1. Cheyanne

"Yeah, girl! Get her!"

I hear the slurring fan holler from the crowd as I flail my arms for effect. My opponent, Kelly Anne, or Amazonia as the fans call her, and her classic headlock have always been a crowd pleaser, even if tonight's wrestling match at Big Bad Ben's is a little thin in the fan department. So I'll take the ass-kicking.

"Crush that skull!" I hear another spectator call, followed by a chorus of whoops.

My cheek scrapes against Amazonia's itchy wrestling costume as she spins me around the ring.

My skull isn't exactly what she is supposed to be crushing, but I'll play along since the show's almost over and nothing about it so far has been memorable.

Right now, I'm supposed to be fake falling halfway across the ring. But, hey, Kelly has the crowd, and I'm not against freestyle.

I fall back onto the mat, let out a good battle cry, and roll to my feet just in time to miss her swinging arm.

"Finish her, Amazonia!" the same voice yells in the stands as I duck, and then dart out of Kelly's grasp. "Defend the throne!"

We play a little cat and mouse around the ring. My eyes roam Big Bad Ben's, not typically this bereft of my own personal fans. But then again, I've been saying that for six months now.

"Smash her good!" another fan jeers.

I let Amazonia snatch me by the hair, pulling me back and into her.

"Ready?" Kelly asks, about to hurl me into the ropes per the actual routine. The boring, basic, stale routine.

"No!" I scream, clawing at her arms.

Nothing gets the crowd going faster than a little pleading, making it the perfect safeword.

We're about to finish this thing. I'll make sure to cry out as I bounce off the ropes and back into her grasp. I'm supposed to wiggle free, then catapult myself off the opposite ropes and straight into her waiting abdomen. Amazonia, or Kelly, will spin and toss me. But I'll come back, taking her to the mat with a knee to the nose.

I swing my way across the ropes and into Kelly.

"Oooh!"

Again, the crowds are responding to her, to Amazonia, the villainous queen of the warlords. I don't know much about her character's motivations for evil, though my hero persona, Archimedes, plays a small part in the league's current storyline for Amazonia.

I squeal as she spins me around, and then lets me go. I roll nearly all the way off the mat but stop short. I'm tonight's winner. Stale choreography or not.

"No! No! Stay down!" The screamer is right in front of me, a thin man in a trucker's cap and blue jeans.

I shouldn't be getting booed. It's the last thing I think as I fake-smash Kelly's face. She collapses to the mat as choreographed, and I raise my arms high. A cacophony of boos hit me from all angles. Again.

"And there goes Arachne, Queen of—" Whoever Raucous Entertainment has emceeing this lukewarm match stops suddenly.

I fake-stomp my heel into Kelly's toned and shimmering midsection. Apparently, in her Amazon, leopards have black spots that glitter. And orange fur that glitters. And a face that glitters. Their primary export is glitter, I guess.

I can feel an entire handful smeared across my left arm. I wave big for the fans, which is such a strong word now that I think about it. A lot of angry faces are in the crowd, easier to stomach than the bored ones. I'd say over half the drifting spectators are rocking something closer to disappointment than rage. A performer's worst nightmare.

"Amazonia! I mean. Ha!" the grinning dud with the mic says. I can't believe this was their last-minute replacement for our usual rotation of narrators. "Sorry, guys. The winner's Archimedes."

"Oh, whoa," Kelly says, still flat on her back and obviously aware of the terribly timed apology. "I'm sure he meant sorry about my name, not you winning."

"Stay in character!" I say with a smile.

I'm supposed to be a face, a hero character in the wrestling canon. It's part of my image to love the audience, even if they don't love me.

"Rematch, bitch!" she roars, fake scratching at my legs, covered in sleek blue pantyhose the costume department thought looked futuristic.

"You'd love that, wouldn't you?" I hiss my trademark line, though I'm positive no one's paying attention.

I bend down and stick a finger in her face while the ref ducks out of the ring and into the throng of exiters. Wow. Where's everyone's professionalism?

I look over my shoulder to see my demon trainer, Mac, halfway across the factory-turned-nightclub and leaning against the bar. Leaning against the bar with another familiar face. Joseph O'Malley, a wrestling legend and a constant reminder of my shortcomings, since I can't manage to get out from under his glorious shadow.

"Oh, I didn't know your dad was going to be here!" Kelly says, getting up to follow her orc manager out of the ring. She nudges my arm. "I've got some autos to sign, but tell him hey!" she continues as the remaining fans around the ring flock to her.

