Monday came around soon enough, and the superstars cheered, grinning, as Erin pulled out her guitar backstage.
"Ready to play for the crowd?" Evan teased. Erin shook her head.
"Ready as I'll ever be," she replied. "Stephanie said I'm supposed to open the show, so I have to get out there." Somehow, despite the attitude inherent in her cargo pants, combat boots, and US Marines t-shirt, she managed to look nervous.
"You'll do great," John promised, and Erin flashed him a grateful smile.
"Wish me luck, boys," she called, waving to them as she left. The soundboard operators looked up as she neared the ramp, grinning.
"We told Steve to hold off on the pyrotechnics," they informed her. "Have fun!" Erin smiled, stepping out onto the ramp. The crowd looked surprised, not having heard any music, but Erin continued down the ramp, high-fiving the hands that reached over the barriers as she went. The crowd looked at her curiously, and Erin grinned wryly as she ducked into the ring, sliding her guitar in carefully.
"You're probably wondering why I've got my guitar," she remarked, taking a seat on the top rope—guitar in one hand, microphone on a stand in front of her. "So after last week's Raw, we were all hanging out, playing truth or dare. I was given the option of an unknown punishment or playing 'Hey Jude' in front of the entire crowd tonight before my match, and I think you may be able to guess what I chose."
"Mike, I pray to God she's nothing like Jillian," Jerry commented. Erin glanced over at him, smiling.
"I don't think I'm all that good a singer, but I can guarantee I'm not that bad," she promised. "Besides, I know I can play guitar, so at least half of this performance should be good." Erin settled her guitar, glancing down. "I'll try not to disappoint."
The crowd was uncharacteristically silent as she began to play, still looking down. In the stadium's wide-open space, the plaintive notes of the guitar echoed softly. Her voice was sweet and pure, and the song suited it perfectly. There was silence as she sang, and silence for a moment after she finished. Erin set the guitar down, looking up shyly. She had just glanced toward the ramp, biting her lip, ready to leave, when the stadium erupted in applause.
"I'd say that was every bit as good as Jillian is bad!" Jerry called over the roar of the crowd. Erin rose, waving to the crowd, her smile restored. She handed the guitar over to the ring attendant as she tugged her t-shirt over her head, hanging it and her dog tags from the corner pole before pulling out her tape, managing, for once, to tape both wrists herself. She took a few experimental bounces off the ropes as CM Punk's entrance music rang out, and she turned to face him as he entered the ring, flanked by Luke Gallows and Serena, as ever.
"You've got a real pretty voice," he informed her, his smile sickly sweet and nearly sadistic. "It's almost a shame to shut you up." Erin shook her head, smiling wryly. "I don't know why Vince McMahon signed you to fight in the same ring as me, because you have no chance whatsoever."
"Is that so?" Erin asked politely, raising her eyebrows.
"I don't know if anyone's told you, but I am the savior of the WWE," CM Punk informed her, pacing the ring. "I am the leader of the Straight-Edge Society. Straight-Edge means that I do not drink, I do not smoke, I do not take drugs. I do nothing that would alter my reality. Straight-Edge means that I am better than you."
"Now, see, that bothers me just a little," Erin replied, shaking her head. "See, I don't smoke. I don't take drugs. I don't drink. In fact, I've been straight-edge since I joined the Marines, and I haven't taken anything stronger than Advil since then. I never thought it meant I was better than anyone. I always thought it meant I respected my body and myself, but that being straight-edge is a personal choice that you cannot force." CM Punk looked surprised by her statement, and Erin smiled sweetly. "Now, it's possible I might respect you more if your associates didn't attack nine-year-old girls, but that's a different matter entirely."
"Luke has realized the error of his actions," CM Punk retorted swiftly. "His actions were not condoned, and he will not repeat them."
"I should certainly hope not," Erin said politely. "Nonetheless, I believe we came here for a match. So are we going to fight, or are we going to preach?"
The referee motioned for the bell to be rung, and Erin ducked under Punk's quick swing to drive an elbow into his kidney. He stumbled away, clutching his back, and Erin charged him. He turned quickly, catching her in a bearhug hold, and she struggled to breathe in. Wriggling her arms free, she clapped both hands over his ears, disorienting him, before jumping as high as she could, bringing her elbow down on his shoulder. Punk staggered backwards before charging once more, and she dropped to her hands and knees, snapping one foot up and catching his abdomen. He flew over her, nearly falling out of the ring before catching himself. Erin waited carefully for him to come at her once more, and he feinted left before lunging right and catching her in a lariat takedown. Erin shook her head, trying to clear it, and Punk dragged her into a headlock. Erin gasped for air once more, rolling backwards with all her strength to drive both feet into Punk's shoulders. When they rose, Erin quickly dropkicked him, sending him staggering backwards. She quickly climbed to the top rope, waiting for him to come at her. When he did, she bounced off the top rope, catching Punk with a springboard hurricanrana. He lay stunned on the mats, and Erin climbed to the top rope once more, performing her signature G.I. Jane for the pin.
