inevitably fucking suck.

In the end, you won’t need to bow down. I won’t ask you to prostrate for my ego. I’m a benevolent sort of Queenpin, righteous and true.
When it really comes down to it though- I’m here to earn my fucking World Title back…

… and for it, I’ll gladly send all of you Into The Void.”




******

“I’d find someone else. No distractions. Men get in the way of ambition. Plus, they laugh at you when you fail”
― Rose Pressey, Flip That Haunted House





Undisclosed Accommodations
Zakynthos, Greece
06.04.2022
04:08pm





… “You went back.” …

Maybe I never truly left.

… “Why? There is nothing there left for you” …

Because you took it all from me.



There was no denying that Greece was a beautiful place, although Amber admittedly hadn’t had much of the stomach to enjoy it. Sightseeing and a seemingly never ending horizon of crystalline blue did little to satisfying the gaping void in her chest, white marble and and the allure of the ancient worlds secrets weren't quite enough to satiate the ravenous nothingness that had been consuming itself like an ouroboros of self-loathing since Blaze Of Glory.
Even the nightlife- full of soul-filling vibrancy and enough booze to drown a man if he so wished only seemed to leave an aftertaste she couldn’t wash out. A warmth of clear spirits that sparked against the embers still smoldering under her sternum that burst into a raging inferno and sucked the ozygen from her lungs in a blink.

Still, when it was time she would smile for the cameras. Fulfill her duties as a representative of SCW despite the little voice in her head screaming to stay locked indoors cause everywhere else was too… people-y. Hollow and forced, she wondered whether it showed through a lens when all they wanted to see was the supposed brilliance of a worl--- former… world champion still in the heights of her stormy legacy. Would they see how well practiced it all was- day after day staring into a mirror and wishing the bloodshot streaks from her eyes and nervous twitches from her expression as she swallowed the bitterness, only to be replaced by grace and dignity.

If she were lucky, they’d be satisfied. They’d tell their friends and family that she wasn’t nearly the person they saw on TV… that she was better than that, if only for a fleeting moment in a camera's shuttering eye.
If she were lucky, the whole thing would be over before the facade fell to pieces and the tears of loss that were lost to the shower would well once more.
No, Greece was absolutely stunning in all the ways she’d ever imagined. A whole beautiful world out there on her doorstep and to think… Amber Ryan wanted fucking none of it.

Maybe it was simply because her heart was no longer in it.

Mac was due to arrive in the next day or so having been forced to wait due to commitments made and champions responsibilities. A small twang radiated in her stomach at the thought as she leaned further over the balcony railing, the afternoon sun causing the freckles of her exposed shoulders to seemingly glow an almost sickly gold. Those used to be her responsibilities too…
She couldn't deny things had been tense, that she hadn’t exactly been easy to be around for the past few months- moments of brilliance and small reminders of who they were patched the holes briefly enough and Mac’s ability to tolerate her overwhelming emptiness should have seen him canonized at least six months prior.
Perhaps things would be better now… that bristling intensity she could no longer contain had been dulled to a pulsating ache that left her irritable but calm, particularly towards the end.

… the end. Huh.

It still tasted like bile on the edge of her tongue.

Partially strewn across the benchtop just inside, and rustled by an occasional errant breeze, the condensed remains of what had been a box of hastily collaborated documents delivered on the eve of… well, the end…now peeked from the edges of a cheap, manila folder.
Amber knew the contents back to front by now, scouring every written syllable and every image for a rhyme or reason- something to connect the dots that danced in front of her eyes. Someone like Masque didn’t just materialise from the depths of imagination and waltz into ones reality, they were forged, they were moulded, and they took… and they took… and they fucking took while justifying it as charity for the soul.

It had been Amber who failed out there though. Failing to fulfill the expectations, the weight on her shoulder suddenly lifted as though the universe were doing her a favor. Everyone had stopped talking about it once they realized the reality- gone back to their regularly scheduled programming of self-congratulatory circle jerks and pity parties in the face of inevitable raze and ruin.



… “You went back.” …

I never should have walked away.



Surreptitiously, the door rattled on its hinges although Amber didn’t need to open to know who stood on the other side- the cadence of knuckles across its surface, the long pause and shuffling of shoes far too expensive to be worth anything close to the tag.
She’d been around Matt Knox far too often for him to be anything less than obvious at best and disruptively oblivious at worst.

Both of them knew the door would be unlocked.

Perhaps he continued to hope that there might be a shred of self-preservation left in her bones as she allowed them to dessicate in the sun.

“Red, I know you’re in there. Mostly cause I haven’t heard screams from the lobby, so I can presume you haven’t yet thrown yourself off the balcony…”

There was a sliver of levity among the veiled concerns. It wasn’t as though the thought hadn’t crossed her head more than once.

“... you know, you didn’t have to crawl into the arms of a sociopath to get my attention.”

Amber rankled at the comment, however she swallowed the snarl and replaced it with something more akin to the smile of a housewife who’d been secretly lacing her husband's food with arsenic for the past two years.

“I know you don’t like Mac, but that's a bit rich coming from you… I won’t lie though, now you’re here, that balcony is looking a lot more tempting.”

Pushing off the rail, she did little otherwise to acknowledge as she fronted towards where he’d already started lazily flipping through the manila folder. Perhaps if she acted as though she didn’t care, he’d simply leave… nothing to sink his teeth into but the airs of a former champion too busy reconciling to deal with his petty bullshit.

“I'm so sick of ghosts, Red. You're the only one I keep coming across that I'm glad is breathing..."

A dry chuckle emanated as he pulled a flyer from the grips of the pages either side, the edges were slightly water damaged and the lower right corner had a chunk missing that obscured details long since forgotten. Dated May 2017. It featured a much younger- although very recognizable redhead across from a less familiar man, almost unremarkable save savvy glint in his eye and the big, gaudy belt on his shoulder. ‘Dealer’s Choice. Ryan vs Fexxfield for the Atlantic City title. Unstoppable vs Undeniable.’
A smile crossed his pallid features as his gaze found hers as she lingered in the doorway, leaning against the frame dismissively. Insulted by his continued indulgence in her personal affairs.

“It's why I had to check your pulse back in the Bahamas."

If it weren’t so brazen, she might have thrown him off the edge instead.

“You’re a real piece of shit. You know that? I hope you brought something more poignant than wet dreams and a flaccid side eye to this conversation…”

“It happened, Red. Didn't kill us, we stopped just short of that. But I understand. I'll keep up the brave front against your continued advances."

Narrowing her gaze, Amber bit the inside of her cheek painfully. Bolstered by the spreading taste of iron on her tongue, she fired back instinctively.

“Nothing happened. Not a damn fucking thing, Matt. You’d do well to remember that.”

As though barely touching the carpet underfoot, Amber deftly stormed over and snatched the flyer from his fingers and quietly returned it back to its residence- not before Matt had managed to pull a further swathe of notes from inbetween much to her chagrin.

“You are allowed to feel something, you know that right?
I get it, I know what it's like to have all the validation and prestige you’d built from the ground up just ripped away like you didn’t deserve to revel in your own achievements.”

A small shrug as more papers flicked through his fingers- gaze absent-minded as the words did little to sink in. Another flyer for Boardwalk Wrestling last event in August 2017 ‘Dead Man’s Hand. 4 Way Ladder match for the Atlantic City title. Meyhu vs Edwards vs Ryan vs Fexxfield’.
Alongside a couple of color photos that were yellowed slightly at the edges falling to the countertop- a redhead with a genuine and sincere smile alongside a man in a worn fedora with a certain glint in his eye. Dated June 2017. That same pair almost nose to nose in a ring, garish belt held aloft between them as they both understood the ramifications of what came next. Dated May 2017.

“Granted, I wouldn’t have recommended throwing all your efforts into being a puppet for the resident Hannibal Lecter type though either.”

Swatting his hand away from the nearest photo, Amber sucked down a breath as the nostalgia flooded her veins.

“I spent almost a year being told contradictory arguments by everyone I faced. In one breath, they’d swear they were different and that they could be the one to beat me- in the very next I was an unstoppable monster they’d be lucky to survive with a classic overachieving underdog story.
Masque is the only one who told me the truth. Her truth. She was the only one to look me in the eye and tell me that I was wrong- that I could be better. Things I didn’t wanna hear cause I was fucking terrified they were true.”

Leaning her elbows on the countertop, the expression of forced indifference made way for something a little more sincere.

“Even now, I still can’t fucking decide if I’m furious or relieved…I should feel like theres a weight off my shoulders, that I’ve had a burden eased maybe.”

Matt shook his head thoughtfully, as a carefully placed hand on her shoulder blade caused her to flinch involuntarily away.

“I think you’re only leaning into that because you can't swallow failure even after sustained success…”

“What if you’re wrong… what if we both are. What if Masque was the only one who saw me for what I really was this whole fucking time…”

Silently Amber wasn’t sure she believed her own words, coming easier than a hard to swallow truth- after all, in the search of validation for her pain, she’d only managed to find sunshine. That weight had never come off her shoulders, she could feel it shift unsteadily as she moved- still expectant to live up to an unwritten reputation- no, it had come from somewhere else. A gaping hole between her ribs spoke volumes, that weight torn from somewhere far more personal and internally she couldn’t help but begin to question just how long one might survive without a pulse.



… “Why? There is nothing there left for you” …




******



“Have you ever wondered what it would be like to one day wake up, and be tired of paradise?

Everything you ever worked for at your fingertips, and you resent it. Like it's fundamentally changed who you were- or at the very least who everyone thought you should be. Everything you ever thought you wanted, that you earned basically within your touch and yet it hurts so much to hold… still you do though, knowing the cost will come.

You’ll smile Kat, and you’ll tell me that you understand better than I know. That your multitude of achievements elsewhere counteract the fact that you’ve walked into SCW and tripped over yourself at every given opportunity.
Moments where you were promised to excel, you got a little muddled… a little distracted… maybe the light was in your eyes or the crowd noise was too loud and you couldn’t hear yourself think.

Don’t get me wrong, I love you like my blood. Maybe even more than…

… but don’t stand there and pretend like you aren’t as fucking predictable and outrightly disappointing  as everyone you say you’re worth more than.

Maybe this is the point where you’ll come at me and claim you’re being dismissed as less than a threat- thing is, at this very moment… the only thing you’re a threat to is my insomnia. I’ve got a personal best streak going and you’re going far to jeopardize that.
Despite your greatest efforts which amount to little more than tantrums and night terrors of inadequacy- you have to remember that some things in life and in wrestling are bigger than you and the things you ‘want’.
Don’t get me wrong, you are more than just another gear in this machine Kat, you’re special my darling… special just like everyone else.

What you need to understand though is that I’ve got this gaping wound in my chest Kat… and I can't seem to do a damn thing about it. I’ve tried to stitch myself back together, I’ve tried to fill the void with every distraction under the Grecian sun, I’ve even asked nicely to stop pouring blood across idyllic white sands. Everything I’ve kept inside is laid bare for the world to see, the little gremlins working tirelessly to keep this carcass upright are on display like a macabre museum piece.

Metaphorically, I’m bleeding out Kat, and there's nothing I can do about it.

Do you know what the worst part about it is though…

No one gives a fuck.

I spent almost a year as World Champion, I rebuilt this fucking division of my own back, I gave opportunities to those who would never see one otherwise and I lit a proverbial inferno beneath the asses of those who grew complacent in their spots.
357 days and not a single person has a fucking thing to say. Hell, I went out there in front of the world and I told the new champion to not let me down… to make what I had built continue to mean something… to make her victory worth everything I had given. I bled for everyone to see- and it took a reminder on social media to make her acknowledge that I had spoken in her general direction.

Now you wanna stand by and try to say you’re gonna go out there and make a statement.

I might not be the centre of the SCW Universe, but I’ll be fucking damned if I’m getting relegated to the annals of time before I fucking say so.

You have a mission apparently, like only now winning matches seems to matter. I know you’re as capable as you are destructive- on your best day I’m sure much of this roster has plenty to fear- but you’re narrow minded Kat. You got tunnel vision bad, you lose sight of the bigger picture.
Laser focused to the point you’re so worried about getting to the end that you bore straight through any worthwhile achievement and reasonable gain along the way cause reaching the end is supposed to be enough of a victory.
You’re seeking a destination while bypassing the journey. Reaching the end just the same as when you started isn’t a journey, it's not a climb up the proverbial mountain of success- it's a road trip from point A to point B where you spent far too much money on gas and snacks while only staring into your rearview.

Let's be real for a second though- you’re like my sister and I’d never do anything to maliciously harm you.

However I also won’t fucking hesitate to cave your skull in simply cause you’re standing across from me. Just cause I consider you blood doesn’t mean I’m above spilling it so I might leave a message for all those who forgot how words worked- granted they don’t deserve your sacrifice, but that won’t stop me from making it.
Most people in this industry only speak one common language- violence. If only for the fact that it cannot be ignored forever, try as they might eventually they all have to admit that they might just be next.
After Sunday, and in the wake of what is surely your greatest contribution to the Bombshells division to date, I want every Bombshell on this damn roster to start believing that they very well could be next…

See, I’m no longer bound by the restraints of professionalism. I’m no longer worried about the way I have to smile for interviews and holding the belt at just the right angle for the cameras to not get blinded. I don’t have to pretend as though I was any good at shaking babies and kissing hands, getting sponsors to believe we do more than just maim each other for the sake of pride and bragging rights.
I no longer have to fulfill a role, I don’t have to ‘be’ someone and I’m allowed to conduct business in a manner that I see fit.
I made a promise as World Bombshells champion that I’d make this place better or raze it to the fucking ground- that promise still stands in the wake of ruin. I still hold those intentions in my heart- the only difference now is that the anvil no longer hangs over my head in knowing I’d be branded a failure if I made a mistake. My missteps are no longer reflected in the number of days I could have remaining.
I’m everything I was when I was the best- cause I still fucking am. Only difference now is that I’ve got a reason to hate everyone and everything- see Roxi tore my heart still beating from my chest and held it in front of my face, she took everything I built and claimed it as her own.

I’m not gonna stand here and pretend like I don’t have phantom pains, it's difficult to ignore the sting that comes with waking up and not having the belt as the first thing I see.
There are people out there who would give their left arm to lose 10 pounds overnight, but in reality they never tell you where it comes from- it's a chunk from your chest, and everything of importance seems to go with it. It's a chunk from your mind, the reason and rational thought. It's all the sinews that hold you together when your body is screaming as it tries to fall to pieces and it's a piece from your soul cause there's something about severing ties that leaves one apathetically adrift in an irreparable way.

What I want you to consider Kat, is what I did as champion… Watch every match, review every tape and then ask yourself a very important question.
If I couldn’t be beaten for that long as champion, what the fuck chance do you stand when I’m back at square one…

Of course- this match isn’t just about us, darling.

We aren’t the only factors to take into consideration.

Hello Ken. Did you miss me?

Does my name send a ripple up your spine, even though you know we can;t lay hands- just the thought that I could cost you this match, that I could win to spite you and everything you stand for gives me butterflies like you wouldn’t believe. That I could beat you, without ever having to sully my hands in the murky depths of your diatribes to find a personality worth salvaging.
I’m not petty, but for you I'm willing to make an exception.

See, you’re a man that NEEDS to win. Your existence is built like a carefully constructed leaning jenga of relevance and contempt- you need to have someone beneath you cause you know otherwise the sands of time will swallow you whole.
Standing on the backs of better men will only satiate time for so long though- and as much as you crave the validation of me admitting that you got anything more than lucky in a feat you were never able to reproduce, I’ll never gift you that bone.

No, I’ll win this match without ever needing to tag Matt in. I’ll win in spite of you. I’ll win to spite you. Most importantly though, I’ll win and I’ll splatter the best part of Kat Jones’s genetic pool across that canvas to remind everyone else that I’m not fucking around.

SCW is a proving ground kiddies, and all you’ve proven is that you need all the help you can fucking get.

Never//morE however, was never meant to be. A mistake of a mans ego and determination to be right that lead to success, that lead to two of the most stubborn and ferociously spiteful competitors in the industry coming together to prove that the other is somehow inferior.
We’ve been champions, we’ve represented outside the SCW bubble and most importantly- we’re not gonna stand on ceremony and pretend like theres any kind of reverence or ‘special bond’ that makes us better.
What makes us better as a team is that we were better to begin with.

Don’t get me wrong, I think Matt Knox is an ass… but he’s an ass that can fucking wrestle when he’s suitably motivated. I don’t have to like the guy to know that we’re a team, that I can trust him to handle his shit as well as knowing he’ll trust me to handle mine.
Granted it's common knowledge I work better alone, however it's unfortunately it's not my boot that is deemed allowable to kick Godly’s teeth down his Kendamned throat. Way I see it, Matt is the proxy for everything I’d like to do- and be assured I’ll live vicariously for what little joy can still be wrung from that miserable corpse you wear.

When you both walked into SCW, my husband bestowed upon you the title of Saviors- but what have either of you done to uphold your end of the bargain?
Mac is the only one of you still consistently winning matches, still bearing the weight of your failures in kind. To be Saviors, in case you’ve forgotten, you need to save people from drowning… not push their heads further below the surface cause it's somehow a lesson on how to breathe.
Mac has trusted you both, instilled his faith in you time and time again and all you’ve done is tarnish his name- and maybe I’m no Savior, but I won’t stand by and watch you both drag him beneath the waves cause you both grew comfortable blowing bubbles instead of fighting for breath.

Maybe he labeled you both as Saviors- but I am Oblivion.

Resplendent.

Unassailable.

Oblivion.

Come Sunday, what the fuck hope do you think you really have?"


******



Oblivion Garage
Las Vegas. ND
25.03.2022
5:13pm




Amber knew she was imagining the acrid stench of smoke.

One of the few times she’d been back since the rebuild had been underway, she’d forced herself to confront her proverbial demons and sought to find solace in drawing something new from the ashes. Of course, the going was slow… Both of them were generally absent although for varying reasons and little could happen without their say, and so for the longest time their dreams were edged further into the distance.
Reopening pushed back a month, then several months… now it was simply till further notice cause the idea of putting a number on it struck a nerve she hadn’t been prepared to brace for.
With a  small shake of the head, she forced the memories of fumes and blinding heat from her minds eye as her sneakers echoed on the concrete floor. Scorched earth replaced with a foundation more solid than the one she had left in her marriage, it seemed.

Mac had been overseeing much of it, supportive and reassuring as ever. He’d been the one to squeeze her hand the first time she’d tread these floors, whispered affirmations when her heart was ready to leap from her mouth. Everything about him reminded her of home- and how much she didn’t deserve everything he was willing to give.
Part of it was from no longer being champion, the other was from knowing how closely being champion had driven them both towards the cliff's edge. A no win situation- and yet Mac had taken it all in his stride… as he always did. He loved her without limit or condition- something she could never understand or repay with the little she had within her to muster.

“I hope not to be interrupting…”

Reverend Alistair McCrae never looked more out of place than he did now, a simple yet immaculate suit topped off with a priests collar and flanked by three ‘parishioners’  who couldn’t have looked more disinterested about their spiritual leader's pilgrimage into the sinful outskirts of Las Vegas.

“However I cannot help but continue to admire your determination. From such tragedy and despair, you have been gifted with the resolve to rebuild- and for that I cannot help but commend.”

Despite radiating a sickening charm, McCrae paced admiring the works already completed and clicking his tongue observantly while marveling at works in progress. Amber inwardly cringed, swallowing the bile rising in her throat.

“I hope you aren’t here to pray for us. I think we’re a little beyond that kind of help.”

Dryly, Amber folded her arms across her chest. Undeterred, McCrae rounded back towards her as the familiar cadence of heavy footsteps echoed behind the redhead.

“Not all of life's problems can be fixed by the Lord’s graces, unfortunately. Although I’m sure my faith would rather tell you otherwise… Money on the other hand---”

“--- isn’t necessary in this case.”

Mac chimed in cooly, his hand resting gently on Amber’s shoulder as he towered over both of them. Amber made no effort to respond, content to allow things to play out and perhaps quietly hoping McCrae would simply leave upon refusal of becoming a charity case.

“Ah, so you must be Mr Bane then- Reverend Alistair McCrae, I’m sure you have no interest in my credentials, rather why I’m here offering what could be construed as presumptuous and unrequested assistance. Ms Ryan and I, we were at one time business partners. I had stopped by mere weeks before to rekindle such partnership and later found myself horrified to hear of the malicious damages.”

Matter-of-factly, McCrae extended a hand towards Mac. Returned in kind by a firm gentleman's handshake, whilst Amber took solace in Mac’s cologne somehow keeping her grounded as everything she’d sought to keep apart was slowly entwining around her best intentions.

