Blaze of Glory
A/N: Alright, so just a couple of things before you read this one. This chapter, to me, is the most important in either of The Emancipation or Blaze, so I wanted to make sure that I got it right. I don't know if you'll love it, or be highly disappointed, but I feel good about it. And I have to say thanks to Kiera, for your great ideas and the support. Hope you like how it turned out.
Also, the song I mention in the first paragraph of this chapter is the one that first inspired me with the idea for this sequel, so if you haven't heard it - find it and check it out. Then tell me if it's not Trish, and this story, to a tee. Even down to the cities mentioned, it is perfect. Oh, and if you read The Emancipation, you'll recognize the italicized portions of this story. In an attempt to wrap everything up, I went back to the beginning a little bit. Hope you don't get confused!
I don't own 'em, but I sure have loved playing with them for my own amusement, and yours. Enjoy!
Standing behind the black curtain, just out of sight, Trish let out a deep breath. Years from now, she would try to recapture this night, to explain this moment in time to her kids. She would tell them about her intro, and what it was like to hear the symphonic sounds of thousands, screaming her name in unison. But as her giggle penetrated the speakers, and the fans started to chant for her, she knew it would be impossible to replicate. She could tell of the money she had spent to attain the rights to this night's theme music, but would never be able to describe the feeling in her gut as she stepped through the curtain to Green Day's 'She's a Rebel.' She could show them a dvd of Wrestlemania 22, but the electricity coursing through the Chicago air, threatening to tear the roof off of the United Center, would never transfer to video accurately.
"And making her way to the ring, from Toronto, Canada," Lillian tried to shout over the roar of the crowd, "TRISH STRATUS!"
She climbed the stairs and stepped onto the apron, letting out a final sigh of anxiety before ducking her head and entering the ring. Half of this crowd, without a doubt, thought there was no way she would beat him. They believed this would be her last match. But the only other person in the arena who knew it for sure was watching her intently from the other side of the squared circle.
There was no smile on Orton's face – just the determined glare of the Legend Killer.
When he had first joined Evolution, with that cocky grin and that amazing body, she had crushed out a little. But, thankfully, before she went too far, she realized what a cocky blow-hard he was. They had never seen eye-to-eye again.
It was an expression she hadn't experienced since before last year's Wrestlemania, and it was one that she couldn't say she had missed.
She rotated her shoulders and stretched her neck, hopping from one foot to the other, while holding her opponent's gaze. The music stopped, and she sniffled, determined to let him make the first move. 'Be ready to strike first. But let them come to you. Let them think they're on the offensive.' Rob's words rang in her head as Randy watched her intently.
"Let's go," he hissed, cracking his knuckles and shaking his arms at his sides.
"We've already proven that we can beat you. And you got nothin' on us. In fact, ya know what I say, Triple H? What we say?" He looked down to Trish, who was glaring at the camera with an angry, focused look. "Tell him what we say, baby," he nodded his head toward the camera, as if giving her permission.
Trish gritted her teeth and found that an irritated tone wasn't hard to find. This character was fun.
"Bring it on," she motioned, shrugging her shoulders.
He stepped toward her, no doubt ready for a collar-and-elbow tie up, but with his size advantage, she knew it would be of no benefit. Instead, she leapt into the air and landed a standing drop kick to his sternum.
The unorthodox move knocked him back, but he grabbed the ropes to regain his balance, shaking his head for a moment. With an "oh, it's on" chuckle, he exploded off the ropes and ran toward her with an outstretched arm.
"Leverage," he stated and then held up a second finger, "and momentum. You can't overpower Hunter, but you can knock him onto the mat if you hit him from up high or use his own momentum to trip him up, okay?" She nodded and bit her lip, an adorable picture of full concentration.
Shooting her own arm out, she hooked his elbow for a deep arm drag. He tucked his long body in the air, flipped, and landed flat on his ass. Grabbing his elbow again, she applied an arm bar to his surgically repaired shoulder. 'Know your opponents weaknesses, Trish. Exploit them, to whatever advantage you can.' She silently thanked Triple H for that advice as she tweaked Randy's shoulder upward again.
