Blaze of Glory

(Formerly Dying Embers, aka The Emancipation of Trish Stratus II)

A/N: Somewhere between going to bed last night, and waking up this morning, my entire outline for this story has changed - thus, the title had to change as well. Oh well, shit happens, right? Anyway, thanks for the reviews. I'm glad to know that you're all enjoying it out of the gate. It's a lot of pressure to release a sequel that lives up to the drama of its predecessor, so I'm taking that seriously. I don't own anyone you may see, or hear from, in this chapter - do I really have to keep telling you this? Enjoy.

"I have never seen anyone look so," John stopped and searched for the right word as Trish modeled her new "costume" for him, "miserable?" She looked cute, in her Chain Gang Hottie tee shirt, and her little shorts, which seemed to be fashioned out of old football pants. He laughed slightly and then motioned to the couch in his dressing room.

Shoving his championship belt out of the way, Trish flopped to the leather and let out a sigh. "This is bull shit, John," she stated, resting her elbows on her knees, and then dropping her head into her hands.

The WWE champion watched his friend run her fingers through her perfectly curled hair, and he felt bad. He didn't want a valet. He didn't want people thinking he was anything but free and available. And he certainly didn't want Trish, who he believed was fully capable of kicking his ass in the ring, wasting her time standing on the outside.

He had been right there with her through some of her toughest battles, and to see her reduced to this was just irritating. "Why don't you just change into that sexy tee shirt Randy gave you?"

Trish cast a longing look at her gym bag and then sighed. The final gift that Randy had brought to Milwaukee was a custom tee that a friend had designed. She wanted to put it on, but knew that it would have to wait. "I gotta do this, John," she resigned, slamming her head back to the couch behind her as her cell phone rang.

She had no need for the caller ID, as she had set each of her wrestling friends' entrance music as their ring tones on her phone. "What is it, man?" she asked. Dave Batista was not one to call her before a taping just to say "hi."

There was an amused chuckle from the other end of the phone. "It's a pleasure to talk to you this evening, as well, Miss Stratus," he teased. She just rolled her eyes at John, who smiled and went back to his warm-up stretches. "Just thought I'd call to see how my favorite Women's Champion was doing," Batista added.

With a chortle, Trish shook her hair and stood, looking over her outfit once again. "I'm just peachy. Standin' here, lookin' like a fuckin' cheerleader, and feelin' like I'm on top of the world," she spat sarcastically. "Is it still against the rules to drink before going to the ring?" She flopped back onto the couch with a dramatic flair that only John could appreciate.

Batista laughed again, something she wasn't all that used to with him. Normally, it was she, Randy, and Cena laughing while he sat around and rolled his eyes. "Only at tapings," he reminded. "You nervous? Tonight's the big night, right?"

Looking at her manicured nails, Trish bit her lip. "Indeed," she answered softly, her stomach flip-flopping for a moment. Tonight was the night she fired the warning shot. If things went well, she wouldn't have to do anything stupid or crazy. If everything went according to plan, Vince would see her value in the ring, and stop this ridiculous "diva" bull shit.

"Well, I don't want you to be too nervous or nothing, but we're gonna be watchin' ya, okay?" Trish didn't answer, so Batista cleared his throat. "Um, there's someone here who wants to talk to you."

Trish waited for Randy to take the phone, but the gruff voice that greeted her ears sent a chill down her spine. "Trish? It's Taker."

She bolted upright on the couch with a jolt that brought John to her side immediately, his eyes wide with concern. "What the hell?" she asked without thinking. He hated Randy, and she was sure that meant that he hated her, too. Was he going to threaten her?

He chuckled. The Undertaker – a man she respected second only to Triple H, maybe more as of late, was laughing softly in her ear. "Listen, I was talkin' to Batista this afternoon in the gym, and he filled me in on your plan for tonight."

She wasn't sure how she felt about her guys spilling her secrets. She couldn't just announce to Vince that she was going to blatantly defy his orders and wishes. But a sneak attack would be difficult if everyone in the business already knew what she was planning. "He did, huh?" she asked slowly, still not sure what was going on. Before she could process another thought, she blurted, "Don't kill my boyfriend."

There was another laugh, not nearly as sinister as the ones he let out on television. It was actually warm with amusement. "I'm not gonna kill him, kid. Tell ya the truth, I think your boy's got a lot of guts." He was quiet for a moment, and it was ominous, as if he were there in person. "Not a lot of brains, but a lot of guts."

She rolled her eyes. It was true. Of course, Randy started acting far more irrationally after they had started dating, so she was fairly certain she was to blame for his decrease in mental prowess. "Sorry – I just worry about him, ya know?"

When John realized that she was okay, and her shoulders had relaxed, he went back to prepping for his own match of the evening. Trish caught his eye and mouthed "Undertaker," waiting for his reaction. He seemed surprised, but he just nodded in response.

"Yeah? Well, he's pretty worried about you right now, too," Taker answered, making Trish's heart flop again. He had every right to worry about her. What she was about to do was not sane. "Hey, I gotta get ready for tonight's house show, but I just wanted to let you know that, if you need reinforcements, I'm in your corner, alright?" She gasped, but didn't answer him. "Alright. Well, I'll see you later, Trish."

And he was gone. Batista was back on the phone, but Trish was barely listening. The Undertaker had just offered to help her fight Vince and Co., without even being asked. Maybe there were still people in this company who cared more about wrestling than buy rates. Maybe there were still people who thought that fighting for what you believed in was more important than selling magazines, tee shirts, and swimsuit calendars. Then again, maybe he was just waiting to welcome her to the his side, the dead one, when she failed miserably.

A Production Assistant appeared at the door, informing Cena that his match was next. Trish sighed, handed him his belt, and then hoisted hers over her shoulder. This was it. In roughly thirty minutes, Trish was going to redefine the term "suicide dive." And, for once in her life, she was terrified.