“As such, I thought it perhaps in the interests of continued professional relations that I might be able to offer assistance. If not monetary then perhaps in resource… I promise, I’m not here to try and tell you to convert, or find faith. If it's to be apart of your life, then the Lord himself shall will it to be- as I’m sure those responsible for such destruction will see their due punishment in kind.”

A knowing smile crossed the carefully structured cheekbones of the older man as he readjusted himself delicately. Despite his wording, there was an underlying sense of something else- cold and manufactured, whether it was a product of religion or business though, Amber had yet to decide.

“When you say resources…”

Amber started, trailing off as her words seemed to fail before they touched her lips. There was the smell of smoke again, of rubber and burning gasoline…

“Whether it be manpower, materials… Anything you so require, legally of course.”

Alistair clapped his hands together softly, akin to a salesman being prompted into a spiel.

“We’ll consider it, obviously it's something we need to discuss privately…”

“Of course. You have my contact, I’m sure. Perhaps you’d be so kind as to walk me out, Ms Ryan?”

With a thinly veiled yet expressive glance, Amber reluctantly broke from Mac’s embrace and found herself immediately missing the comfort and confidence even a single touch somehow instilled. Urging the ‘parishioners’ onwards ahead, McCrae paused in the garage doorway as Amber tried to disguise the deep undercurrent of suspicion and doubt.

“If this is about the Del Gado’s…”

“Ms Ryan, can a man not simply be willing to provide charity to his neighbor out of the goodness of his heart?”

“Don’t you dare come here and try bullshit me. What… do… you… want?”

A dry chuckle emanated as Alistair shot a kindly glance back towards where Mac watched unwaveringly.

“You know, he’s a good man, Ms Ryan. You should be proud. Especially given where you’ve come from. You’ve done well for yourself- built a life, a career, found relative peace under the Lord’s loving hand.
Perhaps you should consider an act of good faith exactly as that- although should something ever arise, should there be a time when unwavering faith is no more tactical than teardrops on an inferno… I’d like to believe that you’ll remember this act of faith, and be willing to return the favor in kind.”

With a curt nod, Alistair stepped beyond the threshold with an air of regency that made Amber’s skin crawl. Mac’s footsteps closed the distance as his hands laced around her waist, fingers entwining as he whispered through the curtain of scarlet falling around her face.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Mac’s whisper rippled through her body, dissipating indecision as though it never took hold, the acrid taste on the back of her tongue replaced with something more akin to a well aged bourbon on a rainy night. Something like home.

“... I’m not sure they are worth that much.”

“It was like being asleep when you were awake and awake when you were asleep. I'd pinch myself, figuratively speaking - I had to keep pinching myself. Then I'd wake up kind of in reverse' I'd go back to the nightmare I had to live in. And everything would be clear and reasonable.”
― Jim Thompson, The Killer Inside Me




Prologue:



“I heard a rumour today.

Rumours that could kickstart that fearsome spite that keeps me upright in the face of a cities worth of better people. Rumours that could still my beating heart if I were sure there were enough blood left in my veins to force a squeeze- a heart that's been missing something. A heart that echoes as an illusion while it's pulse ripples through the cityscape, stopping everyone dead who feels it down to their bones in sympathy.
In recognition.

Rumours that I might once again be made whole.

Or empty.

I still haven't rightly decided if I’m honest- just the notion that I want for anything but the validation of a Hero seems almost insulting at this venture and yet here we are, as I wring my hands together in hopes that I’m properly dressed for the occasion.
Perhaps it's easier for some than others to forget that this Sin City belongs to me.
It's been mine for almost a year now- everything I’ve earned, that it's given me to, everything I’ve taken by force and prostrated before the masses who refused to accept otherwise.
In the face of a Heroes failures, I razed it to the fucking ground and rebuilt it with a vengeance- with a guiding hand and watchful eye, with a provision of acceptance that everyone start carrying their weight. That they earn their share- after all, speaking of me comes with a cost that many aren’t willing to pay.

It never stopped them talking.

Ripping out their tongues when they think they’ve gotten away with it though, certainly did.

No more passengers was never a credo, not some slanderous billboard designed to win a popularity contest. I never stood atop looking down to make anyone love me, to be respected and venerated as anything but what I always was.
A hypocrite to some cause my wrath finally encompassed their precious little bubble encroaching without reason, without purpose or excuse except for being a malcontent. A monster as though my plight and my path wasn’t precisely what so many others had fallen upon in their determination to make everything and everyone better around them. In spite of them.

It's been almost a year now, Hero.

Oh, how they haven’t missed you like I have.

I left a trail of silver bullets in hopes you might find your way home, waiting for someone to cross my path and understand that I wanted better for them. To better them. There was once enough blood in my body to make their names immortal if they were willing to spill it, and yet time after fucking time they found themselves sick at the thought of drawing a drop.

Not better than. Just too good for.

Trying to pass them off as the same thing.

All of them loaded their chambers, spoke loudly and eloquently about change and determination- that they had it in them, they’d be the one to show me a mercy I didn’t deserve.

Maybe their hands shook too much. Maybe they saw too much of something else inside me. Maybe staring everything they ever wanted in the eye made them realise that they were simply going through the motions- being told what they were supposed to desire.
I asked, I begged for them to prove to me that they could do it… and not one, not fucking one could squeeze the trigger.

Of course, I never told them they were all blanks.

A good magician never reveals their tricks, after all.

Granted I’ve never much been for games of chance, Hero. Surely you didn't expect that I’d gamble so freely with our fairytale ending, that I’d risk it all on an itchy trigger finger or underestimate the wrong trying-to-be as they scrap their way up the proverbial hierarchy.
I hope you wouldn’t think I’d simply bleed out all across the pavement while I was waiting for you to catch up. Lets be honest, I’d make my statement far more clearly- stained in a deeper crimson than either of us wear before I’d let you down.

Which is a shame given how often I’ve found myself disappointed by your lack of fulfilment to our promised roles in an everlasting conflict.

Maybe it's a Hero thing. Maybe after all this time you took the opportunity to listen instead of talk over my good intentions, that you looked deep inside yourself and found something worth sinking your teeth into. Something that I’ve little doubt looked alot like me.
That being said- you never really recovered, did you?
I can’t expect that you did, harbouring that little grudge I suppose… nurturing it until it blossomed into something tangible, all those ill toward feelings and determinations that you really could do it. That because you’d bested me before, you were capable of a repeat performance under entirely different circumstances, that you had something to prove to everyone else like they somehow influenced a damn fucking thing.

It would be like going up to a citizen and punching them in the face, giving them a play by play on it, sticking around a little too long to savour every moment of it before abruptly asking how their wife's day was going despite the fact they have been divorced for six months.
Entirely irrelevant to the argument and yet something you’d base your whole ascent on.
I like to think that admitting where you went wrong was a first good step back towards where you’ve fallen from- but eventually acceptance comes for us all, and you can’t deny that in the wake of your inevitable ability to choke on the best of opportunities, there has been a resurgence. Opportunities abound for those willing to work for their place instead of those gifted with it cause their ‘clout’ means they deserve it.

There will be some that say you’ve fallen to far, that disagree with your choice and elevated status.

Some might even be jealous that I look at you almost with as much fondness as I might look at my god given right to this city. You were always the one Hero, and it was always going to end a little something like this.

Truth be told, I’ve never wanted to be bested by someone who wasn’t willing to pull the trigger- and yet here I am handing you a loaded gun once again wondering if maybe this time you can bring yourself to do the impossible.
It's never been because it's what I wanted- quite the opposite in fact- but because I knew that you’d never forgive yourself if you didn’t find out and I’d never forgive you for letting me down so definitively. Because I wanted to see if something good could come from a pave of brutality and bloodshed.
Because everything I’d nurtured and built shouldn’t have been left to wither and die for someone else's indecision.

When it comes down to it, sweet Hero… Darling hero.

This is the end of our line. Our story book closes down on us with a thud and we await to emerge in someone else's memories.
To say you’ve had your chance is a gross understatement of facts, at every turn and every crossroad I always gave you the chance- and even now it seems time hasn’t healed all wounds. No longer can I persist in making you seem like you are as important to everyone else as you are to me, no more time wondering if I’m good enough cause I’ve proven it enough times in my head.
No longer will I allow you to dictate who I am and what you think I should be when you’ve done so little to change anything that it's a wonder you ever even showed up.

To go out in a blaze of glory Hero… Isn’t that the fucking goal?

Truth is, it won’t be nearly as exciting as that. Sure, there will likely be fireworks, maybe a celebratory ‘whoop’ as a sober drunk passerby thinks it's Christmas instead of a funeral pyre to everything you thought you were. It won’t be a ticker tape parade like you’re used to, there will be no one to present you with a medal of honour posthumously.

Our Blaze Of Glory, Hero. is far simpler. Far more pure to who we are and what we’ve become.

After all, I heard a rumour today, Hero… one that promised to turn my name to ash on your tongue, one to stop my heart as it threatened to beat once more.

We’re gonna die here Hero.

You and me. Too fucking proud to admit that it could have ended any other way, that either of us could have ever been saved.

We’re gonna die here, in our blaze of glory,... but I make a promise to you as I have always done Hero.

Only one of us will pass away.”[/color]



******



Part 1: Ultimo


A year is a long time, regardless of the lens you at it with.

There is nothing about the accumulated dirt and grime that changes the passing of time, nothing about the damage that seems to rack up faster than you can breath between the relentless blows or the derision that seems to fester just below the surface cause you can’t bring yourself to fail for the sake of those not willing to work harder.
Nothing changes the way time moves, as much as we might want it to.

No, a year was a longer time than it felt and standing amidst the bustling mid morning underground masses of shifting humanity, a woman in an oversized black hoodie seemed far more fascinated by the faded graffitied wall than the sideways dirty glances and cursory nudges of those passing by.
After all, she was taking up valuable space that realistically changed nothing about their trajectory- but someone had to be blamed for the lack of time management and inability to accept that public transport was exactly that. Public.

‘A heRo WiLL SAvE uS aLL’

If only it were true. Red silently mused as she lingered in spite of their continued insistences, more than content to allow them their sublimated race towards inevitable disappointment, chasing literal deadlines before complaining they’d gotten there too soon in typical fashion.
Inhaling deeply before allowing the breath to stumble out through parted lips, painted with the dried blood aftermath of another threat to her proverbial throne, she reached out to trace a single finger where the paint had bubbled and chipped- faded to the point that the dripping of red resembled more of a foray into pinks than the sanguine distribution it first appeared as.

All she seemed to have was time these days, and never nearly enough of it.

Somewhere else in this city, a One Man Wrecking Crew was looking for her in plain sight. Determined to prove that she was more than what she’d become- shouldering his burden so that he might somehow take on hers as well.
More fingers traced those faded lines now, one bearing a thin white line where a band of metal laid prior. She couldn’t begin to make him understand that there was only an end, that somehow burying the past meant more than savouring the present. After all, she couldn’t live in the now when the skeletons were leaving bone dust on her doorstep.

He’d never find her though.

Not before an end.

The end.

End of heroes. End of sentiments that no longer rang true. Of optimistic enthusiasm about the worst case scenario. Red had thought, like many, that the end had already fallen into the rearview with the Hero’s disappearance. Vanishing without a trace except for the occasional uprising in their name- revolutions never really lasted long, mutiny needed determination and those who sought change weren’t nearly willing enough to dirty their hands for the cause.
Always wait for someone else to spark change. Make damn sure it's their blood that's spilled before you jump on the proverbial bandwagon like you were there shedding sweat and tears all along.

Perhaps that's why so little had changed, before the Hero had less than mysteriously come to realise, why things seemed to stagnate and why everyone was so fucking okay with the status quo being dragged out of the gutter and presented before the masses as something brilliant and new.
No, the graffiti had aged as poorly as every opinion thrown her way. Everyone had a voice until it was time to speak up, to be judged for what they had to say- and when given the soapbox to stand upon, all that followed the Hero’s attempts to cleanse this place of Red’s influence found they had nothing new to say.

Red couldn’t hide the smile, as another commuter in a rush to nowhere important enough to race, almost pushed her into the wall, thinking about the Hero. About the wars they had waged for the heart and soul of this place- and how they’d both come to realise it no longer had one by the time they’d torn it apart.
Despite what many would claim- their spotlight for trying to oppose Red and her corrupted influence over this place having burned out long before their planned 15 minutes were up- the Hero was always her first, always the one who would be her last.

Always the proverbial one that got away.

Bracing against the cold tiles, Red straightened up slowly whilst idly brushing herself off. There was no denying the aches and pains anymore, no smiling through the suffering as though she didn’t feel every fucking blow.
At first it had been easy to feign immortality- stepping out of the spotlight for just long enough that people don’t notice you’re gone, emerging nearly as fresh as before except with a few new bruises and a split lip for her troubles. So long as Red was standing, she was in control and that was always the name of the game…

Control, and who had it.

Some wanted it for personal gains, to prove they were capable of wielding it and to make up for indiscretions of use. Trying to make good where they’d fallen prior as though simply saying you’ll do better next time meant more than the lack of sincerity to which it was spoken with. Others wanted it just because they felt entitled, that they ‘needed’ it as some form of validation that they weren’t entirely bereft of success- shunning all other achievements in favour of power, using pity and pathetic excuse mongering as a weapon to acquire something undeserved.

Of course, then there were those who sought it because it was what they were told they should want. Bright eyed and bushy tailed with good intentions and not a shred of killer instinct to match it. Talent would get them far, but they’d all baulked at her silver bullet breadcrumbs cause spilling blood for gold didn’t sit well with their ethical compasses.

None of them would ever go far enough though, and so Red had fought on. Challenger to her unseen throne after challenger, each with their own method of combat and each woefully outmatched and outlasted by the sheer level of spite that kept the redhead on her feet.
It was Red’s Sin City to defend, it was everything she’d built it as. She'd fought for this place so long there were those who couldn’t remember a time before it- that she’d always just been there and that she always would.

Despite it all, there were the rumours. The sightings and subtleties. A hero looking to rightfully claim something no longer hers.
Red found herself contemplating as her hand came away smudged in faded red, flecks falling away even as she examined it while a smudged hand left the original message marred and scored through.
Fitting really.
Perhaps it was time for a new message to be scrawled unseen on a subway wall. A bombshell that might awaken what stirred and shifted beneath the facade of perceived benevolence and violent mercies.

Defending. Defining. Defying.

Tired. Red couldn’t deny that she was just fucking exhausted, brushing the flecks of faded reds off her hands and against jeans ripped and frayed with wear and constant abuse, sanguine splattered unseen in dark patches she couldn’t quite wash out entirely.

Night after night and fight after fight. It wouldn’t end until she did.

Perhaps it was fitting that it was now a Hero who had chosen to reemerge, Red contemplated as she finally slipped into the moving current of the crowd. Disappearing in moments amid the suits and civilians alike.

After all, being what was best for Sin City was a tough fucking job to do alone.




******



“We always had a special sort of understanding.

You and me, Hero.

We always understood what it meant to make everyone around us for having been there, a positive feedback loop based on influence until it fed into a level of entitlement and false bravado. Too many got too big for their boots cause endorsements came a little too freely from the mouth of someone who knew better.
That's where we differed Hero- I didn’t give praise like candy from a white van, like unsolicited praise from someone who’d only heard of what it was like to ‘be someone’.
You were so busy telling everyone how good they were that you forgot that you didn’t necessarily mean it. Whereas I told them they were almost there until proven otherwise- I made all those who came across my path work for the recognition they earned, while you simply gave them a thumbs up and sent them on their way thinking they were better for it.

Maybe that was our purpose all along- to get everyone of worth behind a pretty new face, a new reason to defy the built in status quo cause you told them they could change the world while they were still trying to figure out how to change their shoelaces in their boots.
You helped create a new generation of challengers who thought their names were worth something before they stepped into the city, told that they would be destined for things far beyond their station cause you had given them the time of day.
You created an army of cannon fodder Hero- bodies to throw in my path until i became overwhelmed with the guilt of what I had left in my wake.

Still you underestimate me, cause Hero… darling… you don’t even know enough people to make me question my fucking confidence anymore.

You tried to breed defiance, but it's only led to a rude awakening. Reality checks abound as those who’d yet to meet my gaze found themselves ill prepared for their actions dictating consequences.
I think what you’ve done for so many is admirable- careers made off the work of your good name. However those who shared your spotlight never seemed to have the greatest shelf life…
Proteges and pet projects left in a pile of broken toys, easily replaced by the next eager up and comer with a good attitude and easily manipulated morality.

No good deed ever went unpunished I suppose.

Personally I stopped repenting for the idea of being right a long time ago. I suppose you still regularly partake in the moral self-flagellations in favour of admittance of wrongdoing instead- despite the fact that moral high horse of yours seems to have long since decomposed beneath you.
Consistently beaten beyond death, following an ethical compass that doesn’t have the capacity left to face true north and yet you believe it anyways. A pied piper of utter bullshit still believing that yours is the only tune that rings of truth while you send all our lemmings off a fucking cliff.

A phoenix looking to rise from the flames long since the smoulder died. Still you think you can rekindle the flames.

It wouldn’t have had to be this way… but you left. You walked away.

Where did you go Hero, don’t you know how I missed you.

Why did you leave…

Why do you keep leaving me?

Probably as much as a hole in the head admittedly- but I wonder if you’ll ever admit that you missed me too, that you needed me more than I ever needed you.
Lets face it though- you need me, you need everything I have and everything I am cause without it… there's something missing. I own a piece of you and with me, you don’t really matter.
Without my name, yours means that much less.

Don’t get me wrong, plenty tried to be you… there has been twelve since last danced, one for each month of the year, a new face for every season and with each I thought I might replace you. Not cause I needed you but because you meant something to me…
I broke all my toys I was given, everyone who tried to take your place- many of them heroes in their own right throwing on a cape cause they thought it's what made you special, what they thought might give them an edge they never had.

You were always more than that- the only one to walk away with a scar in the shape of my bleeding heart.

So you left, realizing that I was more than you could bear. Out there searching for an identity that wasn’t intrinsically linked to everything I’d built- you burned through everything to distance yourself from me whilst propping up tin soldiers beneath you in hopes I might simply fail to notice the veils of denial, the bluster and bullshit that you came up with to deflect from how far you’d fallen.
I stripped away everything that made you special and left you a pile of bare metal, with all the pieces to make something brilliant and instead you allowed the rust to collect.
Little more than nothing at all without the pretty paint job that you undertook to start being yourself once more.

You aren’t nearly who you used to be Hero, and back then you couldn’t best me either.

You’re rusty without that pretty paint job you wore so proudly, an armor of goodness and decency that now lays cracked and dented around your feet. You’re exposed and terrified stepping back into a world that's no longer yours.
You left me Hero, you walked away- did you hope I might simply fall to pieces before you made a triumphant return to save us all, that maybe I’d grow bored of playing Queenpin and simply relinquish my position cause there was no one left to stop me.

No, you fail to understand Hero… I’d have stayed here forever if I thought it meant you might come back to me. Nothing ends without you, nothing begins without us.
What we’ve done was nothing short of groundbreaking, life changing for this place- I was the life lesson you so desperately needed to learn and you were the hubris that I had coming. What Sin City has become is built on the ruins of what we destroyed and to deny that you are anything more without me is an insult to the memories we’ve created.

Tell me I’m wrong, prove to me that I haven’t learned a thing and that there's something left inside you Hero that should still pull at the heartstrings keeping it all stitched together. I need to know that I’m not holding onto strings I should have left to fray- that you’re still worth everything that I’m promised.
Will you fight for those you love- the ones that willingly let you walk back into my house without wiping your fucking shoes. Will you fight for the masses that used to whisper our names, cheering your goodness and condemning my evil- despite the fact we conducted business the very same way.
Will you fight for those who still believe that this whole charade is simply good vs evil and that we’re diametrically opposed instead of two sides of the same coin.

Will you stand by and tell everyone, with a heart full of good intentions that you’ve outgrown me, that you’re finally better than me… that you don’t need me anymore.
Cause you’ve come to save this godforsaken place, right?
Like I’ve left enough for you the same for your emotional attachment to cling to. Like it hasn’t changed from when you last took to their skies and failed to save them from what you’d brought upon them.

They don’t need you anymore Hero. You need them,and they can’t fucking stand you.

Whether you like it or not, whether you admit it or not.

You need me, Hero. More than you need this place. More than this place needs you.

More than it ever will again.

Only problem is, as seems to always be the case with you my sweet Hero…

You’re just a whole lot of too little, far too late.”




******


Part Two: Venandi Studio


Every night felt less and less like it was still hers.

A gentle breeze whipped around Red’s face sending a flutter of errant red across her eyes. It didn’t change the landscape though, a city of lights constantly winking as though partaking in sharing their secrets in obscene little flickers of light.
There were no secrets left for Red to discover though, nothing left beneath the surface to drag up- monsters had been stripped of their veils and paraded through the city streets and heroes had their capes torn from their backs and left in the gutters like fallen flags of vengeance.
Everyone who had come calling, who thought they might be the betterment of Sin City, the betterment of Red had been met head on with violence and spite that rivaled that which a mountain requires to not be moved by the rains.