The bell rang out as the referee raised her hands high.
"Ladies and Gentlemen," Jerry called gleefully. "Your winner, Erin Harris!" Erin smiled, waving to the crowd. Suddenly, a crashing noise caught her attention, and she turned to see that Luke Gallows had taken her guitar and smashed it on the announcers' table.
"You son of a bitch," Erin whispered, enraged. "You goddamn son of a bitch!" She suicide dove out of the ring, catching Luke by surprise and knocking him into the barrier, her expression well beyond murderous. "Do you have any idea what you just did? I bought this with the first money I ever earned. It saved me from an alcoholic father. I took it to goddamned Iraq and played it to keep my squad sane, and you think you can fucking smash it because I beat your pathetic asswipe of a savior?" She punctuated each statement with a blow to his head, and she shoved him over the barrier, disgusted. As she went to climb over the barrier, fully prepared to beat him senseless, Mike and Jerry caught her arms. It took two more referees to hold her back, and they released her only when the tension drained out of her muscles.
"I'm going to kill him," she said, her voice deadly calm and ice cold. "Very slowly. And very painfully." With CM Punk's help, Luke Gallows managed to rise, staggering out of the stadium to a chorus of boos. Erin yanked her arms free of the restraining holds of the referees, carefully picking up every last piece of her guitar, even the strings. She left the stadium slowly, ignoring the slow chorus of claps as the crowd rose in solidarity, keeping her head down so that no one could see that she was crying.
Once backstage, she stumbled blindly through the hallways, nearly falling as she tripped through her door. She collapsed on the couch, heedless of the splinters embedding themselves in her palms as she dropped the pieces of her guitar. She heard the door open and looked up quickly, seeing John. She glanced around, realizing that she wasn't in her locker room but his.
"I'm sorry," she stammered, mortified, struggling to her feet. "I thought it was my room—" John placed her gently but firmly back on the couch.
"I saw what happened," he told her.
"I'm sorry—" she managed. John shook his head.
"Hold still," was all he said, taking out a pair of tweezers and beginning to remove the splinters. Erin stared into space, seemingly not noticing.
"Nine months," she said quietly. John looked up from her hands, searching her face for an answer. "That's how long I was a prisoner of war. Nine months." John stayed silent, letting her talk. "They did all the standard techniques—everything that's just barely legal by the Geneva Convention. Then they moved to war crimes tactics. First shocks, then burns, then cutting. Most of the scars are covered by my tattoos. Then they moved to human rights offenses. I was raped as often as they could find someone to do it. Or something." She took a deep, shuddering breath, refusing to look at John for fear that she'd see pity or revulsion in his yes. She wasn't sure which would be worse. "God only knows why, but they let me keep my guitar. I played it, whenever my hands were untied. When I was being raped, I stared at it, trying to pretend that I was playing. It held the pain off for a while."
"Erin—" John started gently. Erin shook her head, still not looking up.
"Before that, I played for my company," she went on. "I taught seven men how to play guitar. Four of them are dead. The other three were on my squad, and not one of them will ever play again. Ronnie lost four fingers to shrapnel, Chris lost an arm when a convoy hit an IED, and Mike got hit in the head the day we left. If it hadn't been for his helmet, he'd be dead. As is, his nerve damage is so severe on his left side that he'll be at a desk job for the rest of his life. When it got bad, and I couldn't remember why I was fighting anymore, I played for the dying. I played every request, every song, every memory. Before that, it saved my life—I went to the park and played it. Most days, I was there so long that my father would pass out before I was home." She tried to smile. "You probably think I'm ridiculous, crying over a guitar. I'm really sorry I stumbled in here."
"I'm not," John said firmly, and she looked up for the first time. There wasn't pity in his eyes, or disgust, or anything but compassion. "Thank you. For trusting me." He handed over a box of tissues, and Erin laughed weakly as she dried her cheeks. "And you're not crying over a guitar; you're crying over the memories. You're not going to lose them, alright? And we're going to fix this guitar."
Erin's smile was wobbly, but genuine, and John smiled in response.
"Let's go get some dinner," he encouraged, offering her a small box to place the remnants of her guitar in. He wrapped a friendly arm around her shoulders as they left, and Erin's smile became just a little brighter.
A/N: Aww…how sweet. In case you're incredibly oblivious and couldn't tell by now, yes, I'm going to put John Cena and Erin together at some point. Ted Dibiase and Beth Phoenix will also remain a pair, and there'll be a few background couples in there as well. Thanks for continuing to review, guys. I hope you know just how much it means to me. It's really validating to get reviews, so keep on reading and reviewing!
