3. Cheyanne

Archimedes is just kinda there now, huh?

Iread, courtesy of a social media post by Leodonnalover12. The busty blonde orc is just one of seventy-three others with the exact same username except for changing the number.

"Well, fuck you, too," I hiss, taking another deep swig of grocery store bubbly, something I grabbed over a fifth of vodka.

Smart at the time. Now? Not so much. I always thought the day I'd catch myself drinking on my bedroom floor in the dark would come with a better backstory than some crap reviews.

Maybe I'd lost a future husband or close friend. Dad's gotten sick, or my younger brother, Liam, even. Something like that would be ‘drinking on the floor' worthy. Perhaps I'm in my mid-fifties and wallow-drinking after I"d discovered a lump in the shower. Anything other than what I'm doing.

I close my eyes and gulp down more of my impromptu purchase, taking a moment away from pouting over the message boards to consider the lump scenario for real.

"Just like Mom," I say to the air as soon as the bottle leaves my lips.

She found a lump in the shower. I let myself fall a few inches back into the side of my bed, then point to my phone screen. I don't have to read Leodonnalover12's post twice but I still do. Probably because I'm a glutton for punishment.

Archimedes is just kinda there now, huh?

Six more people have liked it since my last drink.

"Your shitty comment is just there," I slur into the screen. "What do you think about that?"

My eyes wander to the newest reply.

Sad to say, but the best heroes die together. She should have bowed out when Leodonna did. Would have made more sense. Just overall.

"Fuck! Shit!" My clenched fist connects with the carpet as I cry out.

But only because I thought it'd do more than nothing whatsoever to soothe me. I'm not hurt. I'm pissed. I try smacking my flat palm down a couple of times, then get up to punch a few good ones into a body pillow on my bed. It's either this or throwing my phone against the wall. I'd go for something breakable if I had a bat and a few spare window frames.

"Okay, relax." I tighten my ponytail as my bare ankle connects with the cold, smooth champagne bottle I've inconveniently left on the ground. "No!"

Luckily enough, there isn't much left, and the carpet's still dry when I land on it.

"Winning!"

This calls for a celebration. And some light. I flick on my Hello Kitty lamp, the one I know I'm too old for, but something about it just makes me smile.

I may not be nineteen anymore, but when I saw it back at Dad's a few months back, nostalgia got the best of me. I had to give it a better home than where I"d found it, loitering in his storage room. I didn't have the heart to leave it among the multitudes of various Quicksilver merchandise from over the years. Well-cared-for and pricey collectibles at this point, but it still didn't feel right to leave something I once begged to have sitting unused, forgotten, and surrounded by my father's angry wrestling persona.

"You deserve to shine bright, you," I say to the mostly pink and purple lamp.

It deserves better than my worst nightmare. Even if that means it clashes just a touch with the rest of the chocolate brown, soft yellow, and cactus-green colors that comprise my room.

My phone glares at me from its spot on my bedspread, tucked halfway under the pillow I've been raging on.

"You think you're better than me?" I ask the social media post, just as soon as it's in my hand again.

She should have bowed out when Leodonna did. Would have made more sense.

I've read this argument before. It's tiresome and doesn't explain the solid year I had after Marie Sinclair O'Malley left the ring to wrestle her cancer. Her exit was sudden, both from the stage and the world, but it has nothing to do with Raucous dropping the ball now.

My phone dings once more. It's a text from Dad.

Thought you'd want to see this.

I press play on the video and immediately regret it. It's of me in my late teens looking like Hot Topic threw up half their merchandise, which I then rolled in. But only in the blackest, most ‘punk rock' sections of their cotton goth vomit.

"Get it, girl!" Mom's delighted voice comes over the speaker.

I shake my head as an unwanted smile curls on the right side of my face. Mom knew just what to do to trick me into what she called an ‘embarrassing but necessary test.' She'd finally got me, or rather my first character, Disastra, to wrestle a folding chair. She made sure to suggest it while I was playing Disastra in our home ring, which left me powerless to stop the arrogant villain from falling into her dare.

"You got this!" she cries as I manage to kick the chair off balance, then leap over it like I've done more than make an obstacle for myself.

But at this point, I'm so in character that I barely give a shit that she's filming.

Inanimate objects as practice partners don't just make you look silly. A scene partner that you have to navigate around and make up for in your own performance is a problem every wrestler faces. And I'd bought into the idea that pretending to this degree would make me a better actress. She was right.

"Here comes your doom!" my own voice rings out, and I cringe because I know what's coming.

I watch my younger self grab and spin her defeated metal foe around and around, finally letting go right into Mom's face. I wince, though I know she ducks at the last minute. Still, it was a rookie move to let go when I did.

"Get back here, swine!" I watch my smokey, black-shadowed eyes widen just as the angle shifts, Mom's bubbly laugh ringing out.

"A damn good exercise, Ma. A damn good exercise," I muster, just as I get a second message.

Care to accompany your old man to a show tomorrow night?

Business or fun?

If he's going to ask me about Archimedes or working for him, I'm out. No doubt.

Fun. It's wrestling. People-wrestling. Chair wrestling is next week.

I roll my eyes and heave a sigh. It took me a few more chair wrestling sessions to realize this wasn't a standard industry practice but something Mom took upon herself to add to her itinerary of warm-ups. Well, a few more times, plus the few people I mentioned it to.

"Still could have something," I finish, sending a thumbs-up emoji before wobbling my way to the kitchen for a glass of water.

I don't always sad-drink, but when I do, I wake up hourly in my bed with a ravenous thirst for water. Future Cheyanne will thank me.

* * *

"You don't look great," Dad says over the roar of applause from the audience around us.

Our premium seats for tonight's round-up mean it's loud but not crowded. At least between us and the ring ahead, where Johnson Tora Tora, a minotaur with a mean streak, stomps out of the ring to face the crowd.

"Spoils of war!" he hollers as everyone stands, including me and Dad.

Tora Tora is part of Fool's Gold Entertainment and one of Dad's favorite acts around. Tora Tora removes the gold-plated ring from his nose and hurls it into the audience. Someone far behind us catches it, and Tora Tora lets out a bellow while his entourage pulls him away.

"The guy I wanted to win lost," I lie, gesturing to the empty ring.

Cathedral, a bitter Spanish monk, is part of Raucous's crew, so I made sure to hammer home my loyalty during the fight. At least in Dad's ear.

"Come work for Fool's Gold." I smile flatly when he says this, ignoring him as the announcer comes back on. "Hold that thought. I need to focus," he adds.

And that's fine with me, considering I don't have anything to say other than what I have. I don't need him to fix my problems. I need him to support me in fixing my own problems.

"They call him Lawless at their peril," a low, gravelly voice begins. "Because when you call, he comes. And when he comes, there's nowhere to hide."

Lights, smoke, cheers, and a screaming guitar solo fill the arena as a tall, broad-shouldered orc struts out and comes down the walkway.

Now there's a villain, I think.

Lawless Jackson and the actor who plays him, Ronan Bronson, may not be on the same side as Archimedes and the other good guy faces of Raucous, but he has the company"s complete devotion. At least from where I'm standing.

And I can see why. Anything he glares at turns to gold. The packed house is a testament to that, but so is the long list of others he's bolstered by beefing with them. He's setting up a new member of the Raucous team with a few cameos in the guy's storyline now and killing it. I don't realize I've been chewing my lower lip and thinking about myself until Lawless's chair strikes Ganigar's back.

Why haven't you asked him for help? a little voice in my head asks.