002: You're So Vain

LOCATION: Toronto, Ontario
DATE/TIME: August 23, 2016|| 11:25PM LOCAL TIME
CAMERA STATUS: ON/OFF

"I used to walk into rooms like that Carly Simon song, as if 'walking on a yacht' was the ultimate way to express that runway swagger, that walk all the slender, pretty ones seem to instinctively learn the moment the curves happen. For me, it was a bit of a struggle. I was a tomboy, one of the boys, usually hung around with my brother and his friends - Robby was the friendly one. He made people laugh. I mean, you remember that, right? He was the joker, the clown. I remember the first time I read Watchmen. Eons before that was ever going to be a movie and I remember this idiot I used to have the biggest crush on asking me if it was about the Canadian band. Anyhow... here, let me find it for you."

Pages rustle.

"Ah, here. Heard joke once: Man goes to doctor. Says he's depressed. Says life seems harsh and cruel. Says he feels all alone in a threatening world where what lies ahead is vague and uncertain. Doctor says, 'Treatment is simple. Great clown Pagliacci is in town tonight. Go and see him. That should pick you up.' Man bursts into tears. Says, 'But doctor...I am Pagliacci'. That, right there. That was Robby. See, me, I was never really able to laugh the way he did, never really able to fake something for them. Maybe that's part of the problem. Maybe that's why I'm here, still clinging to the hope that I can... well... I don't know."

"You do know," the voice on the other end answered her. "And you know what my response to that is: shit or get off the pot, Kitty. If you want to stay in this goddamned circus, you do it. You don't need my permission. It wasn't hard to walk away when it came right down to it. Was just sick of letting them bleed me and getting nothing substantial in return."

"But NLW-"

"-isn't going to make you a star any more than it did me all those years ago. Shit, barely even remember what I did or didn't win.You have to ask yourself what matters more, being the biggest fish in the small pond and being happy with that, or constantly clawing your way to relevance again."

"I am relevant," she snapped, indignant.

"Of course." Heavy scorn oozed in the words, "and that's why you had a temper tantrum on social media over the contract Honor Wrestli-"

"Don't, okay? I'm facing an idiot who looks like a member of that godawful Hollywood Undead band. I think I've already hit rock bottom without that pleasant reminder, thank you very much."

A harsh chuckle came across the speaker, making her scowl. "Don't ask for my opinion if you don't want the uncensored truth. I don't give enough of a fuck to blow cotton candy kisses up your sandy va-"

"You're disgusting."

He laughed again, clearly enjoying himself. "Damn right - y'know, you used to find that endearing."

"I grew up."

"Yeah," Jackson was suddenly sober, sighing, "didn't we all. Well, good luck with your masked man. Do me a favor, alright? Since you're in Toronto, pick up some of those Coffee Crisp bars. A whole goddamned case if you can. Ship them to me - you know the address. You owe me at least that much for your little death stunt."

"Brad, I told you-"

"Don't care."

She didn't have to look at the phone to see that the call had ended.

"Fuck," she muttered, shaking her head, knowing there was no point in calling him back. Jackson was like that now. He existed on his own timetable. She was lucky enough to have caught him the first time. She hadn't even gotten around to asking him the most important question. Maybe this time it was better to do things on her own.

LOCATION: Paris, France
DATE/TIME: June 7, 2004 || 12:04AM LOCAL TIME
CAMERA STATUS: ON/OFF

After midnight already, the parking lot was deserted when Kitty stepped outside the small auditorium, trying to swallow the disappointment she felt. When she'd agreed to be part of WCWF's European tour, she'd expected to be headlining the largest stadiums and they'd done nothing to correct that notion. Along with two green-as-grass rookies named Angel Lynn and Ryann Hardy, she'd been sent out on this four-month tour that grew more and more tedious as the weeks dragged on. Angel had gotten injured last week in Dublin and now she was stuck working an extended best of seven 'grudge' series with the talentless Ryann Hardy. She'd expected packed houses with screaming, rabid fans clamoring for her attention. Instead she was working in absolute dives, places that barely had a few hundred people in attendance, let alone thousands. Nobody seemed to know her name – the women's matches seemed to be glorified snack bar matches, despite the fact that she was pulling out all the stops every night. She let the door close behind her, the pink backpack that contained her gear dropping to the asphalt at her feet as she leaned against the brick wall. It was raining – of course it was – the sort of soft-focus filter mist that made everything feel surreal and she wasn't really sure if the halos around the lights were from the drizzle or from the tears of shame in her eyes.