Cringing, he tried his best not to call out in pain. That would only fuel the woman above him, her knee jammed in his spine as she wrenched his arm at an unnatural angle. She had to know that she couldn't beat him with that move, but he had a feeling she was just aiming to make him hurt like hell. Gathering the strength he knew she couldn't counter, he fought to his knees, forcing her to relax her grip. Snaking his bad arm up, he grabbed the side of her head for an RKO.
But Trish knew Randy – not only as a man, as a wrestler. She had watched every match, every house show for six months, and televised event for almost a year. She had never studied an opponent like she had studied him. With her hands on his ass, she shoved him off with everything she could muster. He flew across the ring, his legs dangling over the second rope as his shoulders hit the mat and he finally cried out.
She listened to the crowd swell in appreciation of her counter, and narrowed her eyes at the man before her. The referee counted to three before Orton untangled himself from the ropes and stood. Intent on delivering the Chick Kick, she bent her knee twice and waited for him to turn.
But as well as Trish knew Randy, he knew her twice over. Even while she was training, and leading this new movement of Girl Power, he had watched her. While she had been too busy to think about him, he had been focused on her. Something in his gut had always told him it would come to this, and he grabbed her leg before she could swing it at his face.
She felt her balanced foot leave the mat before she realized that he had averted her attempted maneuver. Squeezing her eyes shut, Trish felt her head smack the mat as Randy simply slammed her to the ground. Her hands went, instinctively, to her neck as she writhed in searing pain.
Watching as she moved her hand from her neck to her back, Randy tried to ignore the stabbing guilt in his chest. He had done pretty well, at least he thought, at pretending she wasn't his girlfriend to this point. She was just this chick who wanted to steal his thunder, some girl who thought she could step up to the Legend Killer.
Grabbing a handful of her hair, he dragged her to the center of the ring and stood her up. She wanted a standing drop kick? He would show her how it was supposed to be done. Leaping into the air, he felt his feet connect with the pillow-y softness of her chest as she let out a 'oomph' on impact, and crumbled to the ground.
Rolling to her stomach, Trish crawled to the ropes, pulling herself up again. "Jesus, woman," Randy sighed as she bounced off the tight cables and launched herself at him again. He caught her in mid-air, watching her legs kick before power-slamming her to the mat. "Just stay the fuck down."
The flames shot up her spine again, but she groaned and lifted her knees, trying to circulate some feeling as the referee started counting. Stay the fuck down? Right. Like he thought that was going to happen.
"I'm only gonna say this once, and I want you to listen carefully. I love you, Trish. I love you because your strong, and because you have the courage to go after what you want, even if it doesn't make any fuckin' sense."
If there was one fault to Orton's game, it was over-confidence. Turning his back on Trish, he walked to the opposite ropes and gingerly touched his shoulder. She had tweaked it good in the beginning of the match, and after all the lifting and slamming, the bastard was starting to throb. Had he stayed focused, like a humble man would have known to do, he would have seen her nip up and climb to the top rope.
Trish sat perched on her toes, holding onto the turnbuckle for support. Was he underestimating her? Awe, hell no! "Hey, Legend Killer!"
Her voice startled him, and when Randy turned, it was just in time to find his face on the receiving end of her boot.
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.
Had this been a normal match, Trish knew that she could have pinned him at that moment. Stupid guys, always underestimating her ability. They said they knew she was strong, but they all believed it wasn't enough. Not enough to beat them, anyway. Shoveling a handful of hair out of her face, she rested in the corner as the referee started counting.
For a split second, she worried that he might be concussed, but shook it off. He was Randy Orton, after all. He'd been knocked senseless in the ring before. He had shaken it off with guys three times her size. He could do it again.
'Never fool yourself into believing you're safe.' Rob's words echoed in her mind again as she hoisted herself into a seated position on the top turnbuckle. 'It's not over until the bell rings, Trish.'
She didn't want to go to the 'high-risk' district too often, but leverage was her only prayer against Orton. He was too tall for her to take on level ground. A Five Star Frog Splash might lay him out for good. Or, if she could execute a cross body – that would do it. Of course, the ref was already up to six and he hadn't moved, so maybe she would just end her career there, sitting on her ass in the corner, waiting.
But Orton wasn't going to let it end that easily. On the eight count, he made it to his feet and walked toward her with determination. Trish stood on the second ropes for a moment before Randy lowered his head and drove it into her stomach. She grunted and flew backward, clinging to his shoulders and tucking her feet under the ropes to keep from flipping off the turnbuckle.
