Blaze of Glory
A/N: Alright, if you've read my stories much in the past, you know I don't like to do a lot of commentary. I think a really good writer should just be able to get around her (or his) personal feelings about Creative and whatever else, and write a great story. But in writing this one, something really started to bite my ass. There are no good "heels" left on RAW.
Triple H was easy for the last story, because he really is "That Damn Good" at what he does. Sure, there are characters I don't like, but that doesn't make them great heels, ya know? Remember when The Rock was a great asshole that we could all love? Or what about Shawn Michaels, in the DX days? Admit it - even Orton was good at being a cocky blowhard, wasn't he? Jericho was a good heel. (Side bar: Trish is a great heel, but since I've turned her into a "face" for story purposes, I'm not counting her here) They were good because they talked a lot of shit, but they had even more talent to back it up. It's just not fun to hate someone who sucks in the ring - at least, in my opinion.
Anyway, in shooting for "realism" as I try to do in every story, I had to deal with the chump nuts that are running around RAW as "bad guys" currently, so here's what I came up with. I hope I was able to weave it into a believable plot for you. If you hate me for the preceding statements after reading this chapter, shoot me an e-mail - I'd be happy to debate it with you, or at least try to explain myself.
If you're still reading this note, I just wanted to say "thanks" to those of you who have been faithfully reviewing this story. I appreciate it more than you know. I hope you continue to enjoy it as much as I love getting your feedback. Oh, and I don't own 'em. If I did, the 'bad guys' would be better - I promise.
Trish paced her hotel room like a caged animal. A wounded, caged animal. Her head was pounding, and her back felt like it was on fire. She was, frankly, surprised that her legs were supporting her weight, let alone performing the strenuous act of stalking the room. But the worst part was the sinking, nauseous feeling in her gut.
It didn't make sense. None of it made any sense. Neither she, nor Randy, had made enemies with any of them. At least, not that she could remember. And, as far as she knew, none of them really spent much time together outside of the ring. So why had they attacked her at ringside after John's match?
The plan was for John to beat Renee Dupree to an almost incoherent state – which wasn't difficult, by any means – and then distract the referee while Trish finished him off. She was going to deliver a Chick Kick, and some other jaw-dropping, impromptu maneuver. Then she would get the hell out of the ring and wait for John to give an F-U, and pick up his victory. The French Phenom was not much in the way of stepping stones, but she knew that she had to use whatever she could take as a sign to the higher up's that she was ready, willing, and more than able to get back in the ring.
But somewhere in the middle of the match, she started to get an uneasy feeling. It was the kind of gut-knowledge that someone was watching her, waiting for her to make a move. She had dismissed it as nerves, or paranoia, or even the unsettling need to make Randy proud of her while he watched his girl in action. She couldn't back out – this was big, and it was important. She had to show that she was back in fighting form, and willing to take on anyone, even the boys, to strengthen the reputation of the Women's Division.
The plan had worked, too. After about five minutes of decimating Dupree, Cena slid out of the ring and went for his belt, seemingly intent on inflicting a little more damage to the Frenchman. He made no attempt to hide his actions from the referee, who took the bait and turned his back on the man inside.
Dupree struggled to sit, and then made his way to wobbly legs when Trish slid under the bottom rope and nailed him in the chest with a Chick Kick. His head hit the mat hard and she launched herself toward the ropes, executing the Lionsault just as Jericho had taught her when they were dating. Following it up with an elbow-drop for good measure, she slid out of the ring as John dropped the belt and the ref turned back to the action, only to find Dupree in the same position as before – flat on his back, gasping for air.
After the F-U, and the announcement of victory, Trish stood at the base of the ramp and waited as John launched himself into a jubilant sea of Chain Gang. She was so sure that she had done everything right, that everything had gone according to plan, that she hadn't even noticed them approaching.
She sure as hell noticed, though, when Snitsky hit her in the back of the head with that fuckin' chair. The pain was sudden, and intense, but before she could recover, she felt her arms being raised above her head as Masters applied his stupid Master Lock, forcing her chin to her chest as he shook her tiny body with all of his strength.
She didn't remember anything after that, but she woke up in the training room with an angry, expletive-spewing Cena, and a whole lot of chewed-up apple on her face, and in her hair. Apparently, the IC champ had decided to add insult to injury by spitting on the unconscious women's champion.
She knew how they could do it – all three of them were easily amused by their own antics. Snitsky liked watching someone bleed after a chair shot at his hands. And Masters got off on making people half his size pass out. Carlito found the humiliation and degradation of anyone who wasn't himself extremely entertaining.