His voice drifted up out of the rain, to get her attention as he tried not to startle her. "Excuse me, Ms. Kaitlynn?" He stepped forward, his long coat beaded with the soft droplets, dark hair plastered to his head and a crooked smile on his lips. He had a heavy Russian accent, but kept his tone gentle. "Might I have a moment of your time?"

At the sound of his voice, she gasped, clearly surprised to find that she wasn't alone after all. When she turned her head in his direction, though, she felt slightly more at ease, despite the fact that a strange man was approaching her out of the blue. There was something in his gaze, something to that not-quite-a-smile on his face that drew her in. Oh joy. Another weird fan, she thought, forcing a smile, well, at least he's a fan. "Sure. I've got a few minutes to spare."

That crooked smile of his brightened just a touch, and he lifted a hand to flick some of the water away from his dark hair before he unbuttoned the top two buttons of his coat. Reaching inside he drew out a single white rosebud, the stem wrapped in crepe paper with the logo of a local florist emblazoned on it. He extended it to her with a sort of old-world grace before he spoke again. "A token, in honor of your performance tonight. I apologize it is not more than this, a ballerina would get a bouquet but I was not sure..." he paused, obviously attempting to think of the proper phrase. "Simply because you are no diva, you are a fighter. But you deserve something, this I am sure of."

She stared at the flower, blinking, convinced she was having some sort of hallucination. Had she been knocked out? Was this some sort of wild dream? "I..." her voice shook, mirroring her hands as she reached out to take it, "thank you. In London, someone left me a basket of scones and marmalade... well, all of us really. But this is nicer," lowering to a whisper, she kept her eyes downcast, watching him still through her lashes although he was rendered hazy by the rain. This was a strange sort of reward for putting Ryann Hardy down for the count, edging one win ahead in the series. Inhaling the scent of the bloom, she couldn't help but smile, "it smells wonderful. Thank you, Mr..."

He gently cleared his throat. "Petrov. But please, call me Mikhail. Formalities are for other places, than the rain." He laughed, a surprisingly mellow sound as he shook his head. "I have taken up more than just a moment, and I hope you will forgive me. Surely, you must be going somewhere and I am holding you from this."

"Just from getting to the train station in time," she sighed, "we have another show tomorrow in Brussels. I was supposed to carpool with Angel but she – no... wait." She paused, biting her lip as she tried to unscramble the facts that were trying to flee from her. "It's the day after tomorrow but the only ticket I could get was," she paused again, "well, you don't want to hear my woes." She didn't care about the rain even as it washed over her, getting a little stronger now, a little more oppressive even though it was still misty. The way this man was looking at her was making her feel warm all over.

"Why would I not?" His question was gentle, a lift of one brow adding to that as he watched her expressions change. "But if you must get to the train station..." He paused, head up as he looked around. "Are you waiting on a taxi?" He paused again, waiting for her reply to keep him from offering to take her himself.

"Oh." The sound was one of dismay as she looked back at the door that had most likely just locked behind her. "I'm so used to there always being ones lurking back home, zipping up and down the streets. And in New York? They're everywhere, bright yellow – I'm so..." she sighed, "I didn't even think to call for one. I'm..." she let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head as she reached up to tuck her hair behind her ears. "I guess I'm a tourist after all. Sad, I suppose, when I don't even get to see the sights before I have to leave." She wasn't fishing for an invitation. Just something about this man made it easy to unleash all the things she'd been bottling up inside.