Placing a foot on either side of her legs, Randy balanced himself over her. "Get up," he ordered her to stand, and she did. She could try to push him, but she was in a precarious position. If he went, she went, too. 'Don't break your neck trying to counter a move, Trish. A fall off the top rope will hurt like fuck, but there are ways to cushion it without permanent damage.'
She tried to concentrate on words of wisdom Hunter had given her back in the beginning of her training, but with the crowd cranked to an eleven, it was nearly impossible to hear her own thoughts. They were stomping their feet, clapping, whistling, screaming, and beating on the seats in front of them. Maybe it was Randy bouncing on the ropes, but it felt like the building could just collapse at any moment.
Randy was accustomed to deafening crowds – he had heard them a lot in his tenure with Evolution, and then after breaking away. Tuning out the noise, he focused on executing the Superplex safely, wanting to put her down for the count without re-injuring them both in the process.
Her eyes pooled with tears and her lip started to tremble, but he forced himself to go on, not to break down. "I spent every waking moment thinking about you. I missed you. I almost told Hunter a million times that week because I just wanted you. Back then, I didn't even give a shit if I ever got the fuckin' belt back. I just wanted to be back with you, even if it was just to throw that goddamned rubber ball back and forth in the therapy room.
Though he had loved getting to know Trish in the rehab room a year ago, they were well-past the need for that kind of alone time now. Slinging her arm over his shoulder, he put a death grip on her waistband and prepared to launch them both backward.
It should have worked perfectly – picture perfectly. They were both ready for a highlight moment, set to deliver the maneuver the way it was supposed to be delivered. But they were both hot from exerting so much energy, and Trish's foot slipped on the sweat spilling from Randy's forehead. Or from her own body – she couldn't be sure.
All she did know for sure was that she and Randy fell, together, onto the mat-covered concrete floor at ringside, landing with a loud 'smack.' He broke her fall by hitting first, and she rested her head on his chest. There was a collective gasp from the fans, and the referee would have to start counting soon. Trish knew there was a good chance neither of them were getting up in time as she listened to his heart pounding beneath her ear.
"Are you still alive?" Randy groaned, lifting his head from the ground. The room blurred and he laid back down. The count had started.
"Yeah," Trish mumbled into his chest. "You?"
"Think so," he grunted, struggling to sit. "You broken?"
"Probably." She rolled off of his body, noticing the absence of his warmth as soon as she touched the cold floor. Staring at the ceiling, she bent her knees and tried to gather her energy.
Satisfied that she could either continue, or lose, he struggled to sit. Blinking back the tears of pain that were stabbing the backs of his eyes, he pulled himself up. As he leaned on the apron, he watched Trish and listened to the ref counting. When he was at seven, Randy bent to lift his girlfriend to her feet.
With a questioning look into his eyes, she saw it. The fire. The fans were chanting for her, and he was proud. He wasn't smiling, but his crystal stare said that he could feel it. For the first time, he understood exactly why she had done what she had done, why he had to be the one there with her at the end.
She was hurting, he could tell. She wasn't resting her weight on her left leg. And the way she kept flexing her hand told him that her circulation wasn't flowing right. She was hurt. Hell, he was hurt – he could feel his knee swelling underneath his pads, and his head was throbbing. The last thing either of them wanted was to go on.
It was their job, after all. No matter what happened, no matter who got hurt, the show went on. This is what they did – that was why the fans came back. They were the immortals, impenetrable by weakness and pain. They thrived where mere men cowered in paralyzing fear.
Randy raised an eyebrow and nodded. "Let's finish this," he grinned, closing the gap between them with a quick step and a jump.
The RKO laid Trish out flat, and the count started once again.
1. . 2
It had been all she had wanted – one last match that they would never forget.
3. . 4
With every ounce of fight left in her exhausted body, Trish wiggled her toes, and then her fingers. If she could still move, she would struggle to stand.
5. . . 6
She would, at least, go out with her head raised.
7. . . 8
As if functioning of it's own volition, her body moved past sitting.
9. . .
She pulled herself up on the ropes and turned to see that the ref had stopped the count. Orton was in awe, and truth be told, so was Trish. Shaking her head, she thought about what it would take to end him for good. She had never believed, for a second, that she couldn't win this match. And she didn't believe it now, either.
