Zero. Dark. Kitty [Trinity 2.0 #2]

The heavy bag trembled, the chain jingling almost musically, taunting her as she stood there, staring at it. She was soaked in sweat, the strands of hair that had come free from her ponytail sticking to her face. Her back was killing her. Even with the brace, her knee felt tight tonight, the skin hot as though it was going to burn right through the yoga pants she had on under it. Of course, she'd tweaked it when Pasha had caught her in the middle of the ring and reversed her attempt to finish the match.

Of course. What else were you expecting? The place is cursed – always has been and always will be.

Pressing her fingertips into the small of her back, she tried to work out the kinks – it was pointless, nothing more than a stalling technique because she was dangerously close to completely losing her temper. She was facing an absolute stranger in the first round of the tournament. Her match, her return – none of it had been hyped at all. Instead they were shoving Sara Pettis and Sarah Lacklan to the forefront. She'd never been a fan of Lacklan. She'd clashed several times over the years with her loathsome other half. Even thinking about her now left a bad taste in her mouth and she couldn't stop thinking about the way patterns repeated, about the way Victory Wrestling had gone down in precisely the same way Trinity had the first time.

The gym was completely deserted. At three am, even in a city that never slept like Vegas, even the die-hards had their limits but she'd managed to strike a deal with the owner. It helped that he was a wrestling fan. Her name still carried weight in the city, even though she'd altered it since then. Vegas never forgot, even though it was barely back on its feet again. She was alone, unable to sleep because the failure kept taunting her, screaming MISTAKE at the top of its lungs.

It's Thomas Snow's time to shine. It's Pasha's moment of glory. Fuck the MadClan. To hell with what Christina did with the championship after it fell from the worthless hands of Lex Collins. They were content to bury that legacy, to hand it all over to a company that was happy to toss it into the incinerator the second the ink was dry. Everything you did is completely forgotten, stricken from record and barely remembered by those who were there. You think anyone remembers how well you did in that first battle royal? Do you think they care how long you lasted? No. They care about Thomas Snow. They care about the repeat of that asshole who couldn't even bring himself to mourn the company's demise for ten seconds.

It's all gone. Wiped clean. That means it's level again and you're stuck starting on the backfoot.

WHO IN THE BLUE FUCK IS CHELSEA PEBBLEPOT?!

Is she some fucked up Gotham cosplay gone wrong? Wait no. That was Cobblepot.

Doesn't matter. She's nothing more than a name on a piece of paper. A bye into round two. This can be a cakewalk.

Now, if she could just get that damned superkick timed – it didn't help that she'd been forced to change legs. Snapping the kick with her left was pointless thanks to the brace. She hated the toll the business had taken on her body, on her mind. Why was she still doing this shit? Why was she still chasing the bright sparks of adulation like a child after fireflies – you couldn't put them anywhere afterwards. They just die. They just fade away.

"I can do this," she muttered, blowing the wisps of hair that had escaped the messy ponytail out of her face. Counting to three, she closed her eyes, pulling in a deep breath before opening her eyes. Pivoting, she threw the mule kick but it didn't hit the bag square, sending it crashing into her hip as she almost lost her balance. She turned, storming over to the bench where she'd left a bottle of water and a fluffy pink towel and she flopped down with a sigh.

"Can't drop the ball again," she huffed, "can't."

"Won't."

Her head snapped around and she realized Hunter was standing in the doorway. She had no idea how long he had been watching but she could tell by the expression on his face that it was long enough to hear her talking to herself.

"Too much riding on this," she muttered, feeling a flush creeping over her cheeks as she stumbled through a half-assed explanation as to why she'd snuck out of the place they'd been staying at – she was starting to feel that itch to go home. To see the horses. To ride until they were both breathless and sweaty and in perfect harmony.

It helped to quiet the noise in her mind. He understood that, knew that she was on the verge of that fight-or-flight impulse and he crossed the space to wrap his arms around her. He didn't care that she was soaked, that she was trembling like one of her precious horses did after being worked too hard. He kissed the top of her head, just holding her until the shaking stopped and she let out a slow breath.

"I failed to live up to the hype." She sounded so sad, "granted it was completely in my head, but that's still pressure. It may be self-imposed, but that's nothing new. That's not... I shouldn't be punishing myself for that, should I?"

"Is that what you're doing?"

She considered it for a few seconds. "Maybe a little."

"You're allowed to make mistakes-"

"No." She snapped the word, cutting him off and when she looked up there was fire in her cool green eyes. "Accountability. Always. I'm not gonna be like Christina and claim I'm still undefeated – I'm not gonna spin some bullshit excuse."

"There's a happy medium in there somewhere," Hunter countered. "Is there really shame in losing to Pasha? You took him to the limit. He had to pull out all the stops and he still almost didn't finish you-" 

"So I play the party line? Is that what you think? Solidarity with the delusional?" She hated saying it, but the way Christina had no-sold that loss bothered her more than her own predicament. Daniel deserved better than to be thrown under the bus like that. 

"I wouldn't. No." Hunter looked disgusted as he shook his head. 

"I couldn't even begin... what would I even say? Would I pull a Clarissa Clare and claim there was dust in my eye or I was blinded by the flashbulbs or there just wasn't the right amount of give when I hit those ropes?"

"Who?"

"Doesn't matter. She's nobody. That's my point, babe. This is stupid and I..." she sighed, "I own my shit. Always. So what do I say then, hmmm? You tell me what I'm supposed to do next... smart guy."

He didn't flinch at the sarcasm, knowing she was only lashing out because that was her nature. He considered the question for a moment and then shrugged. "Own it. Like you said."

He watched the realization dawn on her, watched that sly smirk cross her lips and then she was kissing him, her fingers of one hand running through his hair while the others grabbed a fistful of his shirt for leverage.

"How'd you get to be so smart?" She asked, breathless when the kiss broke.

"I dunno," the reply came with that disarming grin of his, "must've picked it up from someone. Somewhere."

That – ladies and gentlemen – that was a warm-up. That was tuning up the band. And now I'm really ready to play. In the immortal words of Elton John: THE BITCH IS BACK.

And HELL HATH NO FURY QUITE LIKE ME.

So this is me being completely honest – with myself, with my co-workers, with the world at large – everyone. Pure narcissism to believe that I'm the star of the story, the center of the universe. Ah, perhaps. But then, they love to hear us sing those songs of our people, don't they? This becomes Saturday night karaoke and we're all just trying to crank out our best version of something that's been done a thousand times over. 

There's nothing new here. 

Certainly nothing original.

I lost a match. You're no closer to unraveling the mystery that is me.

None of you actually know me. I could be completely pathological, and you wouldn't have a clue.

I could be crazier than the woman who can't decide if she wants to take the mask off or leave it on. I could be the biggest liar in the business, the worst sort of copy-cat. You wouldn't know. You wouldn't care because at the end of it all, I put asses in the seats. They want to see me get hurt. They want to see me sharpen those claws. They want to see someone other than the same old, same old climb to the top of Trinity mountain and make something that they can't take away this time. Something important. Something REVOLUTIONARY. 

Not something that you can build on the back of a wannabe superhero. Let him play his fan-fiction bullshit with Sierra in Eh-Dubs. Leave the rebirth to someone who's come back from the dead before. 

Have any of the rest of you done that? 

Didn't think so. 

Christina had 2019. 

2020 is MY year.

There's a killer on the road. Buckle up, bitches. Say your prayers 'cause it's gonna get DARK.