From her rooftop vantage point, Red became the Queenpin surveying her kingdom. It wasn’t thriving, there hadn’t been great discoveries or changes in the way things had run- but the little things… the almost imperceptible things…
Far fewer had been so openly willing and brave to run their mouths in public with the knowledge that the city had ears, differences had gone to being settled without civility or care, with righteousness set aside for honesty. Violence wasn’t always the answer, but it certainly made up most of the question.

There was no place left for uprising, no revolutions to be sparked. Everyone had their opinions, but few followed beyond the sound of their voices trailing into nothing. Red had long since worn out the soles of her shoes putting out those fires of discontent, the first flames of insurgency stomped out before they’d had a chance to capture the imagination.
Of course, even if it had- no one would have cared who burned for their beliefs, only that the fire burned bright enough and hot enough for them to benefit. That the wretched and the ruined were kept warm by proximity to the dumpster fire for one more night.

Not that it ever stopped the rumours of a Hero trying to rebuild from beneath.

That had become the Sin City's narrative it seemed, as Red pursed her lips and furrowed her brow slightly. Somewhere in this city, a Hero was trying to rally support and remind everyone of a time before Red’s anarchist rule. There was no public support though- beyond those with social and emotional obligation, beyond those who felt they’d been slighted simply because they’d spoken a little too loudly about things they weren’t qualified to speak on, cause they had invited violence to their proverbial doorsteps and found themselves insulted when it actually showed up.
No one believed in the Hero anymore, and that alone brought a little tear of joy to a stormy blue-green eye.
Failure one too many times had left many jaded, had soiled what little good faith had been left after failing to protect and preserve what had been before.
It wasn’t that people weren’t better off, sometimes they just failed to realize what mires they had been pulled from- even if it tore their arm from the socket in the process.

Red, however, was one of the few willing to give the Hero a chance.

One last chance.

Was it to make things ‘right’ or simply to prove once and for all that Hero’s and their idealistic outlooks, their antiquated perspectives on what a black and white scale of morality actually looked like- were lost to time and all the consequences that came with it.
One last chance not to piss away Red’s faith that the Hero was more than some shitty world views and poorly worded witticisms about being better. Doing better. That this place might still be worth living in if she allowed it to return to ‘happy friend times’.

One last chance to prove that she’d changed, when all previous signs showed that it would never happen.
 
Perhaps that was what the Hero failed to understand the most- that watching over a place like this? Enforcing standards to those who wanted to live outside of societal rules and proving that there is no room for vagrants and freeloaders. It meant that there was no room left for goodness in the heart, no friends left to share the proverbial throne.
When you stood atop of Sin City, you took your fucking crown and you wore your thorns proudly. You bleed for the hate that will be bestowed by those lacking the willpower and means to take it from you. Red knew, deep down though that the Hero didn’t have it left in her either… and so she’d be left at the end of this with the crimson still pooling at her stained hairline and her legacy further bloodied by someone elses hands.

Of course, with a momentary flicker of reality crossing Red’s features, one could only bleed for so long.

Footsteps, heavy and determined, echoed from somewhere behind. A stairwell reverberating with thick soles and sharp thoughts. Red knew that sound as it resonated in her chest- only a One Man Wrecking Crew made her heart skip a beat like that, only his presence could make the breeze seem like a gale force wind and her chest explode in silent agony and guilt.
He wouldn’t stop until he caught up, such was their twisted lives… He’d chase her to the ends of the Earth perhaps forgetting that she’d never hesitate to step off it's edge. Meanwhile she sought the shadows of a Hero determined to force them into the light and disprove their influence on this place for good.
Stepping softly towards the buildings edge, another momentary glance over the city that she’d so rightfully claimed as her own all that time ago, another chink in the glacial armor crossed her lips.

A half smile, or something that was supposed to resemble it perhaps.

Red couldn’t help but wonder how much longer she could run- if this City was a game of chess, then she only had her queen left on the board while the king off somewhere seeking further fortune. Whereas the Hero, the Hero had accumulated pawns for days and one at a time, they knew she’d be willing to feed them to Red in hopes that she might clog the gears that ran her toothy maw.
An army might oppose, it might even make for a great story- but in reality it would only ever come down to the two of them.

Red could only hope that the Hero would let it finally be that way.

“Red?”

Hopeful and determined came the call as the toes of her sneakers crept further over the concrete edge. A glance back over the shoulder was no longer needed as the thunder of approaching footsteps rang louder than her pulse in her ears.

“I know you’re up here… Please just---”

Red wondered if the Hero was truly watching, whether she was sitting in the wings like a scavenger or whether she’d dare try to take her heart while there was still life left in the broken carcass she presented. It would never be easy, it would never be clean and no one would walk away without losing something they cared about.
As words trailed off into the whipping winds, Red contemplated thoughtfully about how far she’d come- and whether it was still worth the fight.

It could have been so easy to concede. To allow the Hero her precious city while Red retired into oblivion with the man who’d sought out the fractured pieces of her soul like there was a chance of splicing them back together into a frame easier on the eyes.

It could have been easy- but in the end, this Sin City was still hers…

As the One Man Wrecking Crew burst out onto the rooftop with eyes full of resolve, he was met with yet another empty rooftop.

… and Red had never really learned much about how to share.

"--- wait for me."





******



“I won’t pretend like I’m not tired.

That my bones don't cinstantly ache, that I haven't shed more blood on these streets than rain falls in a year.
I’m tired of the ugliness that comes with what I’ve had to do, of who I’ve had to become to undo the damage accumulated by others' carelessness. By your ignorance and unwillingness to accept that ‘right’ and ‘good’ might not always mean the same thing.
Insist if you must, Hero, but I can assure you that some of the worst atrocities this city has ever seen- including the ones at our own hands were only ever manufactured from the best of intentions.

In your absence, in your reluctance to accept responsibility for what you’d created, I took this place and I did what you verily couldn’t. What you wouldn’t. What you claimed you always strived for and never achieved.
I made this place better… and I did it better than you ever could have, as I’ve always done.
Art often imitates life, and I can only hope that maybe one day you’ll accept that my way isn’t just that of abhorrent violence- but of understanding and what it takes to make those around fall into line.

From the moment you left, to the moment I first heard you start to make waves again- I hoped you had changed, and yet everything I’ve seen till now simply stands to prove otherwise. You haven;t fucking changed in a year Hero, yet you expected everyone around you to and accept that you were fine just the way you were, Even I did. I got better for you… I raised the fucking bar for you in hopes that maybe you’d follow suit, that you’d strive and you’d reach if only out of spite.
Instead, you malinger in your comfort zone. You carved a niche and you’re determined to stay wrapped up safe there cause everything else is fucking terrifying out there- and heaven forbid you aren’t looked at as some paragon of virtue cause your world view got a little muddied.

I should feel a certain way in all honesty- disrespected and derided by your continual determination to ‘stand alone’ but instead?
I’m not even surprised anymore Hero, I’m barely even disappointed. You’ve become predictable to the point that I can almost tell you what you’ll do before the thought has ever crossed your mind, you’re a creature of habit that let it's teeth rot and fall out cause you no longer had use for them. A stalwart of a time and a place that no longer exists- I know you better than you even know yourself and the thought strikes so much fear into your heart that it took you a year to recover from the shock of it the last time around.

You can’t possibly surprise me anymore Hero, not unless you change.

… and we both know you just aren’t capable of it.

I’ve spent far too long walking this path, treading over hot coals as each challenger to my thrown tries to tell me why they are different from everyone else. Of course, their reasons have always been the same- they don’t even bother to say it differently anymore.
Twelve before you Hero, fucking twelve times I’ve been told that I was no longer good enough to protect this place… to uphold the very same attributes I had built. I have walked on fire and glass for everything I earned, long after the soles of my shoes melted away beneath my feet.
Unlike those around me- I kept walking cause I had to, cause no one else could take my place. No one else wanted badly enough to take on my burdens and so I carried them still- now here you are, watching as my back hunches further beneath the weight and feet bleed and crackle as those flames warm my soles once more and you offer to accept my charge.

Like you’re doing me a favor. Like you’re doing anyone in Sin City a fucking favour.

I’ve given EVERYTHING to this city, sacrificed everything I had for everything I’ve done. Yet time after time I’m insulted and ridiculed for my decisions, my actions nitpicked and judged by those incapable of understanding the illusion of choice. My motives have been continually questioned cause they don’t match everyone else's- despite the fact they aren’t the ones walking in the remains of my shoes.
I’ve been made to question my existence so often, I know that shit like the back of my hand.

I’ve done what no one else was willing, yet somehow I’m still the ‘bad guy’.

So just what makes you different to any of them exactly, aside from the pedestal I’ve put you up upon?

What can you possibly do that hasn’t already been attempted- of course we know the answer, though we’ll never admit it aloud. That would harm your image, stained red the pristine white you wear so proudly.

Will you though Hero, will you find my trail of silver bullets and leave me riddled with holes by my own hand?

Will you take my heart and leave me bloodstained- or will you be just like everyone else…

Unable to pull the fucking trigger as I beg for you to end this nightmare I have so proudly created.”

“There are many good reasons for drinking, and one's just entered my head: If you don't drink when you're living, how the fuck can you drink when you're dead?”
― Warren Ellis, Desolation Jones: Made in England




Amber’s Apartment
Atlantic City, NJ
15.02.2022
9:24pm



At first, it was improbable.

Over time though, it became undeniable. She became undeniable.

Maybe that was the problem, Amber contemplated silently as the harsh ocean breeze - from somewhere almost miles away - somehow managed to sneak through the rumpled layers of her oversized hoodie. That by becoming almost too widely recognized for her achievements as reigning World Champion, it was slowly becoming detrimental to the legacy she’d built.

Poisoning the well from the source, so to speak.

That was the thing though, as a small shiver raced down her spine. Eventually undeniable gave way to expectation. All of a sudden, what was once mind-blowing and seemingly groundbreaking was little more than a coat of paint on an already white wall.

Records had been toppled, dreams shattered around her feet like glass and stardust speckled into oblivion. Numbers didn’t lie- despite the fact she’d stopped counting around the time they might do during a little league white wash.

Everyone’s a winner, right?

Success bred entitlement in the same way it bred resentment. Amber had never become champion to create a division built on self-serving pity and overt, misjudged merits for opportunity - somehow in trying to elevate things, she’d only succeeded in feeding into the delusional atmosphere that had clouded so many into thinking their tenure ‘owed’ them something.

That somehow their participation in Blast From The Past was doing a favour to those of importance, like the tournament wouldn’t mean as much without them; and maybe it wouldn’t, ‘cause in the end… someone had to lose.

In reality, the world kept on spinning and in Amber’s case the days continued to stack. With a reflexive lip curl, Amber softened her expression. To think, all of this had initially come down to the age old ‘leaving the place better off than when she found it’ cliche… even if it meant tearing it down brick by bloodied brick if only to prove it could be done…

Many didn’t want that change though - they wanted to keep their heads stuck in the sand ‘cause down there they were still successful, they were the first to cry for another chance when they stumbled as expected with pitiful excuses and poor attempts at goading someone who didn’t need them. They wanted to keep losing matches spectacularly often yet still somehow be considered to have ‘contributed meaningfully’ to whatever history books might be left.

No, they’d always be the first to fall with sword still in sheath and justifications readied on poisonous tongues and in the end they’d be easily replaced by someone with a better understanding of how wrestling was supposed to exist - and without the intention of competing for the yearly title of 'most miserable cunt on the roster’.

A quick glance over her shoulder brought a smouldered smile across her features, the cheap fluorescence that her landlord ‘insisted’ on using to ‘save power’ casting a certain yellowed glow across the ridged face of the SCW Bombshells World title.
That's what this tournament was about - despite the liars and fools claiming that they weren’t in it for their shot at the title. Claiming the opportunity, even if it meant trying to piggyback as effectively as Ruby Steele had done the previous year.

… Oh, that title never got less beautiful.

It was strange in a way, cause most people never got the opportunity to admire their heart outside of their chest… Perhaps it was a reason for Amber to count herself lucky, however the weight that came with it was something unseen.
No one was ever told or prepared for the way it cut off any real sense of self-preservation, like motherhood without the benefit of ever seeing them end up better off. No one ever really spoke about how crippling the fear of expectation could become - how the last three defences had her almost doubled over the sink beforehand ‘cause she couldn’t decide if she needed to breathe or vomit from nerves.

No one ever said how everyone around you wanted you to change everything that got you to that place to begin with - as though suddenly what brought you to the dance wasn’t nearly good enough… and you HAD to be good enough.

If you weren’t good enough, after all…

You weren’t the champion.

Didn’t deserve to be champion.

Just bend to the point of breaking, but never snap or else you’ll prove all 240 characters right. Know when to stop, but ignore those instincts ‘cause no one is patient enough to let you fall with any kind of grace. Prove yourself ten times more than anyone else has to - ‘cause they don’t like the reality you’ve presented them with. Become the undisputedly greatest Bombshells Champion of all time; just to give them something else to complain about and dispute, instead of respect and celebrate what could be.

Just keep winning.

Then what…

Defence after defence.

… and then what?

Go on and win Blast From The Past.

… then what?

Become undeniable.

Already have.

… and it's still not enough.

Pushing out of the plastic chair frustratedly, the feet scraping loudly on the balcony surface, Amber resigned herself to the twinge of regret that permeated through her worse than the cold- cause most importantly of all… No one ever told you what it might cost to be champion, to stay there…
Of course she thought about Mac- in truth she never really stopped despite the fact they had spoken outside of the public eye for what felt like weeks by now. Maybe it was less, but each second passing felt as though two had been taken off an ever-shortening edge. Guilt mostly, she concluded as she leaned on the countertop- delicately eyeing a closed bottle that had been sitting there for a little too long not to be a temptation.

Despite what she had said - all the platitudes and devotion she could show, it came down to the title first and always. While she was the champion scrambling to stay on her feet while the ice slickened beneath her feet, there wasn’t room in her chest for anything or anyone else.

Mac understood, but that didn’t make her feel any less shitty about it.

What he didn’t understand was everything else, cards kept so close to the chest they’d gotten wedged between her ribs.

At a glance, she didn’t recognize the label, only knowing it was expensive… you know, like that changed the effect it would have. Pleasant and numbing. A blissful ignorance perhaps, if she were so inclined. Matt Knox had bought it as part of the Thunder Pro Duos’ title celebration - accepted as reluctantly as the team had been formed - and undoubtedly he’d made sure she knew exactly how much he’d spent.

Answer, of course, being too much.

Asshole.

With Hitamashii … she’d grown to learn what to expect and so far he had been holding up his end of the deal, Amber distractedly mused, determined to pull herself out of the debilitating tailspin she’d allowed herself to fall into time and time again recently. Distractions, that's all it really was… white noise feeding into her desperation to sink her fingernails just a little deeper into the crumbling mountain edge.
One day she’d create a new summit for someone else - no doubt - and one day they’d stand atop it as she had done and breathe the rarified air that she’d grown accustomed to.

No, Hitamashii was reliable enough for now. Inoffensive even, and a champion in his own right, one of few left in the tournament… If Amber had the wherewithal to chuckle, she might have at the absurdity of how she was essentially relying on an otherwise ‘stranger’ to care about her World title as much as she did.
Without rhyme or reason, just expected to bear some of the weight she did without so much as being asked… Everyone accepted it though, ‘cause Blast From The Past meant that ‘anything could happen’ as epitomised by the ‘upset’ conducted by Jaycee McDonald and Levana Cade.

Normally Amber would have quietly celebrated Matt Knox eating his own words with a fucking shovel, watching him squirm under the intense scrutiny that came with falling so handily at the first hurdle - however there was a bittersweetness to it.

If only cause it meant he’d double down on his stupid fucking crusade…

That alone was surely enough of a reason to have a quiet drink…

No. That's ridiculous.

That being said though - Hitamashii, in spite of his best, couldn’t take that weight forever and those lost in the sands of time, those still determined that their name meant something cause they said so - wouldn't long be gagged by the toxic nature of their vitriol.

Even without the title on the line this time, Amber couldn’t ignore the tension growing in her muscles with the passing of hours as the already frayed edges of her nerves seemingly fired at the slightest stimuli. Everything was a trigger- another half step closer to an inevitable oblivion that she couldn’t see coming, even if she tried.

She could no longer pretend like everyone wasn’t watching, anticipating a slip…waiting for the one moment where being the fucking best still wasn’t quite good enough. Acting as though her violent career mortality and determined desperation wasn’t going to lead to her downfall…

Okay.

So maybe one drink wouldn’t hurt, after all.



******



“I don’t expect you to care about anything I’m going to say.

I’m not gonna stand here and waste my breath demanding that you respect me. Everything I am and everything I’ve done till now has absolutely no effect on your path. Nor will it change with the outcome of this match…

Honestly - what's the worst case scenario for you following this match, Levana? You lose, you go on to maybe be a talking head on a future ‘Biggest Blast From The Past Upsets’ list that will absolutely be disputed ‘cause bias is a thing that exists. Really, the worst thing that can happen is that you fall out of the tournament and go on to have a reasonably middling career of moderate successes…

So basically, you become a better version of Mercedes Vargas, but without the entitled delusions.

Of course - that does beg the question though. Was it really an upset?

I’m not going to take anything away from the effort of you and your esteemed partner - a pair of wildcards stunning established talent has become part and parcel with this tournament since its inception. ‘Nobodies’ go out and make a statement, build the foundation of their successes to come in tournaments just like this… One match can change everything.

I mean, I could sit here and wax poetic on Matt Knox for hours - I’ve called the man basically every derogatory name under the sun, in multiple languages, and it still hasn’t shut him the fuck up so I doubt he’s overly concerned about much outside of the small mark on his otherwise glistening record.

Amy Marshall though. Legend in her own right - halls of fame and legacies abound, right? Quite the feather in the cap of someone otherwise unproven.

Well, maybe five years ago… These days, it seems the punk princess shows her face for these little forays and then quickly slinks back to whatever undercard she’s dominating when she realises that the bar hasn’t fallen quite low enough for her reputation again.

That's nothing against you - obviously. You still beat her, it’d be far more damaging if you hadn’t won… Not that anyone would have told you that otherwise, they’d have simply patted you on the head and watched you wile away in catering alongside everyone else who got told they were special.
It's just, now there's this almost imaginary air of achievement that's lingering around you… this expectation of being a ‘giant killer’ when realistically you toppled a half-collapsed sandcastle made too dry to begin with.

That's not to say you aren’t talented - but I’d recommend not buying into the hype.

Of course, the result doesn’t really matter for you in the end. No one expects you to succeed, even after the first round victory… No one sees your names and bets big for you to take out the whole thing.
That would be absurd, right?

What you and Jaycee have, Levana, is the greatest gift that this tournament has to possibly offer… no strings attached.

What I mean to say is - you are the only two people left in this tournament who aren’t actively damaged by losing at this point.  Everyone else, they have this expectation to succeed. A determined moment that they are supposed to make, like a checkpoint in a video game. Anything less is considered outright failure, is considered to be a step down, an abrupt halt to building momentum.

After all, every action has an equal and opposite reaction and collateral damage really doesn’t give a fuck what your name and your reputation are. Everything has consequences, and yet you guys manage to get off scot free…

When it comes down to it, you both legitimately have nothing to lose.

Everything to gain.

That's why your road ends here.

Cat’s out of the bag now, your element of surprise has long since dissipated in the memories of those still watching and waiting for the moment you get a little too casual and cocky. Having nothing to lose is great, but it lacks a level of motivation - it only pushes you to go so far, it's hard to keep looking up when you know there's a cushion below to fall back upon.

Everything to gain only means so much when you come to realise just how badly the odds are truly stacked - at the end of the SCW rainbow isn’t a pretty gold belt to adorn that pretty little waist like advertised.

Whats waiting is a bloodbath, what’s waiting beyond door number 1 is a fucking angry champion wondering why everyone keeps kicking their front door down instead of knocking.

There is no promise of success when you win this tournament Levana, what's waiting is the promise of meeting me… again. Without the benefit of someone to take some of the inevitable heat that would be coming your way - that's what people sometimes forget in all of this, you’re relying on someone else to get you an opportunity you might otherwise not deserve.

Ruby Steele last year got carried like a true damsel and found herself woefully overmatched to the point it was comical by the time she got her shot. She got it ‘cause she ‘earned’ it sure, but she contributed nothing and made no effort to get better along the way.

In the end, it’s not even about having the ‘best team’, it's about having a partner who wants it as badly as you do.

It's not about just being on the same page and you both saying you wanna win. It's about chemistry and proving it - so many mistake those as the same thing, building their castles of anticipation out of stones and pretending that their sheer force of want is enough to hold the blocks together.