He laughed again, and shook his head. "Someday, I must see that for myself, I think. There is a cab stand up the street, let me walk you there." Mikhail unbuttoned his coat the rest of the way, slipping out of it easily to reveal the rumpled but quality suit coat and white shirt he had on underneath. He held the heavy coat up, a makeshift umbrella for the pair of them. "Here, this will help with the rain. At least, a bit."

She picked up her bag, not thinking twice about letting this man walk her down the street. If he turned out to be a murderer? She shrugged, not bothering to entertain that thought much further before slinging the backpack over her shoulders. Deliberately, she stepped in close to him, that beautiful rose still clutched in her hand so hard that she could feel the thorns on its stem biting into her palm. "I'm sure you have better things to do with your time, Mikhail," her voice came out soft, throaty as though she was trying to flirt even though it was really just exhaustion and exertion.

For an instant his brows drew together, as if he were trying to match what she'd said against his knowledge of the language. Thinking, as he looked at her and adjusted his coat so not a drop of rain would fall on her. He matched his steps to hers, quiet for a longer moment before he answered. "As much as I hate to tell a beautiful woman she is wrong, Kaitlynn, you are. I assure you, I have nothing that I wish to do more than keep the rain from you and hear anything you wish to tell me." He winked, a quick gesture that could have been written off as blinking away the rain from his eyelashes.

"Oh, honey," she looked up at him, laughing, "there's not enough time on all the clocks in the world for me to tell you all my woes. Don't even get me started... and most definitely do not give me any alcohol after midnight. Might go all Gremlin on you."

He sounded the word out carefully as he said it back to her. "Gremlin. What is that? Is it an American word for krasivaya..." Mikhail almost grinned. "Beautiful, that is the right word for you. I do not think, alcohol would make you more so." A shake of his head, a few droplets of water falling from his hair to wet the shoulders of his suit jacket.

"Oh..." Kitty bit her lip, almost stumbling because she couldn't take her eyes off him – she almost rolled her ankle, reaching out to grab hold of him reflexively. "No. Sorry, I didn't realize you... no. It's a silly movie from the 80's about these furry little creatures that are cute until you feed them after midnight and then they get hideous and vicious. I was making a joke... well trying to anyhow. My apologies, Mik. I..." she realized she was still holding on to him and managed to relax that grip, letting her hand fall back to her side.

He gave her a smile before shifting the coat to drape more over his outside arm before lifting the one closest to her, offering it. "Here. Watch your step, these streets may be old and famous but they are also treacherous." He laughed again, and something about how he did it made it seem unfamiliar to him. "That sounds like a movie, about the country relations I pretend I do not have." He drew in a breath, his gaze going from her to a spot a block or two up from where they walked. "See, I thought I remembered seeing it. Do not worry, I will wait with you, and I am sure a cab will be along."

The way he spoke, that certain cadence to the flow of his sentences and that accent – she couldn't get enough and the thought of spending all night talking to him was almost preferable to more silence and solitude. "Such a gentleman." Clinging to his arm, she felt almost like Marilyn Monroe, walking the streets of Paris on the arm of some debonair leading man like Cary Grant or Gregory Peck. "So what do you do for a living, Mr. Petrov?"

"Ah." A slight glance to her, almost rueful. "I would think, the easiest way to explain it would be to say, I purchase things abroad that they do not have back home." Mikhail thought for a moment. "Import and Export, though there are few things that come from home that generate the interest here that shoes and jeans do there. I would imagine that this is not as glamorous as you hoped?" There was a wry twist of his lips, the humor expressed in his eyes. "I would ask you the same, save for that I know. Perhaps I will think of another question to ask you."

"Not as glamorous?" She shook her head, almost hugging his arm before resting her cheek against his shoulder. "Not so sure that rolling around some filthy canvas like I did tonight really screams prestige, if we're being honest. You think I'd be over here if I was an actual star? Oh, please."

Mikhail took a breath, careful of his steps so not to jostle her but he was not so quick to hide that look on his face as he glanced down at her. It was warm, and open if only for a few moments. "You will be, Kaitlynn. I watched you tonight. They will have no choice but to recognize what I saw. Of this, I am sure."