What she didn't understand was why they had done it. What would motivate any of them to attack her? She hadn't been around that much since any of them had arrived on RAW, and when she was, she certainly wasn't crossing their paths. She would have understood Edge, or even Kane, being pissed because of how she had treated Lita. And she could see Eugene holding a grudge for the way she had dissed his good friend, Christy. She could even justify Tomko wanting a piece for the way she had ended things with Christian. Maybe if Hurricane and Rosey didn't like the way she had handled her issues with Stacy in the past, she could have seen their point.
But these three chump nuts had never spoken a collective sentence to her since they had signed their contracts, as far as she could remember. None of them had any reason to want her broken and disabled. Did they?
Her musings were interrupted by the hotel door, which she had forgotten to lock, flying open, nearly falling off its hinges. "Are you okay?"
She turned slowly and rolled her eyes as Hunter slammed the door behind himself and made his way over to her. "I'm fine," she assured him, cringing when he reached for her neck and tried to turn her head. "Except when you do that," she insisted, stepping away from him.
He looked her over critically, a flood of concern in his eyes. "What the hell were you doing out there? Are you just trying to get yourself killed now?"
She narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms. "Why are you here?" she asked.
He sat on the bed and mirrored her expression. "Orton's called me, like, three times, demanding to know what the hell is going on with you."
She huffed. That was the most ridiculous thing she had ever heard. Even before she and her old friend had fallen out, Randy hated him more than anyone on the planet. "Why would Randy call you?" she asked, rolling her eyes and limping toward the bed, lowering herself beside him.
"Cena had a concert tonight?" Hunter reminded. Trish shrugged. "Apparently, Victoria's not answering her phone, and yours," he reached into his pocket and held it up in front of her, "was on the floor in the locker room."
She took the phone and flipped it open. Seven missed calls. "I'll call him," she assured, closing the phone again. As soon as she had an answer for him. But Hunter didn't budge when she stood and started toward the door. "I said I'll call him." He just glared at her. "What?" He still didn't speak. "Thanks for bringing my phone back?"
Clearing his throat, he slid his sport coat over his shoulders and laid it gingerly on the bed behind him. "Just exactly what are you trying to do, Trish?" he asked. Before she could answer, he held up a hand. "Because if it's what I think it is, you're losing your touch."
His smirk made her blood boil. "I'm not trying to do anything," she demanded, knowing it sounded weak and childish. But she had been battered and beaten by three guys that made her want to wretch, and she wasn't going to apologize for being slow with the comebacks.
"Bull shit," Hunter answered, still unsure of why he was there himself. He should have been doing everything he could to end her career. He should have been intent on revenge for everything she had put him through over the last few months. But guilt, and something deeper, kept him from holding the grudge.
He had been the one who demanded she ref his match against Orton at Unforgiven, hoping to teach her for turning her back on him. And he had been the one holding the barbed-wire wrapped lead pipe that, although inadvertent, sank into her head that night, nearly killing her. He had been the one that put her in this position in the first place. Sort of.
If he wanted to split hairs, he could place all the blame on Orton. Or on Trish herself. But at the heart of it all, she was still his Trishter. No matter how he tried to kick against the bond, it was still strong. Families had disagreements, fights, and falling-outs. But real families got through them, and they still loved each other, even when they didn't understand each other. And he wanted to get through this one with her.
"What do you want me to say, Hunter?" Trish asked, throwing her hands into the air and then cringing against the pain that shot up her spine. "You want me to say that I'm happy valeting for John? Or that I'm just overjoyed that I never get to see Randy anymore? You want me to say that I'm willing to do whatever Vince says, just waiting for the day when you guys deem me "ready to return"? If I ever sat back and waited for someone else to see the potential in me, I'd still be on my hands and knees in the ring, barking like a dog for Vince's amusement," she sighed and fought tears at the memory from the early days of her career.
An unexpected anger flared in his chest at that statement. He could still remember the moment, like it was yesterday. And he could still remember wanting to punch his future father-in-law in the face for the way he had degraded Trish that night. "What I want," he sighed, pushing the rage down, "is for you to watch this tape from tonight and tell me what the hell you were thinking, joining forces with those jack asses."
Trish's mouth gaped open as Hunter stood and put the tape into the VCR in her room. "Joining forces?" she shrieked. He turned, remote in hand, and raised his eyebrow. "You think that was my plan? To have Snitsky, Masters, and Carlito attack me? Are you completely fucking retarded?"
With an incredulous look, he waited for her to explain. When she didn't, he sat on the edge of the bed and motioned for her to join him. "Not like it's easy to follow your thought patterns lately, Stratus," he pointed out, pressing play. "If you didn't set it up, why the hell would those three people, specifically, target you?"
Trish watched the action on the screen, as the camera focused on her, the three approaching her from behind. She didn't know if this was supposed to help anything, but hearing the crowd shout for her to turn around just made her feel even more stupid for not seeing it coming. The attack was blatant, and brutal. She fell like a bag of bones when Snitsky hit her, and then Masters lifted her like a doll.