Hitamashii gets it, he’s got almost as much on the line as I do. That newly won back title on his shoulder doesn’t mean shit if he loses the first match he’s in, all that much-needed momentum to keep it comes screaming to a halt if I happen to fuck up and take you a little too lightly cause ‘rookie’.

I affect his path, just as much as he affects mine - whereas you and Jaycee, as much as you might be in agreement with your purpose, your camaraderie extends as far as your next match result.
There's no real kinship, no honour among thieves. While you’re in this, you’re united but the moment the three count goes against you - well… I’m sure it was a fun ride while it lasted.

We’re at the mercy of someone else's whims, Levana.

Isn’t that the most fucked up thing about all of this?

Everything you are, and everywhere you are going depends on someone else…

Whether it's me, whether it's Hitamashii or whether it's Jaycee inevitably trying to take on a little too much in order to prove himself as a ‘worthy’ contender. As good as you might be, or as good as you might become - it means far less than you’ll ever be willing to admit.

That's the thing I suppose - maybe you are a rookie, maybe you think I’m going to overlook you and you’ll slip in under my radar. Sneaky three count on the champ when she’s distracted by her own spotlight - too fucking confident that she’ll squash the bug trying to crawl up her sneaker.

If I didn’t hear it EVERY FUCKING MATCH FOR THE PAST 4 MONTHS I’d almost say it's comical - you know, this wild idea that as the SCW Bombshells World champion, that I’m so fucking full of myself that I just underestimate everyone who steps in the ring with me.

Let’s be clear - and I like to think you’d get this better than most, Levana.

If I underestimated anyone… I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t be the one standing alone while everyone else wonders why I won’t act as they expect me to. Why I won’t be goaded into situations that don’t suit my interests or crumble cause they think my reign means less for not having them attached to it like a fucking oversized barnacle.

A word of advice Levana, from veteran to rookie, don’t look into the lights.

If this were another time and another place, I’d probably offer to take you under my wing and teach you everything worth knowing about knowing your worth - but the truth is…

I don’t think you’re really going to give a fuck what I have to say.

… and that's okay.

Cause you won’t be winning this tournament anyways.”





******





Amber’s Apartment
Atlantic City, NJ
16.02.2022
9:07am




Who the fuck made the sun so bright?

Pulsating, Amber was sure this violent headache resembled a knock on the door as a guttural groan seemed to escape the side of her mouth. Carpet slightly damp from the puddle of drool she must have let seep, Amber’s vision blurred into something resembling shapes until the sun once again left her painfully blinded.

It was strange really, she hadn’t recalled ending up on the floor… Time and space had lost all meaning at some point it seemed, her legs having resigned themselves to a fate of being awkwardly laced through the legs of a coffee table that something faintly residual had been spilled on.

Groping blindly for almost anything that might give her some stability and only finding a floor that wouldn’t stay still, her hand brushed by a bottle that quietly sloshed with a little something left in it. God, why did her head hurt so much… like a frontal lobotomy where someone had forgotten the anaesthetic - and sterile tools, instead choosing to grind their way through the front of her face with a jackhammer.

With her hand grasping enough of the bottle to bring it closer, Amber violently recoiled onto her back as the urge to vomit and cry both rose in her throat at the same time - the whiff of whatever was left, enough to create a PTSD moment that she wasn’t aware existed prior to now.

Perhaps she was to commend the ‘morbid corvid’ on his choice of bottle - or commend herself for working her way through that and god knows whatever else she’d managed to blindly neck. It was supposed to be a catharsis; just one to ease the nerves, dull the edges that continued to leave her in mental ribbons.

Who knew, maybe this was exactly what she needed.

Although bringing her hand up vaguely in a poor attempt to block the sun now shining on her face, expression screwed up resembling a ripe passionfruit with probably an equal disdain for humanity, she was more sure that she probably had rather preferred being dead.

This time the knock came a little more firmly though, emanating somewhere outside the rhythmic throbbing that seemed to resonate through every nerve, as Amber managed to roll back to her side and rested her head in the coarse carpet.

She’d have to talk to the landlady about getting a nicer carpet to sleep on.

Add that to the to-do list.

“Ms Ryan?”

If flowers could scream death metal, Amber presumed they’d have sounded the way Cassiopeia Mares' voice echoed through the apartment space. Pushing herself up with every effort she could manage, Amber propped herself up long enough to clear her throat.

“I’m not here!”

It was dumb and it was immature but be damned if Amber didn’t hope it would work. Even as the last syllable dragged a little too long, Amber couldn’t get rid of the cottonmouth feeling lingering on the back of her tongue whilst trying to figure out where the fuck her bearings ended up.

Good intentions indeed, she couldn’t help but contemplate humorlessly, some fucking good intentions she had. That seemed to be the case recently though - every time she’d tried to make a harsh decision for someone else's benefit, it left her looking like a goddamn insensitive asshole.

Why was trying to be a ‘better person’ so hard?

At the click of a key shifting a lock, yet another sound being far louder than she ever recalled it before, Amber allowed a second more frustrated groan to slip from her throat. Was it really so difficult to be left alone and allowed to simply enjoy her self-inflicted misery for a while?
Apparently, the answer was a resounding yes.

“I think you are, and---”

Cassie paused, taking stock of the usually sparse space with the kind of keen eye Amber had learned to dread a little. Seeing too much and saying far too little to justify it.

“– it seems you’ve been very… busy.”

Disapproval rang loud and clear, usually only passively judgemental, it seemed Amber had finally done enough to upgrade to premium judgement and only for the cost of her equilibrium and ability to look at sunlight.

“Yeah, well… someone has to supervise me apparently, turns out I really suck at that job.”

Each word came punctuated with a forced pause as Amber fought her way up to sitting before allowing herself a quick reprieve leaning against the coffee table, avoiding breathing in too much in case the residual spilled booze triggered a reflex she was too slow to counteract. With an almost prim chuckle, Cassie idly set about righting the few things she could and tidying up as though that might somehow render the redhead capable of processing anything outside of how badly her headache was radiating down her spine.

“It's not generally customary, or part of my job description, to assign ‘babysitters’ to talent, however given the state you’ve managed to find yourself in---”

“Yeah, I get it. I fucked up, it's a me problem. I did it, I take full blame… I dunno, shoot me or whatever.”

Blasé and entirely disingenuous, if only for the fact that stringing together a sentence took up more energy than she was willing to admit, it soon occurred to the redhead that the SCW Talent Relations Manager wasn’t necessarily here simply ‘cause her sixth sense pinged for World Bombshells Champion shenanigans being afoot.

“Cassie, I hate to be so blunt… You know what, fuck it… I don't hate it. Why the fuck are you even here?”

Shrugging indecisively, Amber squinted in Cassie’s general direction. In response, the younger woman paused thoughtfully as though piecing things together much faster than the redhead who was still trying to make sense of up and down.

“I take it you haven’t any memory of calling me then…”

Matter-of-factly, Cassie cocked her head slightly as her stance changed. Hands clasped like a Victorian doll, doe-like eyes managing to stare a hole where Amber was sure they’d tried to line up the jackhammer rattling her brains so thoroughly.

“... I called you?! Uggghhhhhhhhh…”

Slumping back a little further against the table, Amber murmured something about ‘of course I did’ before quickly realising her phone was unaccounted for. Perhaps sensing the moment of panic, Cassie already had one hand laced around the case before Amber could even open her mouth to mutter.

Groping blindly behind her and onto the coffee table, Amber was at least briefly relieved to find the World Bombshells title precisely where she’d left it - albeit a little sticky along some of the edges.

An action not lost on Cassie who smiled … approvingly? It was difficult to tell through blurry, hungover eyes. Maybe Amber preferred it that way as she straightened back up in hopes of finding a vertical base in this century.

If she’d called Cassie… then who else had she called?

That brief moment of regrettable clarity flashed across her expression. Oh god, what if she called Mac and told him she wanted to end things… she never meant to push him away. No doubt he’d fight, but in the end her stubbornness would wear him down and… fuck where was her wedding ring.

Yeah. That was an issue.

Oh… what if she’d told him about Dominic. About their past together and how he’d strung her along so easily… about how he’d lied to her face about Cassidy’s lonely fate…about Reverend Alistair McCrae and his dealings past and present… about how she’d blindly sought revenge and brought their garage, hell their lives--- what if she’d told him about everything…

Impossible.

Virulently, Amber shook her head, immediately coming to regret the decision as the room’s spin picked up a little more speed. Just the thought of it made her a little sick, that everything she’d sacrificed for their supposed benefits and how she’d fought so fucking hard to keep her personal bullshit away from the best thing… okay, maybe second best … to ever happen to her.

All of that, potentially unravelled in one stupid phone call. Even now, in her fiercely hungover state, it seemed implausible at best… she was really dumb, but not THAT dumb surely.

Another flash of clarity, although less brilliant, fluttered through her consciousness. What if she’d called Matt… admitted everything he ever believed was true, told him how fucking terrified she was of losing everything and how she couldn’t help but keep digging in hopes that she might eventually do good.

Do better.

Gave him every reason he ever wanted to fulfil this futile crusade of saving someone who didn’t need it, to cure a ‘disease’ she’d long since allowed to ravage her soul long before he ever gave a fuck, to self-justify his bullshit that in ‘helping’ her it might somehow absolve him of his own demons.
What if she’d told him about her relationship with Masque - and how it all came back to a Man In A Hat and a Girl In A Flower Dress Named After The Stars…

God, it was a lot.

Too much.

Way too much.

Allowing her head to loll back onto the coffee table surface, Amber allowed one long ‘fuck’ to roll off her tongue exagerratedly.  Every syllable drawn out for far longer than it needed to. Imagine, she wondered, if anyone else saw her now - the record breaking, arguably best World Bombshells Champion of all time… sprawled out someone in the middle of her little Atlantic City apartment hungover out of her fucking mind and trying to rationalize how she ever got to this point.

As per the norm, the answer was simple…

That Bombshells World title she wore so proudly. It was in a sense, her heart… what gave her life in this business and kept her fighting for longer than she knew she could, was destined to kill her.
Everything she’d fought so hard for, was the exact same reason she had so little fight left. Inevitability was coming, and it didn’t take a hungover epiphany for her to understand that intimately.

“Cassie… instead of actively judging me, can you do me one favour?”

She doubted Cassie was actually judging her, but the little that wasn’t painfully bright or geometrically distorted through her inebriated lens was enough to know that there was a little bit of a ‘tsk tsk’ headed her way. In response, Cassie smiled professionally, too much so for the hour - as though Amber had miraculously regained a concept of time as her head slowly rolled back around from the tabletop.

“I want you…”

Amber swallowed hard, although she wasn’t sure if it was the intensifying cotton mouth or the words being genuinely difficult to force. Stuck in the back of her throat, her heart was reluctant to allow them to release.

“... to delete my call history. Don’t tell me what I said, don’t tell me who I called. I just… I can’t deal with that kinda fucking evil right now.”

It wasn’t the evils she couldn’t deal with and they both knew it. Consequences be damned, plausible deniability was quickly becoming a girl's best friend.

“I’ll need your passcode to un–”

“Wedding – wait… no. 2803. Date I won the–”

Amber didn’t let herself finish the thought, and the twinge in her chest seemed to trail off her words not long after. Guilt radiated like a smouldering fire between her ribs, a writhing tangled knot of feelings she couldn’t make sense of. That idea that everything she loved was so unbearably entwined with everything she was… and everything she thought she needed to be.

“... world title.”

Those last few words fell as a mumble, inaudible and pitiful. Lost as quickly as the evidence of any of her misdoings to the universe.

“It was funny how little justice seemed to come in the wake of justice being done. It was funny how often the word “funny” described horrors that couldn’t be screamed away.”
― S.R. Hughes, The War Beneath




Undisclosed Arena Parking Lot
New York City, NY
22.12.2009
11:37pm



Amber Ryan wasn’t a legacy wrestler.

There wasn’t a heritage at her back, generations of venerated names propping up her formative professional years. She didn’t have sponsorship offers or promoters absolutely tripping over themselves to associate in hopes of getting a rub. No legacy to speak of beyond the untitled swathes she’d drawn through drunken bar fights only to be awkwardly blamed on falls and devoted alcoholism to embittered spouses.
There were never any guarantees… nothing to keep her head above water beyond her own frantic flailing beneath the crashing waves. Vividly, she recalled signing on the dotted line, writing so fast her fingers might have caught alight for fear it might be somehow torn out from under her at the last moment. Suits giving each other side eye as though to say ‘this is the girl they picked?’ as though they were qualified to speak on anything more violent than a poorly made frappuccino.

No, in reality she’d been little more than another concept on paper that didn’t translate the way it was anticipated. As violent as she was pretty, and almost as personable as a cheesegrater to the fingertips.
Even now, with her duffel bag hanging limply as she made her way gingerly across the parking lot, it was difficult to contemplate how far she’d come when the infernal weight of loss still lingered so vividly on the edge of her tongue.
That title had been her proverbial lifeline in the shark infested waters, keeping the door open for her just enough so that she might jam her foot in before they shut her out completely. It had given the wrestling world a reason to view her as more than just an almost pretty face that could bleed on demand, and now… well, that was yet to be seen.

Had she done enough?

Was there ever a time when it could be enough?

It felt as though being champion eternally was impossible, but how else was she supposed to prove that she belonged outside of bleeding to death on a sweat soaked canvas in front of an apathetic crowd who just wanted to indulge the worst of their humanity.
As the stitches in her side pulled painfully, the same ones that had just cost her seemingly everything, she could feel the faint weeping of blood soaking through the edge of her shirt. Briefly thankful that she wore almost exclusively black for that exact reason, she swallowed the grimace while someone in the background gave her a brief wave- probably mistaking her for someone far more important.

No, she mused silently as her shitty rental car came into view, there was no such thing as ‘enough’ in wrestling. There would never be a time she could rest on her laurels or assume her limited reputation as a former champion could carry her beyond a shrug as she was left to waste away in catering.
Generic and far too expensive for what little it offered in terms of comfort and drivability, Amber slung her duffel into the back seat with a thud, even the seats seeming to sigh with disappointment with the sudden change of weight.

Most people would have been thrilled to lose ten pounds in three seconds…

That was worth a brief chuckle, or perhaps Amber was just fooling herself into thinking that things would be fine. That the sun would rise tomorrow, the breath in her lungs would continue and that this seemingly impossible dream… This unlikely turn of fortunes that had flipped 180 back to it's status quo wouldn’t hurt quite so much in the cold light of morning.
Flopping into the driver's seat, Amber paused with her hands resting against the wheel, realization of reality sinking below the surface like a proverbial kick in the ass.
It wasn’t ever just about being the champion, as much as she would never have admitted otherwise, it was a fucking length of rebar to her reputation, a reassurance that all her hard work actually meant something. A backbone to a resume that otherwise consisted of patchy references from people who didn’t like unexpected phone calls. With that title- she couldn't simply be overlooked cause she didn’t happen to wear the right shade of blowjob on her lips.

Although, she never expected to take the loss this hard either.

Being beaten was a given, it had to happen eventually.

However the fact that it wasn’t entirely her fault… that stung.

It would have been easy to blame McCrae for leading a lamb to the slaughter under false pretenses of peace. It would have been even easier for her to blame Dominic, and that certainly had never stopped her before… Problem was, it wouldn’t have changed anything either.
Reality was that she had failed under pressure, regardless of circumstance and that's what would be remembered, etched into the annals of time. Of course, making excuses didn’t alter the events and reminiscing didn’t reverse the fates. Acceptance always seemed to hurt worse than the loss, only because the idea that ‘everything happened for a reason’ permeated so deep that nothing else seemed to hold water.

Gratitude was hard to accept when the timeline could have been so different…

Amber’s fingers found the bumps of the stitches, painful and raw to the touch as the redness only seemed exacerbated with the beating she’d taken. She came in wearing a target, a big red fucking bullseye saying ‘aim here’ and expected that she could just pretend it didn’t exist.
Now that was humorous, as the chuckle escaped her lips dryly. Just the idea that she could manage to keep her personal and professional lives separated, that the consequences wouldn’t eventually catch up in such a way as to leave her sitting in a stupid rental car at the end of the night laughing at the absurdity of it all.

She’d already heard enough of the allegory from others about ‘having nothing to lose’, a favorite for garnering sympathy and justifying the shittiness of their actions before they committed to doing them. A spoiler warning for their terrible decision making as though telling someone you were about to spit on everything they’d worked for could be excused cause you warned them you were going to do it first.
Of course, those people always had successes to fall back on and multiple high profile reigns that couldn’t be denied, they spoke as though their periodic trysts with contendership and main event spotlights weren’t worth consideration.

They spoke as people who presumed that losing everything was a minor inconvenience when things didn’t go their way. A bad night, a rough decision… a loss that should have been a win, otherwise irrelevant in the grander scheme.
Amber swallowed hard again at the idea of those assholes doing their interviews under the pretense that they understood what nothing really was… what the idea of unrequited loss could do to someone. What being utterly shafted by consequences seemingly beyond reason or control could turn someone into…

Monsters didn’t stand in front of cameras spewing propaganda and catch phrases, drumming up support while reaching down with latex hands to grasp at commonality. They didn’t put on suits to hide the blood, showing up at a day job caked in makeup as though the bruises beneath weren’t that much darker under the supermarket fluorescence.
No, the real monsters were the ones getting told they weren’t good enough for a match. The ones that bled for every moment they could be in a ring, giving more than what their bodies had cause some higher profile piece of shit had an allergic reaction to something their opponent said about them. Monsters had origin stories, but no one seemed to notice until things went a little too far…

Monsters sat behind the wheel of a shitty rental car, trying to make sense of whether they’d done enough to keep their head above water while they tasted salt in their lungs.

Of course, Amber Ryan wasn’t a monster.

Not really.

Not yet.




******



“I’ve lived a thousand lives wondering when the next one is gonna end.

Everytime I hear a threat against me I wonder if they really mean it, whether they have the capability and the sheer force of will to endure and cease the rampant machine gun fire of bullshit I have a tendency of spewing. I look forward to that day Johanna, the day that someone somewhere fulfills the promise that they can be the one to stop me.
Not because I want to be stopped, oh lord no, I’m having way too much fun sitting up at the top of the mountain kicking at those trying to pull me down by my ankles. No, it's because I’m so tired of being fucking disappointed…

Honestly, it's more exhausting listening to the utter nonsense that's getting people onto my doorstep than the effort it takes to send them crashing back down where they came from. Time after time, it's a constant cycle of derisive respect followed by idle threats.
If you wanna see the end of me- then just fucking do it kids… Don’t wave a proverbial gun in my face if you don’t plan on taking the fucking safety off. I’d gladly do it myself, almost just to prove it could be done, if I didn’t think all the assholes looking to scarf up my scraps wouldn’t profit so heavily from my eventual downfall.

Let’s be real here Johanna, you have the capacity to do what everyone else is thinking. I’m not gonna sit here and sugar coat the fact that you are one of the few people on this roster that might straight up out-physical and out-aggressive me. I have no doubts that on your best day- you’re taking more than just a couple years off my career.
I can sit here and tell you all the derogatory things I think, but I also know that it's not going to matter to you- and there's a very simple reason why.

You don’t think you can beat me. You have already stood up and declared yourself defeated before we ever stepped foot into the ring- and if that doesn’t make me wanna start throwing things in frustration then I don’t know what will.
It was called new blood for a reason, you were supposed to light a fire and instead I’m stepping across your ashes. This was supposed to be a wake up call and you’d rather press snooze to fight another day, you were supposed to be the catalyst and instead all you’ve done is resign yourself to the fact that you’re still the perennial placeholder of a faction struggling to maintain relevance in a place they claimed to have built.

You took the opportunity you were handed and you threw it in the fucking trash cause you didn’t think you were worthy. Washing your hands before you ever even tried. Here’s the thing though Johanna, and something you very clearly haven’t considered- it was never about being worthy, it was never about having ‘earned’ it. If I wanted ‘worthy’ I’d have faced Myra or Roxi for the umpteenth time and everyone would have been bored to death by the sheer inevitably of the result. If I wanted ‘earned’ then I’d have thrown down the gauntlet to Krystal or Andrea and goaded them into putting their titles on the line for the sake of something greater…

What I wanted, Johanna, was a spark.

A reason for every other Bombshell on this roster to stand up and pay attention. To believe that they stood a goddamn chance of seeing an opportunity if they just made a fucking effort to do more, to be more…
I wanted to see an inferno of spirit rage through this division, to empower and engage those who’d decidedly lost their will to compete for the crown jewel cause they didn’t ‘measure up’. It's not about that anymore though, the people that should have beaten me- they haven’t done it, so now they can wait their turn and reminiscence about how badly they fucked up and why I told them they would all along.

