The Emancipation of Trish Stratus

A/N: You guys know that I value your reviews, but with this chapter, it's especially important to me. I wasn't even going to write the actual match, because I'm not exactly confident with my ability to create anything remotely believable, but the writer in me couldn't stand down from the challenge. Let me know if you think it sounds okay or if I failed miserably and I need to keep my characters out of the ring permanently. Anyway, I found something else that I do own - a DX jersey that my ex-boyfriend bought me at a house show in '99. Whooooo!Now I can snuggle into my vintage souvenier and dream of Mr. Ass. And yet, sadly, I still don't own any of the wrestlers or their characters. Life's a bitch like that.Oh, well - enjoy!

If you asked Trish Stratus how she beat Triple H, she knew she couldn't tell you. It wasn't supposed to happen. She knew it, and so did everyone else in that arena. Her body wasn't supposed to do the things she had forced it to do. She was not supposed to be the first female World Heavyweight Champion in history. But she was. And it had only taken her fifteen minutes to do it. Well, her and a couple of friends.

The evening hadn't started well. He had grabbed her arm and whipped her hard into the ring post, sending flames of pain up her recently injured back. She lay there for a minute, praying that he would just pin her and get it over with. Flair made his way toward her, sneering something about getting what she deserved when the ref leaned over the top rope and warned him to back up.

Maybe no one in the arena expected Trish to find her feet, but she couldn't forget the reasons she was in that ring. On wobbly legs, she began to stand as Cena argued with Orton and Flair on the outside and Batista taunted the champion on the inside. The ref was busy trying to keep track of all of them as she climbed to the top turnbuckle and waited, adrenaline pumping through her veins.

When Triple H turned to find her, she launched herself through the air and knocked him to the mat with a Five Star Frog Splash that would have made Van Dam proud. It would have made her proud, too, had it not been for the fear that she had popped an implant on impact. Before she had a chance to hook his leg, Triple H kicked out with enough velocity to throw her body a good three feet.

She got to her feet and threw him a defiant stare, noticing the shock in his eyes for the first time. How the hell had little Trish Stratus nearly pinned the World Heavyweight Champion? His nostrils flared and he stepped back, exploding off the ropes with an outstretched arm, but she ducked the clothesline and used his own momentum to flip him in a rather impressive arm drag. Four surprised faces watched from the outside of the ring, and one stared back at her on the inside.

She got cocky, giving him a wink and a grin at that moment, until she felt a hand grasp her ankle and send her flying, face first, into the mat. The referee screamed at Orton to get away, and then she heard a thud. It sounded like a truck, so she knew it had to be Batista.

Beginning to crawl to her feet, she felt Hunter grab her shoulders and drag her to the center of the ring. Her head was shoved between his thighs and he gathered one of her thin arms to her back. The Pedigree was coming and she didn't know how to counter it. What had been foolish arrogance in her chest a moment ago was replaced by dreadful panic. That move would break her neck, and it would be all over. She would fail.

As she was frantically searching for some genius idea to counter his signature move, she felt his body crash over hers and someone pulling her out of the way. She rolled over, blinking at the lights as her ears caught snippets from all around her. The ref was screaming again, and she heard Orton's voice in response, demanding that the man in the stripes watch what was going on in the ring. The crowd was cheering wildly and she made it to her knees just in time to see Cena drop a brass-knuck adorned Five Knuckle Shuffle onto The Game's face.

He slid out of the ring before the referee turned back around, much to Flair's loud protesting behind her. Crawling on her knees, Trish covered Hunter, but he kicked out on two. She was at a loss. If he didn't stand up, she couldn't get leverage or momentum. Her strategy was quickly making its way down the toilet, dragging her hope of a victory with it.

Batista and Cena gathered at her side of the ring – Orton and Flair on Hunter's. He struggled to his feet, his face bleeding from the impact of those knucks, and then he dropped back to his knees. If she could only distract the ref – give her boys a chance to find a chair or that sledgehammer, she could put him away. But they both seemed enthralled with the mystery of what came next.

With a strength she didn't know she had, she went to the top rope again. Flair moved toward her as the referee tried to coax her down. She pointed to Flair and Cena rolled his shoulder that direction, cutting the older man off at the pass. Orton climbed into the ring, the championship belt in his hands, and Trish's eyes widened in horror. If she missed this maneuver, it was over. If she over-shot, or Hunter ducked, she was going head first into twenty pounds of leather and gold, and she wasn't getting back up.