But her eyes narrowed as Carlito bit into his apple, looked around, smirked smugly over his shoulder, and then turned to spit on her. "Wait!" Hunter hit the 'pause' button. "Rewind it." He did, and she watched again. "Right there," she pointed to the screen. The action stopped again as Trish snapped her fingers and pointed to something in the upper left corner. "Zoom in," she snapped her fingers.
Hunter rolled his eyes. "Trish, it's a VCR," he reminded her.
"Then come here," she motioned frantically, but he stayed seated. "It's fuckin' Coach," she spat, tapping the screen with her fingernail again. "When Carlito looks over his shoulder, Coach nods and points at me. He knew about this," she accused, turning back to look at Hunter.
"Coach knew that Carlito, Snitsky, and Masters were going to attack you?" His voice said that it was crazy, but his eyes said that he didn't doubt it was a possibility. "How would he know that?"
"Because he's up Bischoff's ass?" she stated. "Because Bischoff told them to do it." It didn't matter if Hunter thought she was crazy, she knew what was going on now. "Because they're paranoid, Bischoff and Vince. Vince told me himself that he couldn't fire me. And they know that I'm capable of doing something without their permission, and they wanted to show me that they still have the control. And hey," she threw her hands up, "if I happen to lose five or six years off the end of my career because these ogres are cheap-shotting me, then that solves their problem."
He sighed and nodded in concession. It was entirely possible, though it sounded kind of outrageous. If something so devious was going on behind the scenes, he would have known about it, and he hadn't heard 'word one' about any plan to contain Trish. "If that's the case," he started slowly, trying to think of how to approach her. It was clear, from the crazed look in her eye, that she was about to launch into Psycho-Trish mode once again, "then this is too big for you to handle, Trish." He stood and took his coat in his hands. "Why don't you let me sniff around, see what I can find, and what I can do to stop it?"
She bit her lip and put her hands on her hips. "Right," she laughed. "Because you really think that's going to happen." Hunter raised an eyebrow, and Trish's stomach sank to her toes. "You don't think I can take care of myself, do you?" For some reason, no matter how much she told herself she didn't care what he thought anymore, the idea that he didn't believe in her abilities hurt.
Watching her eyes cloud with disappointment, he reached out a large hand and rested it on her shoulder. "Look, Trish, this is not me you're talking about taking on. You're not trying to deal with someone who gives a damn about you personally. You're dealing with people who see you as property now. People who see you as a tradable commodity, a thing. You can't just run off, half-cocked like you did with me, and expect them to be blinded by their feelings for you."
She swallowed the lump that formed at the emotion in his voice. He still cared about her. Or he wanted her to believe that he did. She turned her head to the side and watched him for a moment. "You're one of them now," she spoke softly, though it wasn't an accusation. It was almost a reminder.
He just slid his jacket over his shoulders and fished his car keys out of his pocket. "Which gives me an inside look into how they work. And I know that, if they're trying to force you into retirement, or a bra and panties, or whatever the fuck else they have in mind, they won't stop until they have succeeded. It's gonna take a hell of a lot more fuckin' thought than you've put in, if you want to beat them."
She smiled at him, a sly smile that always worked when she was trying to get her way with Randy. Of course, she wasn't trying to lure Hunter into her bed because, well, ew! But he seemed to soften at the expression. "The kinda thing I might need the Cerebral Assassin for?" she asked.
Shrugging, he moved toward the door. "This isn't my fight, Trish. I don't care if the Women's Division disappears or not," he gave her the truth she didn't want to hear. "But I do have one thing that they don't. I have the sense to know that you're good for this business, regardless of how many egos you may step on." He held his arms out and wrapped her in a brotherly hug and kissed the top of her head before releasing her. "You lay low for a little while. I'll do the recon, but then I'm out. It's your war, and I'm not takin' shrapnel in the ass for you or anyone else."
Trish laughed and patted his arm as she opened the door, the opening strains of "Burn in My Light" filling the room. "I better go make sure he doesn't have a coronary." Hunter nodded, put on his 'bad ass' face for anyone who might be wandering the halls, and then disappeared as Trish raced for her phone.
No one would doubt that she had the guts to take on the company – she had proven her intestinal fortitude time and time again. But Hunter was right. She wasn't ready mentally. And he hadn't said it, but she also knew she wasn't ready physically.
Randy's call went to voice mail before she could reach it, but she didn't call him back. Instead, she dialed another number she knew by heart. "Hey. It's Trish. . . I'm gonna need your help. . . No, my back's fine. . . Yeah, sore, but fine. Hey, do you remember that time when you said you had a couple of new moves to show me?" She giggled and looked toward the sky, as if she'd just received her salvation. "Can we start first thing tomorrow?"