Stagnant waters don’t breed anything but suffocation- I wanted to breathe life into this division and instead your choice to allow insecurity and selfish pride to overtake the common decency to show up and throw the fuck down, threatening to undo everything I’ve worked for.
You were supposed to represent a new beginning, a new perspective… now I’m standing here wondering why the fuck I bothered.

I never wanted it to be easy. I never wanted safe- my whole damn career has been built on how many ways I can kill myself without actually dying.

That's the thing, isn’t it? Despite everything we try to do and what we claim to be, we aren’t immortal. Our legacies aren’t infallible, our bodies crumble a little further with every match,  we can inscribe our names all over the annals of time, but paper and stone eventually tear and erode away- everything we’ve done lost to memories that no longer speak our names.
Everything I’ve built as a cornerstone of this division will eventually be lost, someone will come along one day and obliterate everything I’ve done like it was nothing. Maybe it is nothing, in the grander scheme of things. I’m infinitely aware that I can’t continue on like this forever… Losing is eventual and inevitable.

To you though, it simply won’t happen.

You already made that decision. Now it's up to me to enforce it.

It's not that I take you lightly, far from it. I have no doubt this match will have me complaining for days afterwards, that I’ll be feeling everything you’ve thrown at me for weeks on end. However it won’t be your best, you’ve already admitted and ensured that.
It won’t be what you’re capable of cause you’re terrified that maybe you’ll win, that maybe you’ll be forced to step up and assume a role that wasn’t really meant to be yours- a usurper to the throne perhaps.
Now that's an interesting thought, Johanna Krieger-  the most successful member of Wolfslair within the last three months. An oxymoron that can’t decide how much it hates itself. An agent of mayhem ruling as queen over a kingdom she has no stake in nor desire to rule.

It's a good thing I won’t let it come to that.

Of course, that's not being cocky. That's a harsh truth to be misconstrued as something far more personal, like declining to frame a child's fridge drawing cause it's only highly thought of when brought up in the right context. Let's be honest though, who else right now is going to be the one to lead Wolfslair onto the greatness it's foretold for years on end?
Alicia is in the process of self-destructing, Alex cannot for the life of him decide if he’s coming or going, Bella has already dismissed her world title aspirations as a phase and Mercer is trying to convince everyone that he’s more than an Alex Jones facsimile.

Let's be honest, you’ve put a lot of faith into something that's lost a lot of prestige… so believe me, with all the sincerity that I might be able to muster, that you are far better off going this one alone. If only for the sake of saying that it was you and you alone that cost yourself this match, instead of the excuses that come with tag-a-longs and trysts interfering in the matters of warriors.

When it comes down to it- I’m coming into Inception with the belt, begging for you to show me something, wanting more… expecting more… you promised me war Johanna, and have shown up brandishing a misshapen butter knife while still expecting that I’m going to take you seriously.

I will, but not nearly for the reasons you intended.

I never wanted this to become a message, but it seems like it's the only thing you’ve really got left to offer.”




******




Unnamed Studio
Las Vegas, ND
08.01.2022
3:29pm




“Thank you so much for speaking with us. I think we got everything…”

Amber smiled politely, a curt nod following as society deemed necessary while she hoped the blankness and lack of anything resembling sincerity didn’t happen to shine through. There was never such a thing as having gotten ‘everything’, journalism dictated boundaries being pushed for the sake of accuracy, however there were also unspoken lines that required careful skirting. Avenues of discussion were like doors, the opening of one being predicated on the closing of another, the treading carefully across creaky floorboards in hopes that the demons laying dormant weren't upset by the incorrect use of adjective and adverb.
Poisoning the well, after all, was only useful if you had no reason left to draw from it.

“It's really quite a shame that Mac wasn’t able to join us as well.”

Framed as an aside, Amber found herself agreeing automatically as though any hesitation might create an unwanted discourse, startling even herself briefly with how readily the semi-transparent lie fell across her tongue.
Besides, it wasn’t as though they weren’t fine, cause they were. Happily married despite some minor disagreements in private, both of their iron wills clashing while carefully sidestepping revelations of their own secrets and subterfuges. Behind closed doors was entirely their own business after all, in front of cameras it was all smiles for the promotional material, giving everyone what they thought they wanted as images of love and hope were splashed out into a world so severely lacking in it otherwise.

No, if Amber had her way- the public eye would see that everything was absolutely fine with the proverbial ‘golden couple’ and she wouldn’t have anyone speak a word otherwise.

In spite of the facades and falsities they were feeding, Amber knew that Mac was far from oblivious. He’d fake it for the sake of the peace, knowing that she had a tendency to react while she did so only to continue to fuel the need to keep him at an arm's length. Mac was holding back, but even his indeterminable patience would hold out for so long, eventually all their dirty laundry would come to light and the skeletons rattling in their closets could no longer be blamed on the wind.
Still, at least for now, total denial was a far lesser evil than derision. Speak softly and carry a big stick cause no one ever questioned the integrity of what you were saying when all they could focus on was the fact that you were armed.

Even in the immediate aftermath, Amber couldn’t recall much of the conversation. She’d been the cordial, gracious champion with the belt set upon her shoulder. Humble in victory, while a realist in the face of inevitability. She was sure something had come up about Inception, rounding the corner towards the parking lot where her shitty rental car had been parked up, and how much she fancied her chances against a woman that arguably could have been compared to having similar style and attitude.
Even after all this time, the rental cars didn’t seem to improve. Moreso by choice now, as though the lack of decent AC and a suspension that she was sure hadn’t been tightened since the late 90’s kept her grounded. Mac had insisted she take their custom truck, however the thought of bringing it here only to potentially discuss the levels of discord starting to show in their marriage felt disingenuous.

Still, Johanna Kreiger… Amber managed to stifle a chuckle at the time, disguising it as clearing her throat. It was difficult not to outwardly disagree with the sentiment at first, the obliviousness startling considering their approaches to life and wrestling. Johanna had surrounded herself with like-minded individuals, a circle jerk of supposed excellence and potential being fuelled by competitive spirit and flagging insecurities.
Amber, on the other hand, had mostly shunned the idea of the group mentality even in spite of her husband heading up a group looking to salvage the worst of the company and bolster the potential of what was left. She’d won the title alone, retained alone,  there was little sense left of interference now… Distractions though, now that was becoming more of a pressing issue.

Comparing Amber and Johanna had been a distinct error on their part, however she’d reflected it back with gratitude despite the fact the comparison was only ever flattering when you were on the supposed lower side of the equation. After all, no one ever said you couldn’t compare a Honda Civic with a Jaguar…
Just because you could, never meant you actually should.
It wasn’t as though it were offensive, the intention had been reasonable and the swathes to which both women had made through the division respectively over their times could certainly be put side by side… However Amber’s sheer dominance in recent memory set against the moments of indiscriminate violence against rookies and rats alike, almost seemed like sending out an errand boy to get diamonds and them coming back with dollar store glass beads and expecting them to fulfill the same purpose.

Relative, but otherwise completely laughable in context.

Amber had replied to them as deftly as she could despite the landmines of indignation scattered beneath her feet. Polite gratitude but otherwise brutal honesty veiled as confidence. Besides, she had little reason not to be confident if the otherwise uneventful passing of her 300 day mark had anything to say about it. An achievement in itself, even Amber continually found herself astounded by the reality of it. Resting the belt in the passenger seat as she loosely flopped in behind the wheel, a sideways glance and a glint of gold were enough to bring a brief smile across her lips.

She should have smiled more, she had every reason to after all. Running her tongue through the side of her cheek- Amber couldn’t help but drag the Bombshells World title across and into her lap, folding the side plated underneath so that the face captured the full brunt of the afternoon sun streaming through the watermarked windows.
Everything she’d worked for, right there in her hands… all the hurt, the heartache, the suffering and subterfuge. Everything that kept her awake at night and drove her to the edge during the day was all for this. She’d sworn in the beginning that she’d never be one of those people who said they needed their title- however now… she couldn’t imagine walking through an SCW curtain and into a ring without it. She couldn’t imagine waking up after a match and not seeing it staring back from the dresser. She couldn’t imagine the weight not sitting upon her shoulder as though she’d been void without it.

Allowing the held sigh to escape into the dry Vegas afternoon, Amber knew that Mac wasn’t expecting her back for a while yet. She knew he’d be home, he’d told her as much that morning before she’d left, maybe that's why she felt that sudden urge of reluctance to swallow her tongue when he looked at her through the lens of determined disappointment.
None of this was easy on either of them. Neither of them had done anything to make it less so either.
Both of them were World Champions facing down challengers with more ambition than they knew what to reasonably do with, and not enough willpower or willingness to follow through. Both of them stood in opposition to forces that would have rather seen them splattered across the canvas for their continued hubris than celebrated for their achievements.

Alienated together, only more so by each other.

Maybe she’d go to the garage for a while, bury herself in paperwork in hopes that a death by a thousand cuts would be slightly less painful than whatever else might be yet to come. Anything to clear her mind, sanctuary from the self-made storm.
Freedom and clarity, that's all Amber really desired, a way to remove distractions so that her path to remaining champion might be a little less… rocky. Masque had promised such things if only she could sever the vital connections that kept Amber humane… reasonable… more friend than force of nature. However the strained nature of their relationship prior had left Amber a little less trusting than to simply be overtaken by rapture. No, in the meantime Masque would have to settle for digging through Amber’s continually fracturing psyche in hopes that she might trigger something irreparable.

If only she could be so lucky.

If she were going to get past Johanna at Inception, if she were going to keep the threads of her marriage from fraying any further… even at the cost of total isolation and losing everything else she’d built.

For the sake of still being champion after all this time…

Everything else could wait.

Clear thinking. Clear focus.

No more distractions.




******



“It's funny Johanna.

It's funny how long in this industry I’ve spent justifying my existence, my place on the totem pole. Even now there are those on social media who think that I’m some second rate nobody from some backwoods bullshit company trying to talk a big game on someone else's times.
I tell them I’m a world champion, and they say that I’m sheltered. That I can only perform when I recognize the smile of the lights… I’ve been a premier world champion in the industry for longer than most of these assholes have held a contract and still, I find myself trying to justify my place.

I don’t need to, of course. Most of them still have enough teeth that losing a couple wouldn’t necessarily be the end of the world and yet I find myself on the defensive when I should have no reason. I’m proven, I cannot possibly have done more in the last 300 days to command respect than what I already have… yet it doesn’t seem to satiate cause it wasn’t on ‘their terms’, cause I didn’t do it for ‘their benefit’ or simply because I haven’t been there long enough to have earned it.

Your mistake wasn’t to try and call me out for having been here less time than you, Johanna, your mistake was not committing to your stance. If you’re going to try and come for me in any way, shape or form… then just do it, don’t fluff yourself up all pretty and strut right on by like it's not my belt you’re eyeing off.
Of course, that's not to say you aren’t right to a degree- I have been in this company less time, if only by months. I haven’t pottled around in hopes that my levels of gratuitous violence towards absolute nothings would garner me a sideways glance.

You’re right that you didn't come begging for an opportunity, that you weren’t among those groveling for scraps at the table. Maybe you should have though, maybe you should have lined up for your meal instead of trying to make a statement of intent by doing the complete opposite of what you wanted- like giving up smoking cigarettes only to take up crack cocaine as a hobby.
It's easy to lament that they never ‘saw’ you, that you were always there just waiting in the wings- that begs the question though, how much longer were you willing to wait. Maybe you’ve been around the block a few times but you’re as new to this title shot as anyone cause it's still in my fucking hands.
Was it a case of simply biding your time, maybe the itch never seemed to bite that deep… when was it going to be the moment that you chose to strike exactly, or were you hoping it’d just be another lump on coal towards the raging inferno of spite.

Fact is though, it's not my job to know or care…

Not in this case.

I can’t take away what you’ve achieved, I won;t sit here and shit on them as easily as I might choose to- as you’ve so dutifully said, I’m not stupid. Frankly in my position I can’t afford to be, everyone wants to think they are the ones being overlooked as though I don’t take my work as World Champion seriously enough to consider everyone at least the smallest shred of a threat.
Unfortunately your self-awareness does little to bolster the flagging arguments you’ve made about having never been ‘seen’. Lets be real Johanna Kreiger, I see you… I have since I walked through that door, but that doesn’t mean I have to acknowledge that you’re little better than the same pissants kicking and screaming on the floor cause they don’t get to be flavour of the month.

You stand there on your high horse saying you never needed to be told how good you were, but immediately deride those who sought validation for their efforts even when they had no place to. That's not higher ground, that's resignation to your position.
That's what I’m trying to stamp out of this division…
I say let them scream- let all those Bombshells have their tantrums, let them stamp their feet and swing their fists, let them rattle off their achievements and why they think their limited scope of perspective makes them the most likely to knock my head off my shoulders.

At least they’re passionate, Johanna.

Apathy doesn’t make you cool, cynicism doesn’t promote you being any kind of badass. It's easy to stand there and talk about respect when you haven’t got a leg to stand on otherwise, I mean honestly what are you going to say about me otherwise…
I’ve been in this position long enough that I can no longer be accused of ignorance, I can no longer be told that I’m a fluke or that I’m just skating by on my laurels. I’m a proven commodity regardless what you want to say- and so instead, you say nothing.
Nothing of significance, nothing of importance. You show up, you do your little verbal dump of sweet fuck alls, you throw down and put on a good show and then you saunter back the way you came feeling a little less sure of yourself.

Everyone thinks there's this secret to beating me, like I’m a mythical creature looking for their silver bullet. Really though, I’ve left the keys to the kingdom on the doorstep however everyone continually insists they have to break the door down.
I’m intimately aware I can be beaten, the problem is everyone only things theres one way to do it… Promising they’re going to take a different approach and then doing the EXACT same thing time and time again as though because they’re doing it, it must be different.
I could stand here and lay it out on the line… spell it out piece by piece instead of leaving breadcrumbs in the wake of the destruction I’ve caused, but what good will it do when time after time everyone has had their chance and they refuse to accept it's as easy as I’m allowing it to be.

Inception is supposed to be about new beginnings… about a sunrise on a division plagued by the moon's malevolent  influence. It's supposed to be the dawning of something different, something better- and yet the person who should be most adamantly against change is the one who wants to see it the most. I should be content with simply allowing the status quo to stand, I should stop giving a fuck about plotting a path to my own demise…

Truth is though, I’ll make this division better.

Even if it means razing the whole fucking thing to the ground in the process."




******



Oblivion Garage
Las Vegas, ND
08.01.2022
9:27pm



Amber had always presumed she was going to hell.

If anything, the idea that the redhead would spend eternity crowned by fire and brimstone had been common knowledge for a longer time than she was willing to admit. All the times she’d been told to ‘go to hell’ never felt quite so fitting as it did now… all those who wished to see her virulent light extinguished closer to getting their wish than they ever intended.
Thick haze swallowed her in the few precious minutes she’d stolen to contemplate what should have been an otherwise easy decision, Dominic’s silhouette had long since disappeared from the doorway as she pulled herself on instinct towards the office door whilst trying to shield her face from the noxious fumes.

A simple decision, simple and usually horrifically wrong.

Groping wildly for the doorway, Amber’s throat burned as she coughed instinctively. All manner of logical thought or thinking lost in the flood of adrenaline that dulled her sensibilities into a mushy pulp of good intentions. Spluttering and grasping for purchase, Amber’s fingertips found the edge where leather met metal, the heat starting to fill the room with a suffocating humidity.
Pulling the title as close as she could into her chest, she pushed away for the door again only to be met with a sudden wall of flame captured on a gust that had swept in through the roof. Shielding her face as best as she could with her free hand, the panic started to settle into her nerves…

Was she really so fucking stupid as to believe there would be no consequences for her actions?

That she could go and kick the proverbial hornets nest so gleefully before prancing away as though the universe had forgotten about the exacting of karma. She’d sent a message, so why was it such a surprise to have received one in return… That was supposed to be the end, goodbye to a chapter in her life that she could no longer bring herself to keep re-reading in hopes the ending might change.

Dominic Del Gado had always been a man of words. A man who delegated actionable offense to those with lesser moral fiber and greater expendability. A man who had only ever laid hands when provoked, and even then it had been little more than reaction without intent to maim, a man infuriated to the point of minor assault by the world not bending over backwards to satisfy his whims.
Petty violence. That had always been his worst… God, she never imagined he would go this far…

Imagination was the least of her concerns now though, smoke billowed around her as she tried to shield herself with her free arm from the flames that licked greedily at the exposed skin on her hands and forearms. Above, she could hear the ceiling beams start to crack under the duress, the walls groaning under the pressure of the fearsome heat- even the bottom edge of the leather that slipped out from under her arm was blistering at it's edges as she staggered towards where she hoped the door was.
Disoriented, it took far too long for her to realize that her left boot had caught alight from being splashed with accelerants, the heat absolutely agonizing as she stomped at it to quell the flames.

Amber knew the place like the back of her hand, she’d spent more hours here than anyone, on a normal day she could walk through with her eyes closed down to dodging the occasional wrench carelessly left scattered- however through choking breaths she found herself thrown off and blinded with the rising panic…

She wasn’t going to get out of here.

Furiously, she shook the thought from her head. Heart racing faster than her brain could process, the heat was becoming unbearable as though her lungs had inhaled the embers and she was burning from the inside out. Forcing herself forward, legs starting to buckle beneath her, she realized with absolute horror how much smoke and fumes she was inhaling… the flames weren’t going to be what would get her… she’d collapse in a heap and feed the flames with her lungs full of soot.

MOVE.

… Not this way.

… Oh god, not this way.

Another stumble as the ceiling beams creaked ominously overhead, she couldn;t even bring herself to look up for fear she might lose her bearings entirely. Tripping forwards, her left hand slipped into the flames before she could steady herself, pulling it back she found herself met with the collapse of a ceiling beam stopping mere feet above where she’d fallen… Had she been standing… No doubt, that was well within head height…

MOVE.

Scrambling to her feet, ducking away from the collapsed beam and ceiling it had brought down with it, the doorways brilliantly lit silhouette taunted her.
So close… but she couldn’t breathe… her mouth tasted like ash and fumes… around her metal groaned and contorted, another ceiling beam cracked into the concrete floor somewhere behind her… her skin felt as though it might simply slough from the bone… her left hand was already blistering while her right still clutched at the World Title against her chest.

… Mac.

He’d never forgive her. Not for bringing this upon them. She’d done this, she’d failed to handle business, failed to uphold the promises they’d made in their vows of always being truthful and open-minded, she’d failed him over and over… and over again.

… He’d never forgive her if she didn’t get out alive.

Oh god, this was all her fault.

She couldn’t even bring herself to muster tears now, evaporated before they could roll across her burning skin as the screams of despair and fury died long before they reached her lips. Legs barely holding her any semblance of upright…

GET OUT.

Lunging forth, the billow of smoke spat her out into the dirt outside, knees scraped across rocks and dirt as the stones cut painfully at her already blistered hand. Crawling desperately with one hand, Amber heard the collapse of one of the metal walls with a sickening scraping sound that cut through her soul while the ceiling slowly seemed to fold in on itself with an angry orange glow, hungry flames grasping at the inky starlit sky as though not satiated by the sacrifice it had been offered.
Desperately trying to draw breath, Amber dragged herself up onto her knees- only now aware that she still held the Bombshells World title against her chest with a death grip that had left her knuckles in porcelain white.

Maybe she could have even caught up to Dominic if she’d just…

No, she couldn’t possibly have left it behind.

Even though it had nearly cost her everything. As though it hadn’t already…

Sirens screamed in the distance, their lights would soon dull the brilliant orange with their crime scene red and accident blue while the billowing smoke blotted out the stars that winked in promise of her deciets and destructive failures staying secret among them.
Slightly loosening her grip on the leather edge, she pried the belt from her body just long enough to capture her own reflection in the ruinous glow- soot covered, burned and bloodied with the faint beginnings of a bruise around her throat to nearly match the cut Masque had left her with prior…

She’d gotten out, against what felt like all odds…

Much to her horror- although she’d never admit it- most importantly in her mind she’d gotten out with her Bombshells World title…

Was it worth it?

Collapsing back into the dirt exhaustively as the sound of tires crunching across gravel and dirt dragged her attention from the belt she still cradled in her arms while her trembling fingers traced the faceplate where her name, her achievement remained intact… as though it somehow validated her near-death decision, her sacrifice.

How could it ever be worth it?

Numb from the inside out, the sound of voices felt all too distant despite the approach of footsteps. Coughing violently before spitting black saliva into the dust, as the embers danced in the night around her tauntingly, Amber allowed herself to fall deeper into the creeping numbness that overtook her senses.