Batista slid into the ring, despite being reprimanded by the referee, and charged toward Orton. The mere fact that she didn't get disqualified for that nearly took Trish out of the match all together. Batista grabbed Orton's arms and fought for control of the belt as Triple H, struggling to blink blood out of his eyes, turned to see the commotion behind him. Batista let go suddenly, sending Orton's hands, and the belt, crashing onto The Game's skull.

The crowd erupted as Triple H, dazed by the confusion, turned toward Trish. Without a thought, she Chick Kicked off the top rope, flying through the air once again. She felt her knee pop as the flat of her foot connected with the middle of his forehead. Batista and Orton stood in amazement as Trish hooked Hunter's leg and flopped over his chest.

As the referee counted the three, the entire arena erupted. She was sure she'd never heard anything so loud in her life. Cena slid into the ring and enveloped her in a hug, holding her body nearly a foot off the ground. Batista took the championship belt from the ground where Orton had dropped it and wrapped her numb fingers around it.

The entire women's locker room had emptied onto the top of the ramp – every woman she had loved or hated over the years was standing there, applauding her achievement. More than the win, that moment would stick in her mind forever, she realized later. The fact that this meant so much to them, opened so many doors for their futures, hadn't crossed her mind in the past week. But watching as Victoria, Lita, Stacy, Christy, and all the others extended their clapping hands to her nearly brought her to tears.

Until Bischoff's music hit and he fought his way through the line of women to the front of the ramp deck. The crowd began to boo, and Batista sat her feet back on the floor, his hand on her shoulder as the general manager raised his microphone and gave her that slimy fake smile. "Congratulations, Miss Stratus," he said with a cheesy grin. "You have done the unthinkable here tonight. You have, with a little help from your friends, achieved something that no other woman in the history of this business has been able to do. You have upset a man for the World Heavyweight title."

She wanted to thank him, but she knew this business far too well. When people who didn't like her started throwing congratulations her way? Well, she knew something was up. "What do you want?" Batista shouted from beside her.

"Well, I really do hate to break up the Feminist Power Party," he rolled his eyes and tossed a look to the other divas, "but I'm afraid your little celebration is premature, at best."

Trish was confused. Had she not just beaten the champion? Had she not won her match? When was she supposed to celebrate? She turned to Cena, but his face mirrored her confusion. Looking to Batista, she watched his shoulders sag with the weight of some knowledge he had failed to share. "What's going on?" she asked him.

He started to answer, but Bischoff spoke again. "You see, Trish, Triple H has a standard clause in every contract that he signs – it's a clause that guarantees him an automatic rematch if he is not happy with the results of his match. And he informed me before tonight's contest even began that if, by some miraculous turn of events, he actually lost to you? Well, he was invoking his clause."

Her stomach dropped to her toes as she turned and watched Flair and Orton support Hunter's weight in the corner of the ring. "He can't even stand up," Cena shouted.

There was a nod of concession from the general manager. "I can see that, Mr. Cena," he smirked. "But the clause also states that, in the event Triple H cannot wrestle his rematch, a pre-selected member of Evolution will be allowed to carry on in his stead."

She had never, in all of her years around the business, heard of such a ridiculous clause. Why would he want another member of Evolution fighting for him? Why would he want anyone else to hold that tile? Past history with Orton and Batista proved that his faction was not made of the most generous souls. He had to know that they wouldn't roll over and play dead just so that he could have his precious belt back.

Her heart jumped into her throat as a thought hit her. Flair would. In the exhausted state she was in, Flair would put her in a Figure Four with little problem, and she would tap out in seconds. And Orton, no doubt, valued his new spot too much to make the same mistake twice. There was no way that she could beat either of them now, not without help. And with Bischoff's watchful eye presiding, there was no way that Batista or Cena could get involved.

The timekeeper rang the bell and she stared at the men on either side of her in awe. Had she stayed there, safe between them, maybe she would have seen it coming. As it turned out, she rotated her body with every intention of telling Triple H what a backstabbing ass face he was, and walked directly into an RKO. Batista and Cena seemed more confused than she was, and no one broke up the three-count.

She had won the World title, and lost it again, in the span of an hour. Had Trish been able to lift her head at that moment, she would have slammed it into the canvas herself out of shere frustration. Never, in her entire life, had she felt like such a failure.