I stomp over to the bar, rather than focus on the beaming faces stuck in Kelly's glow. I remember the days when fans wanted my autograph, even after a loss. What do I have to do to get those back?

I gesture to the ring as Mac shrugs and sips his drink. "Where's my trainer? You should be showing off out there," I say, glaring at the gray-scaled demon like he isn't a brick house with horns.

"Where's my performer?"

"Some show," Dad says at the same time as Mac.

"Define some," I quip to the balding owner of Fool's Gold Entertainment, part of the league and Raucous Entertainment's newest competitor.

"Not a lot."

Dad's tone isn't rude, but I frown anyway. "Correct."

"I'd call it something, too," Mac observes, hopping off the barstool and adjusting his brown leather jacket. "A bad way to end a good run."

We both have to speed walk to catch up with him. So much for utilizing my dressing room. This is why I shouldn't take the company car with Mac. There's a forty percent chance I'll be leaving in my costume. I fight the urge to remove my glittery blue boots and head out barefoot.

"Love you, Jo'Mal!" one fan calls from behind us.

Dad turns and gives a big wave, flexing his left arm. He hasn't been Quicksilver for a decade and yet people still love his reaper character. Raucous owns it much to his annoyance.

"End? What do you mean ‘end?'"

Mac stops and turns as I adjust my ocean blue corset, cursing the day I decided to start fighting with fake satin gloves. Sure, they look cool and sell well, or at least used to, but everything's ten times harder wearing them. I jump and tug as Mac winces, holding up an arm like I just flashed him.

"Ah! Warn a demon," he barks, waving for Dad to hurry up and stop taking selfies. "I sent the car off ‘cause I knew it'd take two of us to say this," Mac begins once we're cruising out of the parking lot in Dad's loaded Escalade.

So that's why Mac invited him. He thinks I need my daddy to help me see my character needs work. "Way ahead of you. Something has to change. I know."

"What do you have in mind?" Dad asks.

"A revamp. Archimedes needs–"

"If the next words out of your mouth aren't ‘a good sending off,' we're in more trouble than you think," Mac says, his marbled red and black eyes narrow as he leans against the console to look back at me.

"Wow, so this is definitely an intervention." I cross my arms and stare out the window. It's dark, but I pretend to focus on the mountains in the distance anyway.

"A mercy killing," Mac's gravelly voice replies.

I scoff. "That's not your decision to make."

"I know. It's yours until it's not. That what you want?"

I know he's talking about Raucous Entertainment dropping me if things keep up the way they are. Lena and Fritz aren't exactly nagas known for their charity. They work hard for the clients they represent, both with a direct line to fans and the best bookers around. But only if we're marketable.

"It's not my fault if Tom's writing garbage scripts for me. I have no new moves, no rival, no plotline –"

"Can't blame Tom," Dad says as he soars through a yellow light, waving to a motorcycle cop parked at the corner.

I scoff and shift position to check his speed. Anyone else would be pulled over by now.

"Why not?" I ask, realizing his tanned and chiseled face looks more guilty than usual. "Did you poach him, too? How am I supposed to have good storylines when my bookers keep changing?"

"Come work for me and it won't be a problem. Disastra all day and night."

I fight the urge to stomp a foot like a child and settle for pressing them both against the floor. I focus on the pressure building in my ankles, rather than the enormous harumph escaping Mac.

"No offense, by the way, for not telling me," Mac snaps. "But if you've got another character cooking –"

"There's nothing to tell," I say, pulling out my cell phone. "I don't need anything but a little rebranding."

Most wrestlers like talking about their first character. But Mac's been hounding me about hanging up my space alien persona too much for me to dangle any alternative in his face. I can only do so much with the same tired moves Mac's killing me with. The same goes for the support roles and lackluster promos, which I'm assuming is also going on. Plain and simple.

"It ain't the moves," Mac says. "It's the shelf life. Hang her up while you still have a choice."

"As always, a pleasure," I reply, already going for the door handle as we pull up to my place. "But what Archimedes needs is a purpose and bigger punches. I need props. I need fewer rules."

"Disastra," my dad tries. "Talk to Fritz about some experiment gone wrong or something. You can fall into a vat of poison and pop out a goth rocker. But I agree with the reviews."

"Goth rocker?" Mac asks, which is my cue to get inside my cozy two-bedroom.

"I'll show you some pictures," I hear Dad say through the car door.

I roll my eyes and shut the door. Archimedes isn't going anywhere. But her reputation is. Starting with how she fights. Trainer or no trainer. Fans or no fans.