How could she ever look Mac in the eyes, tell him what happened here without him turning on his heel and walking out… it's what she deserved.
She had done this. She had taken everything they’d built and thrown it to the flames and for what… petty vengeance? A score that she had no right or reason to seek to settle. Revenge for failures she couldn’t rectify, for a past she couldn’t change.
No, she couldn’t look him in the eyes and justify anything that had happened here… nor would she. Not while she stood on the brink of her dishonesties costing them everything.

For the sake of their marriage.

For the sake of their love.

For everything they’d done, everything they’d built.

For everything she’d been willing to sacrifice to keep their facade as the golden couple alive, just a little longer.

No, she could never tell him what happened here.

… But, of course it was worth it, it had to be.

“Life owes you, but sometimes you have to be your own fucking debt collector. And if we have to burn in hell for it, heaven's going to be sparsely populated.”
― Jo Nesbø, Phantom



Undisclosed Bar
Somewhere in New York
17.12.2009
9:12pm




It was against nature by now.

Her own and otherwise, Amber mused as she pulled her jacket in tighter. A terrible, stupid fucking nature that somehow dragged her back kicking and screaming at Dominic’s insistence on making things ‘right’. In the back of her mind, the words of Alistair McCrae echoed soundlessly- his analogies about karma and loyalty. Dominic deserved everything that was coming his way, so why was she so insistent on putting herself between him and his wrought consequences.
She’d sworn mere weeks earlier that she was done, that Dominic had burned his last bridge and that she was strong enough to accept that it was an unfulfilling end to their rollercoaster. He’d put hands on her, and despite the fact on any given night she had him dead to rights in a fistfight, it didn;t change the fact that he’d done it… that it was somehow presumed to be okay cause he was upset.

Never mind everything that had left her head swimming in uncertainty prior to that.

She didn’t need reminding, although she wondered if that was really the case as the drifting snow seemed to linger far too long in the air to be real, catching in the messy braid that trailed over her shoulder while her ragged breaths clouded the air.
There was no reason to be here, to have ever picked up the phone when he came calling to apologize. When he begged for another chance despite the fact both of them were intimately aware that he’d never change- that her leaving did little more than leave her side of the bed a little cooler until he could pay another woman enough to deal with his bullshit for a night.

He said he loved her…

A shiver jarred her body as her patience wore thinner. Promise after promise ringing tinny down the line, words like a net closing in around her as she slashed at the air wildly in hopes that maybe he’d take her seriously if she left him in ribbons. Of course, the reason she was here was simple… simpler than she ever dared to admit. Simple enough to ignore the astute warnings of a man intent on seeing karma claim her pound of flesh regardless of who might insert themselves into the crossfire.

She loved him too… and she hated herself for it.

“Bambi, hey…”

Breathless, a fog of breath filled the space between them. Well dressed as ever in comparison to her scruffy casual, the dissipating cloud briefly made her recoil as though akin to the smoke she was so used to watching him blow.

“Can we just get this over with?”

Impatience rang true, determined to make this as impassive and apathetic as she could manage, Amber crossed her arms dutifully in hopes she might deflect the wave of absolute garbage he’d no doubt rehearsed in the mirror. Not that it changed the way she felt, but be damned if she were ever going to tell him that.

“I wanted to apologize, you know… in person.”

“By all means, go ahead then.”

Matter-of-factly, she left him no room to sweet talk. No space to needle at her emotions that she’d forced down beneath a stony facade of being done with his shit. Dominic Del Gado cleared his throat as though preparing a spiel for a prospective client, professional in a personal moment. Scripted emotion, a man typically built of oxymorons.

“I let you down Bambi, I disappointed you and I overlooked the fact that you had dreams…aspirations. I got so blinded by what the future held for us that I lost sight of what I had in the present.”

She wasn't sure if she was numb from the cold, or simply immune to the charms that Dominic had tried to turn on her- god, she was tired. Tired of fighting, tired of caring so much for so little.

“Dominic, what title did I win all those months ago…”

Blunt and unrelenting, Amber shifted her stance uncomfortably, the chill of the breeze slipping between her layers and sinking into her core. It had been her life for the last few months, her greatest achievement of her life and something she’d been so proud of… something to represent, to prove she was worthy of.
While he was stumbling off and shoving dollar notes between the strings of a stripper who thought he was cheap, she was busting her ass to make a name for herself. Money she’d earned, as little of it as she had spent on his high class ambitions and impressing people who otherwise didn’t give a shit about him.

She’d made this her life, and now he stood there blankly trying to make her believe that he wasn’t ignorant the whole time.

Hell, she wasn’t about to admit that McCrae was right… but the sorry state of a man struggling to find the right words to sidestep an obvious flaw in his scripted and deflective poetic musings seemed to validate everything the man of cloth had told her.
Vindication that she was better off alone than with a man who could barely recall the one thing she’d held almost as closely as his affections.

“... Yeah. That's precisely what I thought.”

Turning to walk away, Amber dropped her head to try and shield from the swirling flurries of snow. Hands tucked firmly into pockets where she tried to regain the feeling in her fingers as his frenetic footsteps on the slickened pavement echoed behind her.

“Please… I love you.”

As dishonest as it was pathetic, Amber couldn’t contain the almost offensively raucous laughter that spewed from her chest as she turned to face him incredulously, like a plague of locusts condensed into sound.

“You love me? No, you love the idea of having me. Tell me Dominic… did you love me all the times that you told me my ambitions meant less than yours, that everything I did meant nothing cause it didn’t directly impact your reputations. That everything I spent my life working for was nothing cause it didn’t have your Daddy’s name attached?”

Furious, the flush in her cheeks deepened with the cold in her skin, a hurt that she’d forced down inside for so long bubbling to the surface. She wanted to scream in his face and call him every name under the sun- but men like Dominic Del Gado didn’t understand things like that. Perceived crazy simply made him double down on his perspective, that her reacting meant that he was right by default.

“Listen to yourself Amber, you’re obsessed with this stupid belt, this convoluted idea of a career… You’d rather value an inanimate object than our relationship. Honestly, you need to wake up and understand that your dreams aren’t more important than anyone else's, that if you keep going down this road I guarantee you’ll be alone and miserable…”

Dominic straightened himself up, the arrogance she’d known so well always pulling his spine back into shape from the lesser version of a man he’d feigned for her sympathy.

“... Wrestling doesn’t love you Amber. It never has and it never will, and when the day comes that you realize that- I’ll be there, waiting.”

Amber, as thoughtfully as she could pretend in the face of hypocrisy and selfishness, cocked her head to the right whilst studying the man who’s well pressed suit and italian leather shoes were being assaulted by the smog laden snow and icy slush that it left in its wake.

“Maybe it doesn’t… but it sure as fuck loves me more than you ever did.”





******




“It's probably about now you start wondering just how you got into this situation…

You know the one- you’re preparing for arguably the biggest match of your life, the one that everyone is probably quietly saying in the nicest way they can that you don’t stand a chance, but good on you for trying. You’re trying to stay upbeat and silky sweet, destined to prove that nice girls really can do it all.
You feel ready, focused, determined and you’ve done everything within your power to get yourself to this spot- and then I come along…like an asshole and explain to you that this is just like any given Sunday.

You’ll probably be one of the million who says that I’m overlooking them, that I don’t take you seriously as though you’ve given me any real reason outside of winning a match… Yeah, one match. Somebody set off some fireworks cause this one must be really special, you know?
Seriously though Bella… All this hype, all this build and everything you’ve done to prove that you belong on this level.

Did you get some new gear made up? Maybe planned a special little choreographed entrance… Got all your friends and family front row tickets so they can be right there when the absolutely unthinkable happens.

Cause you’re right. It really is unthinkable- although you certainly aren’t the type to dwell on such things.

Let’s review, shall we?

On one hand- we have the reigning, defending and frankly un-fucking-disputed World Bombshells Champion who has torn through the home of every challenger since mid-March like they were made of straw and stick. On the other? A spitfire aspiring challenger with everything to prove and a can-do attitude that would make the little train that could feel a little overwhelmed.
Kiddies, if this isn’t a marquee match for the ages then I’m not sure you belong in this world as a fan anymore cause matches like this… are what our industry is built upon.

You don’t get clashes between titans without bright sparks lighting the way first, legends don’t make their name by beating the same three people over and over cause no one else feels like losing. No, a match like this is the reason that people invest their time and their money into the stupid shit we do between those ropes… Matches like this make our constant sacrifices actually mean something.

So perhaps forgive me if I seem a little jaded by the fact that you’re giving me a whole lot of flash and sizzle, without a lot of substance.

I’m sure this is the point you call me an asshole- cause I’m as mean as I am brutally honest and the fact that your feelings might just be made of tissue paper is obviously irrelevant. See, when it comes down to it Bella- I’m a realist firstly and foremostly, I don’t pretend like everyone is equal. I’m not going to stand here and bullshit and call Bea Barnhart the greatest challenge to my belt since god knows fucking when… just like I’m not going to stand by and humour you with this fantasy that you are anything more than another nearly-there.

I mean honestly, what did it really take for you to get to this point Bella… A win in a match that you were otherwise severely underqualified for? Which happened to take place right after I threw down the gauntlet in hopes of making all these other Bombshells napping in catering, waiting for opportunity to kick them in the shins, wake the fuck up and take some accountability for thier place in this company.
I was the one who went out there and said no more passengers… no more skating by on the names and reputations of those who care enough to keep these walls standing.

I was the one who created this opportunity for you to seize. I’m the reason you’re in this match Bella… I’m the reason that it's not Roxi Johnson or Crystal whatever-pseudonym-combination-she-wants-to-use-this-week Zdunich trying to beg and plead for senpai to once again notice them before kicking them back down the stairs.

Create and destroy Bella, things don’t get better if you don’t tear them down to start with.

Don’t think I don’t know how hard you’ve worked, that I don’t pay attention to the turning of gears beneath my feet- let me assure you sweetheart, I’m intimately aware of what everyone is doing, and how they think they’re going to be the one to dethrone me.
Everyones working on their formulation of kryptonite like I haven’t developed an immunity to the unoriginality of the superman pun.
Fact is though, fortunes don’t change overnight cause you’re motivated… A few weeks don’t change the build up of mediocrity on your record.

Maybe I sound like I’m getting too big for my boots, that I’m talking down cause that's what the champion is supposed to do- truth is though Bella, there is no one in the past year who has worked harder than me. Maybe I’m cocky as fuck, but I’ve earned the right to be. No one had done more, no one has wanted this title more and that's why I’m still the champion and you’re trying to figure out how to beat Krystal Wolfe for the fourth time in nearly as many months.

Don’t get me wrong, you got all these ambitions and high hopes… just like everyone else who thought they could come calling and expect me not to slam the door right back in their faces.
At the end of the day, and this might be the most important thing for you to understand- you don’t want this World Bombshells title more than me.
I’ve proven time and time again Bella that I’m willing to do more than anyone else, go further, stoop lower if needed just so that I could still call myself the World Bombshells champion as the lights dim on another Sin City Wrestling event.

In the end Bella, I’ve worked too fucking hard for too fucking long to lose to the next pretty smile saying she’s got something to prove. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I commend your guts and your gall walking into this so brave and proud- but honestly… that eternal optimism of yours?
It's never gotten anyone any further than where they started.

Only real difference is that they’re just way happier about it…

So yeah.. You just keep smiling Bella, you have at least that still going for you.”




******



Atlantic City Dockyards
Atlantic City, NJ
12.12.2021
5:53pm




Atlantic City was an interesting place for those who had the time and patience to allow it to be.

Depending on the lens you viewed it through, it's personality and perception changed with the moods of the weather like some garish neon lit concrete and steel chameleon taking on whatever idealistic view was projected upon it. Through sunshine and rain though, Amber found that the dockyards never really changed that much- at least not to her… maybe the shimmer and shine of the place had long since worn off, leaving the vaguely sticky residue of someplace better in it's wake.

Or maybe it was just the fact that in reality, concrete and metal didn’t seem to care much for the weather as much as anticipated.

Despite her frequency, especially in the past few months, Amber hadn’t been back to the dockyards since the altercation… the one that left Cassiopeia Mares running concussed and scared, the one that left Amber with little choice other than to lie to her beloved for fear that the truth might alienate even further. The one that left a bitter taste on the back of her tongue reminding her of stale bile and the nasty lingering feeling of demons dredging themselves from the recesses of her past to come and play.

Sunset was incoming- and the World Bombshells champion found herself on a precarious metaphorical precipice of her own design.

Of course Mac didn’t believe her. Even she saw the holes in the story and did little to try and plug them with anything that might hold water- like silly putty was going to stop this Titanic from taking on more water. In the same breath though, she mused silently as the glow of orange seemed to capture the glass edges of skyline buildings, how was she supposed to explain it in a way that didn’t invite further delving into why she was suddenly so ‘okay’ with how few repercussions had come from the altercation. Why she was so intent on running from- or back into the arms of an old demon that had already nearly taken everything from her once before… an old demon drawn from the shadows with a wicked painted smile as she waxed poetic on the nature of man…

Amber shook her head, trying to dislodge whatever doubts had taken residence in the vacant corners of her mind. Better a profound lie to protect than a truth that would prove damn near impossible to swallow. She was sparing Mac, at least in her fucked up roundabout way, and maybe one day he’d come to appreciate it before it left her a little red pile of cinder.

Driven to distraction Amber settled herself into a seated position at the edge of the docks, the cool concrete settling into her skin as her palms braced against the edge while she gazed out across the murky waters. It was no secret she’d been holding her cards closer to the chest than ever- just putting on a glassy eyed smile for the cameras while she stumbled her way through social interactions like she knew what the fuck she was doing.
Just smile, it was far easier that way.

Pressure had been building for months now, the idea of this godforsaken record being within her clutches… so tantalizingly close from being such a pipe dream when she’d first won the belt. Back then, with her championship record, nine defenses seemed determinedly impossible. Each win seemed to add a layer to the story, as though everyone thought the next one would surely be her demise- that she’d drift back down to the upper mid-card and be happy with the status quo.
Next thing she knew, she was on the cusp of number ten and dreading the moment she stepped into that ring- as though knowing that fate had a way of being particularly cruel to those who continually defied it.

Every match left her a little further on edge these days, to the point now it seemed her stranglehold was the only thing left keeping her upright. One wrong move and the house of cards would come tumbling, cause it was inevitable… one could only go for so long like this. Scrambling to hold on by her fingernails- Amber knew that eventually she’d have to lose, and even just the thought made her more nauseous than the thin film of fuel and filth that sat atop the waters intermittently below her.
To fall from the top of the mountain might not have been lethal, but that didn’t mean it wouldn;t hurt- as though she feared any pain this life might bring… the disappointment though, the fact she couldn’t live up to expectation forever… the strain that it had put upon her marriage now meaning basically nothing without a justification of why they both felt so fucking shitty…

Granted, Mac had his 'Saviors' now… although they hadn’t spoken much on where she stood with them despite her obvious connection. If anything, they hadn’t really spoken much at all between fleeting hellos and goodbyes as they continually missed each other like ships in the night.
At shows though, they maintained the facade of being ‘fine’ cause that was always far easier than harbouring questions on everything reason why they weren’t…mostly because even they weren’t sure anymore how things had become so… uncertain.

Amber allowed the heavy sigh that had built up in her chest to pour out- they’d never know it from the outside, but she’d never been closer to that proverbial edge. Dancing on a crumbling ledge that no one thought she had the guys to jump from- when she’d already choreographed the landing in her head.
Nine months was a long time to be anything, after all.
Just one little nudge and maybe the freefall would be exhilarating for awhile, the desperate dynamic of having nothing left to tether with was almost inviting, however to take that leap would invite chaos and with chaos came the invitation to an upset.

Bella Madison wasn’t going to be the one to beat her, came the contemplation as the sun sunk lower beyond the buildings- silhouetting them in such a way that it was almost magnetic as it was depressingly grey. It wasn’t as though she wasn’t theoretically ‘good enough’ by any means… Girl had talent, a do-good attitude and a hunger that seemed absent from many others content with their place in the hierarchy. Girl had the look, the desire and determination to be better…that put her ahead of almost 80% of the roster before she’d ever even stepped foot in a ring.

Hell, she’d have been a total package if she weren’t coming up against…well, Amber.

Just a little more unhinged, a little more unstable… and a lot fighting the internal war against herself to keep a grip on everything she’d worked so hard to maintain… than people may have anticipated.

No, there's a reputation to uphold. A status quo to maintain under all circumstances. Don’t let the facade fall, even for a second otherwise they might start thinking she was actually human… that she still bled red… that she was far more beatable than they imagined.
Being World Bombshells Champion had become more than obsession, more than an unhealthy addiction to something she wasn’t possibly tenable- it had become fused into her backbone, the metal tracing through her veins, name plate etched into her still beating heart.

Without it, she was just another Bombshell with a big reputation having a hard time keeping her hands busy… and that just couldn’t possibly do. For now at least, Amber contemplated silently as the concrete numbed the back of her knees while her feet dangled, the World Bombshells title had become far more important than anything else she had…

If only cause it was the only thing that might not judge her for feeling that way.

“Did you think it was just a fever dream? That I was made of punch-drunk feelings, shaped by all those concussions?”

Porcelain white and cracked in almost deliberate tiny spiderwebs that traced through the otherwise smooth facial structure, the voice that emanated from beyond it came with an almost melodic quality. A softness offset by the cruel and patronising undertone that always lingered. Amber didn’t need to turn around to witness the unnaturally wide smile, the click clack of heel on concrete sent enough chills down her already crumbling spine.

A face in the rain. Amber knew it wasn’t a dream that stormy night- but hearing that voice, remembering the sadistic and efficient nature of dissection and knowing that what waited beyond would fuel every regret of ever choosing to take up the waltz with the devil…

What reached out a hand for her shoulder in such a tender way, it might have even been construed as loving- was more than enough to make her sincerely wish it was.




******



“You’ll never believe me, I’m sure when I tell you that I was like you at one point…

That isn’t just some fucking smart ass aside either that I spent a day walking around with a big goofy smile pretending like the apocalypse wasn’t real. No, Bella honey, I spent YEARS walking around under this cloud of silver linings with big hopes and dreams that working hard and ‘doing my best’ was going to see me catapulted to great success- cause why wouldn’t it?
That's what we’re all taught coming up- conventional or not, everyone tells you that dedication to your craft, a healthy level of respect for those who came before and so much ambition you’re literally shitting it in place of a regular bowel movement… is really fucking important.

You can’t be champion if you don’t do it the ‘right way’.

I was that girl Bella, from when I got signed to my first professional contract at age 20 till I was almost 24 years old… I walked around, I shook everyone's hand, I treated them all with utmost respect… and I lost almost every opportunity I had, which I can assure you… was not many.
It wasn’t as though I didn’t have talent, I promise I didn’t just ‘get good’ one day after crying into a pumpkin cause someone else looked better in my shoes. I just didn’t get it…

I did everything right Bela, just like you are doing now.

Gutsy as you are fucking adorable, darling if I thought I could pinch your cheeks without getting slapped I’d be all over it.You’re cute, you’re ambitious, you’re perky in every sense of the word and frankly if I wasn’t such a realist piece of shit- we could probably be friends in another life.
But honey, oh honey… you aren’t a world champion.
Not right now, not in this life, not while I’m the fucking Queenpin playing fiddle on the roof while I raze this city to the ground in hopes it might take me with it.

That's going to be something you don’t stop hearing coming into this- and maybe it fields you, and I’d love for that to be the case. However it's not because anyone doubts your ability, despite the fact you are essentially overmatched in every meaningful way, it's because of the fact that you are too damn sweet… You’re nice Bella, and nice girls don’t have the greatest reputations for doing anything but picking up after everyones left the victory party. Everything you have- is completely undone by the one thing you don’t.
A killer instinct, Bella. A willingness to do what it ACTUALLY takes to tear this belt from my cold dead grasp- I have no doubt that you’ll say you’ll do a lot. That underdogs can win, that it's not impossible… but you won’t cause you won’t allow yourself to go to a place where things start to get a little grey morally, where the edges start to blur and everything you were certain about in your existence is called into question.

Fiery little Bella Madison is gonna spit venom and talk a big game- but the girl showing up to the ring on Sunday doesn’t have it in her emotionally and psychologically to stand toe to toe with me.

By all means though, use the excuse that I’m looking past you towards Johanna at Inception, like that fucking blowhard is going to do a damn thing to affect this outcome. No, I don’t look ahead of people Bella, that's why I’m coming into my tenth defense- I don’t overlook, I don’t consider anyone less of a threat like I’m fucking infallible. I’m not so arrogant that I don’t think you could upset me with a cheeky roll-up…
I take everyone as they come to me, it's not up to me to prove I take you seriously though, it's up to you to give me a reason to…

See, right now you’re like a pane of glass. I have no need to look past cause I can stare straight on through the brave face and big talk you’re throwing out there. Clear as day, nothing to hide. You’re an open book without ever cracking the cover cause with you sweetheart, what you see is precisely what you get and unfortunately all I’ve seen?
Potential squandered, contentment with simply being a good sport, being okay with second best cause you did a good job and put on a show. I have no doubt you can rise to the proverbial occasion- but winning ONE match to get ehre doesn’t do alot for your proof. I’m not the one under the microscope here Bella, this is a test to see if you can handle yourself under the spotlight, an opportunity to prove that High Stakes wasn’t just you fluking your way into a career shift.