Climbing the ropes and delivering the Five Star crossed her mind. Or she could try a Pedigree, but Orton was so much bigger, and he had proven he could counter that. She could just RKO his ass, but it wasn't what she wanted. A Widow's Peak? Maybe a Twist of Fate?
Shaking her head, she drew her focus back to her opponent, only to find him climbing the opposite corner. He was going for the cross-body, and she knew, in that moment, what she needed to do. It would take Mysterio's balance, Batista's strength, RVD's energy, Shelton Benjamin's agility, and Benoit's daring. She didn't have any of that left in her.
But, dammit, she was Trish fuckin' Stratus.
Exploding off the ropes, she ran to the opposite side of the ring, using her momentum to leap to the top rope. In one fluid motion, she turned her body, secured Randy's head under her arm, and propelled them both to the mat, slamming his face in what could only be described as a Flying Stratusfaction from the top rope.
Even as she crawled toward the ropes, pulling herself to a vertical base, she couldn't believe it had happened.
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.
The referee counted the ten, not that anyone in the arena could hear it. Orton hadn't moved, and the trainers were on their way down the ramp. She had done it – she had beaten him. She had shown Vince exactly what she was worth inside the squared circle. She had earned three new girls the chance at a real career. And she had given every person in the United Center, and watching on television, a reason to remember Trish Stratus forever.
Her eyes swept over the rows of crazy fans near the ring, focusing on those that had gone before her. She could barely stand, but she pointed to the seats behind the announcers, saluting Ivory, Molly, and Nidia, who returned the gesture.
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.
This time, as they moved toward the ring, she understood exactly what she had accomplished, and what it meant to them. She knew that they appreciated her. But she wasn't sure she would ever be able to tell them how much they meant to her, how they had fueled her passion and her fury, just by standing behind her.
The referee lifted her hand in victory as she cast a glance behind her. Randy was being rolled out of the ring, two trainers trying to support his weight.
Trish shook her head and let her eyes drift shut slightly. Exhaustion was weighing on her, but she was determined not to give in to the sleep until she had said everything that she had been thinking all afternoon. "For months now, I have done everything that I could do to be sure that I got my happily-ever-after. I have lost my mind for you, Orton. I have done things I never, in a million lifetimes, thought I could do, for you and because of you. You give me this undeniable, indescribable strength to be a completely liberated version of myself."
Lillian motioned for her to take another trip around the ring, to soak up the love and affection they were showing her, but her eyes narrowed on the man limping slowly to the ramp. Before she could follow him, though, she was found herself drowned in a sea of divas.
Randy rested all of his weight on the shoulders of the two trainers beside him, as they walked him down the stairs and into gorilla. "You gonna make it to the training room?"
He nodded and told himself to keep moving. He knew that his pride should be hurt – he had been beaten by a girl. But for Trish, and the importance of this night, it was worth taking a hit. Oh, he had tried his damnedest to get up. But that last move she had pulled would have put Taker down. She could have taken Batista out with that move. And he was more proud of her for pulling it off than he could ever be pissed at her for beating him.
"Remember the night I told you that I loved you? The first time?" She nodded. "And I told you I didn't know if that was a good thing or not because I wasn't sure how to love somebody who wasn't me?"
There were no clouds or stars at dusk that night, and Monica was singing "For You I Will" while they held hands and rode in silence. She remembered that the silky voice on the radio sang the lines, "I will be your fortress, tall and strong. I will keep you safe. I'll stand beside you, right or wrong," just before he blurted the words she hadn't been expecting.
And she remembered how terrified he looked when he realized what he had said. "I told you I didn't know, either," she answered finally. It had been true. She didn't know anything about functional relationships. No more than he did. But she remembered, as she watched him standing before her now, that she was willing to figure it out with him.
Randy grunted as the medics put him on the bed in the trainer's room, asking him where he hurt, what he could move, and how this poke or that prod felt. He answered their questions, but his thoughts were back in that car, in St. Louis. He still wasn't sure, after almost a year, if he knew how to love Trish Stratus. But there was one thing he knew beyond a shadow of any doubt – there was nobody else in the world that he wanted to stand with, inside the ring or out.