If I have to be brutally honest, I could stand here and say that you aren’t ready…that everything I’m willing to do to stay champion will haunt you for the rest of your career, that in close enough proximity you can almost hear the ticking of the timebomb in my chest that this title triggers upon loss.
You’re good, maybe you’re even great… but you’re a total package missing it's edges, like a laminated piece paper with a dulled and chewed up edge. An angel with clipped wings and a faulty glowstick halo trying to give advice on how to blend in while traversing the scenic route of hell.
You’re really fucking good, you have to be cause you wouldn’t be here otherwise… but you’re still swinging above your head in hopes of grazing my elbow  instead of trying to elevate yourself so that you might take a swing and shut me the fuck up.

Don’t get me wrong, I really do want you to be on my level- but to try and put you there right now would be akin to trying to save someone from drowning by tying an extra few cinderblocks to their shoelaces. Maybe it’ll work, but most likely it’d just make your loved ones really upset with me.
Oddly enough, I seem to have that effect on people quite regularly- although I simply can’t imagine why…

Fact is Bella, I’ve already done my hard work… you don’t rack up nine defenses by looking pretty on Twitter, and sure, maybe one or two defenses would have been fine for most but I just never stopped… Really, you’re the one with something to prove this time, the proverbial mountain to climb while I’ve long since acclimated to the thinning air. You’re the one under the pressure to perform cause I’ve proven myself on this kind of stage more times than nearly anyone else in the last few years.
Hell, I’ve got more ‘good will’ built up with what I’ve done than I’ll ever know what to do with- it's like cryptocurrency I suppose, but devalues way faster and can’t be exchanged for anything worth having.

That being said though, and it's something I shall continue to reiterate until people fucking get this right…despite my records, I’m not the best. I’ve never actually claimed to be, it's always been my opponents and peers who say that- which I suppose should be flattering, if they weren’t following it with a ‘but’ insert inane argument here.
Truth is, I’ve made it my point to go out there night after night and be better than whoever was standing across from me. It didn’t have to be dominant, I didn’t have to put people on the shelf for looking at me wrong during a lock up- just good enough that I would walk away with the W. I’ve made it my mission to drag everyone else up to my  level so that I didn’t have to break my back stooping down for equality purposes. 

That's what everyone seems to forget though- having the title doesn’t automatically change anything, the best has never simply been defined by the one wearing the belt however logic might try to dictate otherwise. There are plenty of women who excel in ways that I’ll never match, however I’ve never needed to either. I don’t need to try to match strength with Tempest, throw strikes with Alicia or spew terrible analogies about respect like Roxi and whichever face Crystal painted on that given day.
All I’ve ever done was manage to be better than the next asshole for three seconds- each and every Bombshells that crossed my path learned it the hard way.
Even now the lesson hasn;t quite sunk in with some- I don’t need to be the best, I just need to be better than whoever gets thrown at my feet.

Besides, honey. Why would I wanna be the best… when I can continue to be the World Bombshells Champion instead.

By all means though, come Sunday sweet girl… You bring that relentless optimism like a safety blanket and all the best training that Wolfslair might give you, just to sow those seeds of doubt a little further into their ranks when I go two for two against some of their best and brightest. You bring all those affirmations, those positive vibes to drown out the perpetual hum of my contemptuous realism, you bring every weapon that you have in your platinum gilded arsenal…

Everything you have to offer, everything you promise.

I’ll bring MY title.

… and we’ll see what really means more."





******



Undisclosed Subway Line
New York City, NY
15.12.2021
4:37pm




There once was a time that Amber would have frozen at this moment.

She would have swallowed her spite and her caustic guilt under the facade of ‘being the bigger woman’ if such things weren’t just an overwrought cliche of excuse making. Maybe she’d have smiled and simply pretended that it wasn’t worthwhile, that her reputation and responsibilities as a standard bearer for Sin City Wrestling were paramount and her sought vengeance was simply not enough of a priority to risk repercussion for.

Yet here she was… trailing the suitably dyed hair and unhealthily wrinkle free swarthy skin of Dominic Del Gado, waiting for a break in the sheer mass of humanity that filled every workable space like social tetris. She’d never taken him for the subway type, maybe it made him seem more relatable to the ‘little people’ or maybe he liked the small thrill that came with being no one in a throng of everyone. Anonymous without ever belonging…
Most likely though, Amber mused as she slipped by a huddle of confused tourists who couldn’t make heads or tails of the human holiday highway threatening to burst to the surface like a breaking dam of almost festive spirit.

By now, she didn’t even care if he knew that she’d found him. For weeks, he’d been ducking her at every opportunity- phone number changes, new assistants with strict instructions not to engage, taking the subway it seemed. Dominic Del Gado was a prideful man, one who despite his affinity for being the centre of attention, didn’t stand well for being made the centre of attention without a pressed suit and written spiel for effect.
A small break in the crowd came as they splintered towards one of the mant stairways already jammed with people who didn’t understand the function of arrows, each finding their errands of nothing in particular to be far more important than the self-obsessed asshole trying to go in the opposite direction. Amber- in that moment seized her chance and slipped up behind Dominic, spun him around and slammed him hard into the wall with her forearm wedged against his throat tightly enough that he understood this wasn’t an expected speech moment.

It was New York, no one cared what anyone else was doing. Bystanders stared and murmured to their respective cohorts as they passed, but no one stepped in. There wasn’t nearly enough blood for anyone to find their backbone or empathy yet, after all.

“You know, it's really funny who you come across on the subway sometimes… Granted, it's not my usual scene, too many people you see... Of course, I wouldn't have picked it for yours either, but I suppose a pit of snakes isn’t exactly foreign territory.”

Dominic gurgled something unintelligible, making a vain attempt to find a space between Amber’s fleece laden arm and his windpipe. Amber, however was prepared for the eventuality and shifted her weight slightly, forcing her forearm a little deeper if only to get the rush of panic to sear his better judgement.

“No, this is where I talk and you get a really good understanding of what happens next…”

Forcing down the bile that slithered to the back of her throat, she forced down the painful twinge radiating through her chest as the words lost their focus for a moment.

“See, I know Dominic. I like to think you get that by now, by this situation but I want you to really get it this time… I know what you were doing. I don’t know why, I don’t really care. Maybe you think I’m just this dumb fucking wrestler who has been hit in the head so many times they forgot how to write their name or maybe I’m just too goddamn fucking loyal to the past and what it meant for my own good.”

Swallowing hard, Amber shook her head slightly trying to refind the focus as a few errant sounds escaped Dominic’s throat as his swarthy skin took on a scarlet undertone.

“I just want you to know… Her name was Cassidy. You should remember her when we were young, not whatever bullshit name she thought she had to call herself in the end, and how close we used to be… Yeah, you do… and you used it to string me along Dominic. A puppet prepared to dance for every stray breadcrumb you’d drop expecting I’d be so thankful I wouldn’t ask questions.”

Oh, how the ache in her chest grew, this was supposed to be a catharsis however all it seemed to do was magnify all the ways she’d fucked up. Not just for Cassidy, but for Mac, for all the secrets she’d kept and lies she’d told along the way… for all she’d tried to protect and preserve. Now here she was, in a crowded subway trying to atone in the only way she knew how.

“How did you expect this would all end, darling?”

Leaning in, she rested her forehead against his, almost making it seem as though they were sharing something intimate instead of threatening. If only the slightly awkward angle of her elbow could be ignored when lingered on for a second too long.

“I thought a lot about what I was going to do when this moment came… all the ways I could make it seem like an accident.”

There was a crack in her voice she couldn’t mask- all the times he had used her for his own benefit, all the times she had to scratch and claw for acknowledgement that she was half the person he was. All the times she had to prove to everyone around her that she was enough…

Every fucking day she still felt like she still had to…

“Truth is though, maybe just living is enough. Much as I'd like to see you splattered on these walls... You'll have to walk around with the knowledge that I’ve outgrown you, that I don’t need you anymore and that you had to pull at my proverbial strings to find the relevancy you so craved. I want you to walk away from this and understand what it means to be helpless Dominic… to feel as though nothing you do matters.”

Reputation be damned, the satisfaction of tossing him off the platform would have been enough to sustain her for a lifetime however there was something far more gripping still under the surface that just wouldn;t let go. As though any kind of finality would simply allow him to justify his world perspective in his fleeting last moments.
Rage. Grief. There was an underlying guilt that didn’t shift from her bones, the taste of ash and self-loathing still laced across her lips from words spoken in vitriol. She hated Dominic Del Gado almost as much as she hated what he’d made her into.
Irredeemable perhaps, unforgivable in some lights. If only cause there had always been the option of doing more, of doing better and instead… she’d always woken up and chosen violence.

“Should you come crawling to my doorstep once more Dominic… I promise you’ll take your last breath on your knees.”

Matter-of-factly and with as much apathy as she might muster, as though the man deserved anything better than her venom injected directly through the middle of his chest, Amber jerked away and allowed him to crumble against the grimy wall with a heaving gasp. Pathetically, Dominic slid down into a crumpled mess like he’d left her emotionally too many times, like Cassidy had been in the wake of Amber’s ignorance, like the fast decaying foundation of her life outside of wrestling success…

Looking down for a moment and finding little joy in the gesture, Amber shook her head indignantly. Where she’d sought ablution, she’d found just an exponential growth in the void she was harbouring between her ribs. Behind a facade that everything was fine and fuckign dandy cause she was the goddamn fucking World Bombshells Champion and how dare she not smile at the top of the mountain like it wasn;t everything she ever wanted.

She couldn’t not smile.

She couldn’t…

She couldn’t continue this way.

Disappearing as quickly as she materialized, she left Dominic a coughing and spluttering heap with a slight cock of the head and a flicker at the edge of her lips that curled into a disordered half-smile, painted as though not entirely convinced in itself that it was ever supposed to exist.

After all, this was everything she’d come searching for…

Everything she ever wanted…

… How could she not smile?

“Hear that people? It feels good
because I am the slave and ruler of my own body
and I wish to do with it exactly as I please”
― Charlotte Eriksson




Undisclosed Hotel
Somewhere in California
08.12.2009
11:02pm



In all honesty Amber believed she was doing the right thing.

She didn’t have to tell Dominic a damn thing, she could have easily stood there and lied. It wouldn’t have even been that difficult- a few little well placed flatteries and he’d be satiated long enough for her to pack her bags and leave in the middle of the night. By the time he realized, she’d be long gone and Alistair McCrae would be on his doorstep demanding his pound of flesh- really, in telling Dominic what had been said, she was doing him a favour.

“Does he know who the fuck I am? Who my father is!”

It seemed as though, as his cheeks flushed a deep maroon, that he didn’t quite see it that way.

“He doesn’t know who he’s messing with. I’ve practically dismantled his foundation- his investors want nothing to do with his self-righteous bullshit, associates are flocking to be on the ground floor of what I’m building. I won’t just sit here and be played like a fucking fool, I won’t be made to sit at the childrens table while he continues wines and dine with those already committed to stabbing him in the back.”

Amber knew it was mostly exaggeration- these days he spent more time trying to convince himself of his value more than he’d tried to convince her. Granted, she’d been as supportive as he’d allowed her to be while in the meantime rolling her eyes at every overwrought partial truth that he sputtered to men far more committed to their sure things.

“I’m a fucking Del Gado. My name means something and he needs to remember that. I’m not just some small fry motherfucker looking for a slice- I’m coming for what I’m owed, what my name is owed.
I won’t be disrespected like this. My father could bury him in a second, if I just say the word. I’ve done my best to be patient, but I won’t pretend to be content with being tossed aside in favour of…”

Alistair McCrae didn’t fear him or his last name in the slightest and both of them knew it- however Dominic refused to accept that he was anything lower than an equal with a man who’d spent perhaps half his life amassing a sub rosa and rather lucrative empire. It was easy for someone like Dominic to forget though, that he’d been born into the equivalent- a legacy that carried an expectation of having ‘an equal playing field’.

Dominic gestured vaguely in Amber’s direction as his words trailed off; maybe he sensed her growing disinterest in his indecisive rambling or that she was hyper aware of the mental dishonesty that he spewed freely in an attempt to justify his crumbling position... Either way, before she could react he’d turned his attention back towards her as though she’d done anything other than warn him of the impending shitstorm he’d invited.

“... and you. How fucking dare you, I took you by the hand and dragged you from a backwater gutter slime nowhere and I gave you everything!
I made you, sweetheart and don’t you ever forget that! I made you into something you could only ever dream about- I put you up in hotels, I brought you with me to the high life cause I thought you understood me… I thought you cared about me, about where I was going.
Instead… first half decent offer you get and you sell me down the fucking river!”

Amber opened her mouth to reply, spluttering out a few words to try and desperately explain that it wasn’t at all like that. Why the fuck would she have been here if she didn’t care?
He’d made no mention of everything she’d given, all the sacrifices she’d made in her burgeoning career cause he told her that what he wanted was more important- only for it to go nowhere… to leave them back at square one with empty pockets and a little less dignity than when they started.

No, she’d come here in good faith, in some last ditch effort to salvage the remains of a meaningful relationship. Maybe she could just get through to him, make him understand how they felt about each other…

“It wasn’t like that at---"

*smack*

He’d never hit her before.

Mostly for the fact he hadn’t been stupid enough to. Besides, both of them knew there were far easier methods for suicide. It wasn’t as though it even physically hurt that much, she’d taken far worse beatings from fans scrabbling at the guardrail in hopes of exacting some pitiful revenge cause she beat one of their flavours of the month.
It was just the fact it had happened. Both of them stood in shock for a moment before Dominic continued his tirade, his mouth moving almost a mile a minute and yet the sound seemed to pass her by. Nothing sunk in aside from the burning sensation radiating from her right cheek.

Nothing except an overwhelming sadness, like she’d somehow been the one at fault.

Hell, she could have killed him on the spot and they both knew it. He should have known better.
God, it’d be easy too... Just push him out of the window, seven or eight storeys would surely be enough- maybe she could even call it an accident… no one would be the wiser.
In reality though she stood rooted to the spot, seething and shook at the relative ease he found himself acting with.

Even now, she could almost see the fog clearing as he continued rambling vehemently, white noise to her own quiet epiphany.

Maybe she should have seen it coming. All the times he’d told her all the good things he’d done for her, all the effort he’d gone to just to undermine every achievement she’d gotten. Nothing was good enough unless he had a hand in it.
She was a goddamn champion, something that she had earned without him. In spite of him. Yet he still had the audacity to look down upon her like she’d gotten stuck to his shoe- until he had use for her, of course. From one minute to the next she went from leper to legend, mistake to midas touch… and she’d swallowed all of it trying to justify it by saying she loved him.

Even just days earlier he’d manage to dismiss their fourth anniversary in favour of ‘business drinks’ as though she wasn’t intimately aware that he was just schmoozing McCrae’s investors and throwing the little money she’d earned at strippers he couldn’t otherwise afford.
Meanwhile she’d sat alone in a crappy motel with three channels of varying static and the faltering belief that things still had the potential to get better from here.

At least she still had her title, and whatever cold comfort that might have allowed her.

Dominic’s pacing slowed as furrowed rage hardened into something far more dispassionate. Nothing resembling empathy or regret had passed his otherwise stoic features and before she’d had the chance to pull away or react, Dominic had taken her hands within his, causing her skin to prickle uncomfortably. Something akin to a smile quivered at the curl of his lip as one hand moved to cradle her face tenderly- as though his lashing out had become a distant memory.

“It's just… I can’t lose you. You know that, right?”

His thumb traced down her cheek, skimming over where the reddened impact had recoiled in her skin. She didn’t dare make eye contact despite his efforts, if only because she knew she’d see nothing akin to sincerity or remorse. 

“We need each other, Bambi. More than ever.”

There was a patheticness in his tone, although she wasn’t sure if it was the recognition of how badly he’d fucked up or just his sorry fucking attempt to gaslight her into a further oblivion. He’d had a lot to say and somehow none of it contained an apology.

“Whatever happens, we’ll always have each other.”

It was then she realized how numb she’d quickly become to his charms, lies and derisions that would have had her on her knees now fell on deaf ears and a darkening heart. She’d tried so fucking hard, couldn’t he see that or was he just too busy spewing out a deluge of disingenuous sugar coated nothings for her troubles.

Dominic kissed her gently on the forehead as Amber barely restrained the flinch that came with wanting to vomit.  God, her chest ached so badly- like instead of slapping her in the face, he’d just stuck his hand between her ribs and squeezed. Emotionally anaesthetized, she’d never felt so clear-headed while his fingers traced her cheekbones like he was somehow rediscovering her for the first time.

“Just you and me.”

Another flicker into a smile. One she forced herself to reciprocate as closely as she could, mimicking the twitches instead of drawing from something real- and with an ache in her chest, she wistfully mused that for the first time in a long time- he was talking about them as anything more than a relationship of parasitic convenience…

… while she was already emotionally gone.





******



“It’s almost easy to forget sometimes that this match is a triple threat.

That somehow, in spite of your best efforts to be the centre of the fucking universe that would rather see you disappear down a black hole, you’re this ‘non-factor’ in a decision that hasn't already occurred. I mean, you aren’t even being discussed as the person taking the loss… You haven’t even been worth a potential three count.
I mean we can stand here and debate your merits all day- for all the reasons you think you deserve to be included in any Bombshells title discussion, I have a point to counteract that you’re just a really shitty person searching for validation in all the wrong places.

Honey, there are meetings for this kind of shit. Stop wasting our time kicking your multi-colour multi-personality ass all over arenas cause the cleaners don’t get paid nearly enough to listen to you piss and moan how you got beaten again.
That's the thing, isn’t it?
You keep losing when it matters. You won the title five times cause you lost it four times before that, each time a little shorter and alot less meaningful to the point it's become a blink-and-you’ll miss it phenomena that no one cares about. Big talk till it comes time to show up, and then all of a sudden you’ve got an incurable hangnail and a reason to have let everyone down again.

You’re the queen of self-sabotage, and that's a big statement coming from a woman who made her career in deathmatches and reckless life-threatening bumps. Everytime I hear you speak, it's another justification for failure, always someone else to blame despite the fact you were holding the gun every time you shot yourself in the foot.

‘I deserve this though’ I hear you cry from the back of the line.

‘I’ve earned that’ I listen to you wail as you’re passed over by someone far more worthy.

‘I have a right to a rematch’

No. Shut the fuck up.

You know what you deserve, Crystal? Absolutely fucking nothing. You haven taken every opportunity gifted to you in good faith and you lifted your leg at it, you took advantage of people at their lowest and used them as pawns for your inevitable rises and falls, you continue to talk down to everyone despite the fact they’ve worked far harder for their place than you have in recent months.
Courtney Pierce made her case for never having got her Blast From The Past shot, Ruby Steele- against all odds and expectations- got carried to a win and ‘earned’ a shot thanks to Mark Cross, Alicia Lukas won Queen For A Day and did exactly what everyone else would have, Myra Rivers held the Internet Title for almost a year and Jessie Salco… well, she showed up week after week and wouldn’t take no for an answer so she’s not a good example… even Roxi Johnson, week after week she went out and fought her way up the ladder.

You lurked in the midcard and won one match that got you into a contendership shot- and then you fluked ‘equally winning’ cause that's suddenly a thing and found your way into the High Stakes Main Event cause the powers that be are sadists and like to watch the world burn.
Lets quickly recap those events- in all of that time… you won a single match of your own volition to get here… yet you still wonder why it's a question as to why the fuck you think you ‘earned’ this.

No, all you’ve earned is all the disapproving stares you keep getting by calling yourself number one contender.

Do you think this is just some kind of bandaid on all the irreparable damage you’ve caused, some gold tinted make-good for all the people you’ve hurt to get here. Winning the world title doesn’t fix your marriage- trust me, I think I’d know. Being champion doesn’t alleviate all the niggling problems and nor does it smooth over the wrinkles of fundamental disagreement.
Being champion leaves relationships in ruin cause while you are on top, if you hope to stay there for any amount of time, you have to realize that everything else you care about comes second. Love gets pushed aside, meaningful relationships take a back seat- if being champion isn’t everything and then some, then you won’t have it for very long.

There is no having your cake and eating it too, it's having your cake and choking it down cause you told everyone you could.

You tell everyone you want it so badly though, that you’ve got nothing else to lose… like you have the faintest fucking clue what that even means.

Allow me to be blunt, as if I haven’t already- want is for coffee and lottery tickets Crystal, want is for company on cold nights and a shoulder to cry on. Aspirations have never gotten anyone far in this business cause everyone can desire, everyone can be the most passionate version of themselves and they can tell themselves that if they wish hard enough that their dreams will come true.

I can stand here and tell everyone that no one wants this title more than me… and I’d be right, but that's because I don’t just want it. I need it like I need oxygen in my lungs, I need it more than I need fourteen hours of sleep without waking up in a cold sweat cause I lost the title in my nightmares.
Believe me, I haven’t worked this hard just to call myself champion, I’ve worked this hard cause without it I’m just another silly bitch saying she wants to be the best.
Fact is, from the day I walked through the door I was already hitting the top of the food chain, I haven’t stopped hunting since day dot and just cause I’m champion doesn’t mean I’ve stopped chasing.

For the past 200 plus days, I’ve done what no other woman in this division could. I made this place better, I raised the bar and set a new standard- no, screw being the gatekeeper and letting everyone make their way past when they’re good enough, I’m the fucking final boss around here with four stages and an unavoidable area of effect insta-kill.
So sure, this might be a triple threat but you’ll never really be able to call yourself champion unless you beat me- yeah, you might have the belt, but everyone will know you didn't really ‘earn’ it. Although really, I suppose you’re used to that by now.

This match might be for the title- but both of you know that you need to beat me to truly ever be considered the ‘real champion’.

It’s funny though, cause I can see your lips moving Crystal but the words coming out are garbled and rubbish. It doesn't make sense cause you have no reason, no justification for them to be strung together in such a way… You’re just- you’re so full of bullshit and bluster, the positivity train really has left the station and you’re the only passenger. Toot toot motherfucker, this ones about to go off the fucking rails.
‘I’ll be the best’. Yeah, sure you will… now go back to sleep now and leave the work to the real main eventers...

I mean honestly, short of killing me- which is just unheard of cause you tried and failed enough before, there's nothing you can do in this match that will impress. There's no depth to which you can stoop longer than I’m willing to, no dizzy height that you can attain that I haven’t already sucked all the breathable air from. It's easy to talk about respect when you have none and have given less.

You see, there’s a reason I’m the World Bombshells champion- and contrary to popular belief, it's not actually because I’m the best… although the argument could certainly be made.
I’m not the strongest, the biggest, the fastest… I can’t whip a crowd into a hateful frenzy simply by opening my mouth nor can I captivate with such sweetness the whole crowd becomes diabetic through verbal osmosis. I might not hit the hardest, nor are my aerials as clean or crisp as many others…
Granted I doubt anyone could throw a better fireball or spit thumbtacks without setting off their gag reflex, that remains to be seen, but the truth is being the Sin City Wrestling World Bombshells Champion comes down to none of those things.

By the end of High Stakes I’d like to think you’ll finally understand, I might not be the greatest, most decorated, most numerous title winning World Bombshells Champion of all time...

But I’m damn sure the only one willing to do absolutely ANYTHING to keep it.”




******



Undisclosed Magazine Office
New York City, NY
02.11.2021
12:52pm




As it seemed with most publicity related obligations, Amber didn’t really get what the point was.

Cassiopeia Mares had tried to explain on the way over, although most of her optimistic chirruping had gone in one ear and out the other- for the most part their relationship had become more symbiotic instead of one directionally hostile, consisting of Cassie organizing all the company mandated agreements while Amber showed up and tried not to cause too much irreparable damage.
Despite the enthusiasm shown by the younger woman, Amber found the idea of print media to be rather archaic and obsolete.
Even though Cassie made the argument that they were ‘broadening her horizons’ and ‘capturing a wider demographic’ , Amber had been reluctant right down to the unnatural posing with the Bombshells World title and a face full of makeup that left her unrecognizable in any mirror outside a funhouse.

Now almost half way through an interview that had barely touched upon anything to do with the upcoming Supercard, something Amber had been told would be considered a priority topic. However the preppy early-thirties blonde, who smelled faintly like violets and musk, tasked with delivering the banal and vaguely patronizing line of questions simply wrinkled her nose at most responses as though expecting something far more gossip worthy than the disinterested redhead in front of her.

“... Now I heard that earlier this year, you got married. April, I believe it was?”

Small talk. Great. Amber nodded as she readjusted in her chair, clearly designed for aesthetic rather than to be comfortable. Far too soft, like a poorly microwaved marshmallow, and in almost the same powdered neutral shade.

“Yeah, just a small kinda deal…”

In truth, despite being married to another professional wrestler- particularly one she’d spent almost as long violently opposing as they’d been together- it had never really been something she’d discussed publicly. Both she and Mac considered themselves intensely private about their ’out of ring’ lives- most likely from having shared so much of themselves for such a long time, that the idea of allowing their more intimate moments to be broadcast seemed excessive and attention seeking.

“Now I think it's safe to say that being married professionals in the same industry can sometimes put a strain on relationships. In most cases, divorce rates are known to be far higher in couples that share a job field, infidelity being a leading cause followed closely by inequality of successes… How do keep the 'spark' alive?”

Amber narrowed her gaze a little, a sideways glance towards Cassie betraying very little, although she hadn’t expected much from the proverbial talent relations poker face.

“Infidelity? I hope this isn’t an insinuation of anything.”

Despite trying to put a dampener on her irritation, Amber struggled to veil the tone of annoyance that crept through her voice. It wasn’t as though their relationship was perfect by any means, it wasn’t a Team Hero kinda marriage where the acceptance of fault was unconditional cause they were both as bad as each other- but it wasn’t a Zdunich marriage either that fell to pieces the moment any kind of outside pressure was placed on it. No, their unwillingness to air their proverbial dirty laundry on a whim had kept their reputation as a SCW ‘golden couple’ relatively intact.

That being said, Amber knew that being World Champion didn’t make it easy. Being at the top of the mountain came with unseen sacrifice- time mostly. She didn’t see Mac much these days- so busy fulfilling obligations and trying to keep her head above the rising waters of contendership that she’d almost neglected the man who’d seen so much in her.
He understood, and had his own business to attend to, but that didn’t make her feel any less guilty about it.

Regardless, they loved each other- undoubtedly and unconditionally, and some leather and metal surely wouldn’t change that…

“Of course not. That's not to say that temptation doesn’t run rampant- after all, there are plenty of beautiful, confident women who may- some may argue- carry less ‘baggage’ just as there are a myriad of young, handsome men who no doubt have championship aspirations in more ways than one.
With all the travel and being around arguably a roster full of very attractive people- how would you say being married to a fellow professional has affected your love life.
Would you say your husband, an incredibly handsome man in his own right, still satisfies those urges in the same way?”

Incredulous, Amber couldn't help but laugh in disbelief at the sheer audacity that came laced throughout the whole series of innuendos and overt overtones that the Sin City Wrestling roster backstage was little more than fuel for adultery and orgies.
Another, albeit harsher, glance towards Cassiopeia quietly validated the impudence as the younger woman engaged in a spirited discussion with someone who was supposed to have known what was happening. Unwilling to wait for a suitably ‘corporate friendly’ response , Amber cleared her throat and leaned in a little closer towards the interviewer as though preparing to share something juicy… something scandalous.

“Tell me, do you spit or swallow?”

“I'm sorry? That's not app---”

“Appropriate? No, you’re right. Neither is asking if I’m cheating on my husband with all the hot guys walking around in their underwear, neither is taking the idea of female role models in a male dominated industry and sexualising it cause how dare any woman be successful and not just a raging nymphomaniac with a shiny belt on her shoulder.”

Like a honed sixth sense, Cassiopeia swooped in and ushered the already done interview into dissolution before Amber could cross too many more lines. Seething quietly, Amber rolled her tongue in her cheek while Cassie played proverbial peacemaker as the magazine crew uneasily dispersed elsewhere into the building.

“Is it just me?”

Initially the thought was an absent-minded one, a rhetoric that seemed to just fall to the floor. Cassie however paused thoughtfully, as though expecting a follow on from Amber’s derailing train of thought that didn’t seem to come.

“I apologize for the way that---”

Amber waved her off distractedly as the younger woman approached, that same ochre coloured folder always still clutched closely as her heels click-clacked against the synthetically wooden floor.

“Don’t apologize, it's not you. It's just… I don’t get it. I’ve been a part of more main event matches than almost anyone else this year, I’ve been the world champion since March. I’ve defended my title successfully seven times and yet theres still just this… fuck I dunno… stigma. You know? Like somehow it doesn’t mean as much cause XYZ, like there's always a reason for it to be tarnished.”

It wasn’t even anger that permeated her voice as she sunk further into the chair trying to swallow her slowly, it was a level of disappointment. A disillusionment that things were supposed to be different, perceptions and opinions were supposed to be better cause she’d worked hard to change things… to improve things. That was what she’d strived to do, and yet the more she succeeded- the further away from that goal she felt like she had become. A hundred days had become two hundred, one defense had become seven and yet still it felt as though she hadn't done enough, that there was still this expectation that she needed to do more… to do better.
Be better.
Be more like everyone else despite the fact it was the whole reason that the world title had become such a fucking joke to begin with.

“After all this time Cassie, I’m still supposed to just sit here and swallow all the garbage that's thrown at me cause I was the only one willing to open their mouth and do anything. It shouldn’t matter who I love or hate, who is banging who or what… I’m the fucking World Bombshells Champion, I’m the goddamn reason that we are main eventing High Stakes, Cassie… So why does it feel like I’m still taking a back seat to everyone else's bullshit?”

Another rhetoric, although this time Amber was far more certain of the answer.

“I just wanted to make this division better… you know? Right wrongs, rectify mistakes. So why does it feel like so many others want things to be back the way they were?”





******




“Do you ever get sick of the high road?

All that broadcasting live from your high horse, all those lion-hearted speeches from atop an ivory tower. I’m exhausted for you, all that effort just to do anything except admit fault. I mean I get it, old habits die the hardest and I can't blame you for trying to look for silver linings in thunderstorms… HOWEVER when those silver linings are cracking with electricity, you have to start asking if it's really worth it.

As per ever- you come to me with the same old tired outlook disguised as a new, fresh perspective and honestly- you may as well just fuck off wiht it already.
You had your chance to be good and righteous, that card isn’t on the table anymore- so just because time has passed and you got a second wind, it doesn't mean we just pick up where we left off.
No, walking around on your tip toes with your nose to the sky doesn’t make you higher or mightier than anyone else- just more likely to trip over your own feet when it matters.

I’ll be honest Roxi, I find the whole schtick disingenuous- giving all our peers, all these fans clamouring for you to do the thing like you suddenly found your identity between the couch cushions and can now overcome your greatest demon… Let's be real though, it's the same old Roxi wrapped in a pretty new bow.
For the longest time you’ve been the moral compass of the Bombshells division- and don’t get me wrong, I still respect the fuck out of you for coming back for another round, however somehow you’ve strayed from your true north choosing to  huff this noxious, toxic righteous fury like it's ethical crack…Picking fights and imparting derision. It's addictive right?
I promise it's also just as good for the state of your teeth.

Thing is, you know there's always someone out there who is always gonna be a little worse than you.

Funny thing is, you’ve had all this time to reflect on where things went wrong, and yet you’ve voluntarily chosen to walk the same road as though the outcomes changes cause you smile differently with your eyes. All I’ve heard from you is excuses as to why your losses weren’t valid, rather than doing anything to change the fact it's so obscenely likely to happen again.
Maybe if you spent half that time searching for your fucking backbone Roxi, you wouldn;t have to reasses your models of morality.
Even so, lets dwell on the past for a moment before history chooses to repeat… you know, those times I didn’t beat you like it wasn’t my hand getting raised and like needing outside help to win then claiming that's the only credible win between us.
Great, now I’m bitter and just wanna kick your teeth through your spinal cord.

First time round- you should have been THANKING that referee for saving your life cause I assure you, I wasn't nearly prepared to lay off. I wasn’t nearly done sending my message and your blase attitude towards it only confirms I should have just kept swinging.
I could have gotten a solid eight hours sleep on you, and you still wouldn’t have fucking kicked out in the morning… Just cause I didn’t pin you, doesn’t mean it wasn’t definitive.
Third time? Come on now, you know as well as I do there's only one way to win a last man standing. You make sure they don’t get up, and yet another case where your gratitude seems to have been misplaced- that's okay though, all that blunt force trauma must have messed with your memory and ability to accept defeat.

Besides, all that furniture was for aesthetics.

You didn’t stop me, you couldn’t stop me and even now… you know you still can’t.

You think these are mind games?
Nah man, we’re well past that point- you and I are so well acquainted we’re practically in each others back pockets, we know each other better than our spouses do. I won’t pretend like you’ve haven’t taken me to my limits, that you haven’t been the reason I’ve crossed so many unforgivable lines…
But you’ve not seen my best.
That's the difference between us, everything you have to give, that you can physically give, you have already shown. Your cards have been on the table for a long time, and everyone knows the play. Go ahead and watch every tape, read every article my names been mentioned in, dig through my medical history for every fault and fracture I carry and wrack your brain for every addled memory that might expose a chink in my armour… all you’ll learn is I never fight the same match twice.

You can take everything you know about me, and collate it and I promise you’ll never get more than what you’re willing to see. I’m more than just the sum of my parts, just as a hurricane is more than some wind and a little rain.
I’m a force of nature, yet you keep pissing into the wind and expect not to wear it.

Any night, any defense… substitute your name and the result would have remained the same.

You were determined to earn it, but we both know it's more than that. I’ve seen you get title shots for far less effort, smile your way into whatever match you deemed worth your time.
Hell, Crystal is in the main event… Jessie has had at least two shots at me without ever winning a match- so don’t you sit there and try to tell me anything about how you ‘had to earn’ it.
I’ve earned this title, I’ve kept it against every set of odds thrown against me…
I’m far from special like people say I am though, maybe that's why they don’t seem to get me- talk me up like this pristine company shining star and instead you  get some piece of shit sentient voodoo doll straight from hell.

It's not that I’m better. I just work harder than anyone else. To get where I am, to stay where I am. Just cause you don’t like the way I conduct business, doesn’t make it any less valid. I’m not perfect by any means, and I’ll laugh in the face of anyone who thinks I am- what I have been is dominant, what I have been is the hardest working World Champion that Sin City Wrestling has seen in years. What I am is everything you want to be- just the version that refuses to accept that getting some dirt under your fingernails is part of the process.

After all, this is High Stakes- not ’Reasonably Acceptable Stakes’

Three women walk in. One as champion and two with their hearts on their sleeves.

One walks out with everything.

I’ll be honest though, I really could end yours and Crystal's careers at High Stakes and not lose a wink of sleep so long as the World Title was still on my shoulder.
Maybe that makes me callous, maybe that makes me a monster- but I’m a monster with the gold, I’m the monster with a target between her shoulder blades looking for the next wannabe with a shitty crossbow to come knocking.
I don’t need you to fear me, I don’t need you to think I’m inside your head- cause if you’re telling yourself those things then you probably already are. I don’t need you trying to tell me that you think I’m playing games- cause the laughs stopped the moment the title was on the line.

Ask Crystal how much I fucking laughed when I tore the title from her hands, ask anyone who has faced me for it whether I was rolling in mirth when that bell rang out.
Maybe you think you’ll be the one, and I’ll be honest I welcome you to try. Maybe you can do what no one else has managed despite the fact the best proof you have is a tarnished win you can barely claim as your own.
Time after bloody time, I’ve taken the best this division has to offer- everyone who thought they were different, that they had something to prove.
Crystals coming for her ‘rematch’ despite the fact I’ve had cups of coffee last longer than her last reign, you’re coming for redemption and to prove that you really did change- that it's not just all bluster and bullshit.

Everyone coming in has something to prove.

Fact is, I’ve worn the best of both of you on my skin. I’ve washed both of your blood from my hands and swallowed more of my own. There is nothing you have left to throw at me that I haven’t already taken…
I don’t need to beat either of you, I’ve done that already- I just have to outlast long enough for both of you to realize it…
Neither of you hit harder than Alicia, you don’t have Myra’s perseverance and you sure as fuck don’t have as big of balls as Jessie- and yet you both just stand there waiting to blunder your way into a victory that's not yours to claim.

When it comes down to it- at High Stakes, at the biggest event of the year… You both HAVE to beat me. Any other result wouldn’t mean nearly as much. Without my blood on that belt, without my head off my shoulders you’re just a fluke champion who avoided the hard work. Without my shoulders being down- you’ll never be considered the ‘real’ world champion, a placeholder till I dust myself off and come calling for my ten pounds of flesh.

See, what you have all failed to realize… and what will surely sting the most when you do… is that there is only one person who can take this title off me.

… the one staring right back at me in the mirror, and if she hasn’t managed it yet?

Then you don’t stand a fucking chance.”




******




SCW Mandated Hotel
New York City, NY
03.10.2021
8:13pm



‘For Services Rendered’

For a simple folder of documents, they felt heavy in her hands while the yellow sticky note seemed to almost fluoresce under the dull glow. Cassiopeia had brought them around, lingering awkwardly and expectantly as though anticipating the reading to be a public one- Amber however had no such interest. She knew who these were from and why.
Alistair McCrae had promised her the same information on Cassidy Parker that Del Gado previously had, only he actually delivered on it, instead of giving her the run around- and for the low, low price of once again telling Dominic all the ways he could go and fuck himself.

Flicking through as the cool night air slipped through the balcony door she’d left ajar, the faint scent of Cassieopia’s perfume seemed to waft from the folders interior. Generically floral, almost ethereal and airy. Familiar but in a way she couldn’t quite place.
Weird.
Amid the documents were more sticky notes as though McCrae had left his own running commentary upon compilation- most of it was basic copies of public domain information, surprisingly informative but otherwise easily disregarded.
Arrest records, some bearing Amber’s name alongside- like the one time they managed to ‘accidentally’ steal a car from a local misogynist with bad skin and too many ‘girlfriends’. Possession and alleged prostitution showed up later, but seemed to have been dismissed due to lack of evidence- and no doubt a smart mouth.
Amber chose to linger on the small memories from easier times though, bringing a coy smile to Amber’s features. She’d never been arrested more times than when she was with Cassidy- always up to something and almost never without the other.

Medical records came next as Amber quietly reminisced about the time Cassidy broke her arm cause Amber dared her to jump off a bridge with her- Cassidy had tried to chicken out as she jumped though, smashing her arm into the bridges edge trying to catch her grip- she knew Grizz had never believed them when they said they ‘fell’, mostly for how they couldn’t keep a straight face as the retelling got wilder.
A few cases of suspected domestic abuse came later, after Amber had left- dismissed cause no charges were ever laid. Stitches, abrasions. Suspiciously hand-shaped bruises gripping too tight.
Each page seemed to document a different stage of their relationship- the happier times growing murkier as time went on till things started to get confusing.

Name change documents.

Shelby Thomas.

Amber’s heart skipped several beats, the breath caught in her throat. Cassidy had used the pseudonym ‘Shelby’ when they were younger, lying to cops, creeps and potential one night stands alike so that they couldn’t search her up after they left. Amber had never considered that she might one day make the change any kind of permanent- the date filed, the 30th of July 2009. A little over a week after Amber had last seen her at the…
Another skip. Was this a heart attack?
… a week and change after the night Amber had won her first professional title, the one where Cassidy had been in tears begging Amber that they needed to talk, the one where Amber had promised to meet her after she’d…
Swallowing hard, the guilt and regret got caught part the way down as the silence only seemed to get louder between each page. A new life and erratic movements, new arrests in the same old places, new allegations in a swirling vortex of self-destructive downward spiraling.

Each page cut a little deeper, all those silent apologies tipping her tongue in a bitterness she couldn’t wash away. Cassidy, or Shelby it seemed, had found her own path and made her own mistakes. Grown up before any of them could really comprehend the change- one minute they were 13 and 16 messing around in abandoned houses telling local kids ghost stories bathed by neon and the next… the next they’d splintered almost irreconcilably until Cassidy… Shelby… sought out that connection in a time of need. A time when Amber couldn’t be… wasn’t… there.

Pages ran thin as the perfumed lingering grew weaker- a knot tightened in Amber’s chest to the point she swore she might suffocate on the spot as the last few pages finally tore the threadbare stitches holding her heart together violently asunder.
No, it wasn’t supposed to be like this. There was supposed to be a happy ending, there was supposed to be some good coming of this. Amber had done everything right… so why was it all so wrong?

She thought she might vomit as she rushed for the balcony’s edge, silently wishing she might simply fall and be done with it instead. Agonizingly though, she slumped at the railing while her heart feebly pulsed under her sternum as tears streaked like a burning lava flow and the nausea crept up her throat in the form of a heart wrenching, albeit pitiful scream into the night that she couldn’t just swallow.

All the while, the pages scattered silently to the floor with the last bearing a yellow sticky note simply reading… ‘I’m sorry, I thought you knew’.