110. Portland
The trip from Orlando to Vancouver, and then from Vancouver only as far as Seattle, had been by plane. After that, it was pure bus travel.
Not the kind of bus you found back in Korea, though. The seats were closer to business class on an airplane. The women’s division didn’t have many truly massive athletes, but the men certainly did, so the seats were built roomy enough to match.
Seattle to Portland was a five-hour bus ride. Even though they’d left after breakfast, the sun was already beginning to sink by the time they arrived.
“Ugh. Everything’s stiff. How long did they say Portland to Sacramento is?”
“Thirteen hours.”
“Whoa! I’m definitely sleeping through that one.”
“You’d better. Staying awake the whole way would be pure hell.”
If they could just survive those thirteen hours, the rest of the tour would be manageable. The longest remaining stretch was eight hours, and the hop from LA to San Diego was only two.
Beyond the travel, the atmosphere on Rebellion was excellent. Everywhere they went they were met with cheers instead of boos, and most of the matches were scoring 2.5 or higher. Plenty of people had never been to LA either, so the whole roster was already looking forward to it. Charina herself wanted to hit Hollywood, Beverly Hills, and every other landmark the moment they arrived.
She finished her Round of 16 prep with a single dark match against Aurora Love, the woman she would face on Wednesday. Portland would host the final four matches of the Round of 16:
13. Troy McIntyre vs. 14. Mickey Miguel
15. Tank Walker vs. 16. Brooke Breaker
13. Aurora Love vs. 14. Charina
15. Lily Klein vs. 16. ????
Three additional matches featuring already-eliminated talent rounded out the card.
“Yes!”
“What?”
“I’m on tomorrow. Opening match.”
“Who against?”
“Cornelia! I win against Cornelia. Ten-minute match.”
“Nice.”
Selma was buzzing about her first Rebellion win.
“So I’ve been thinking—any way I can leave a real impression on the crowd?”
“Using an item?”
“Item, whatever. Doesn’t matter. Not tomorrow—once I turn heel.”
“Didn’t you say last time you’d scribble on them with a lipstick stub after the win?”
“The producer told me not to. Too many wrestlers hate body writing.”
“Then you’re out of luck. When does the heel turn start, anyway?”
“I don’t know yet. Probably after the West Coast swing.”
“Still not far off.”
A day later it was Wednesday. Charina was more curious about the identity of the mystery number 16 than about her own match.
Selma opened the show. For the first three minutes she absorbed offense. Then she flipped into a brief, manic “berserker” mode, seized the momentum, and spent the remaining five minutes treating the bout like a squash—zero comebacks allowed. She beat Cornelia clean. Even after the win she stood staring down at her own hands, face twisted. Charina wondered if that was the first breadcrumb of the heel turn.
Selma came backstage glowing.
“Good work, Selma.”
“Thanks.”
“Anything from Gorilla?”
“They said it was solid. Timing was good, the rage acting was good.”
“Yeah?”
“Heh. Just like you said—thinking about Alf made the acting easy!”
Of course it did. Charina was pretty sure she could spot Selma’s doppelgänger on sight.
“What was the whole trembling-while-staring-at-your-hands bit?”
“No idea. Jane told me to do it right before I walked out.”
Just throwing everything at the wall to see what stuck?
After one men’s singles match and a tag bout, Charina stood backstage waiting for the fourth match of the night.
—Zing. Zzzzing. Zzzing.—
Her theme hit right on cue. The crowd roar rolled in.
“You’re up.”
“Got it.”
She rolled out on the skateboard, backpack heavy with keyrings, and hit the stage.
—Charina! Charina!
—Charina, ura!—
Maybe she should have put actual lyrics in the song. After watching the Inquisitors on NEXT, she’d noticed fans were already singing along even to simple “Aaaah~” choir parts…
She shook the thought away, stepped through the ropes, and stretched out across the top rope to wait for Aurora.
Aurora bounced out beaming. She had told Jane she was fine with losing—on one condition: it had to be a competitive loss. Charina and Jane had both agreed. Tonight’s match was built as a back-and-forth until the final sequence.
The 7 p.m. Seattle show was 10 p.m. in Orlando. By the time the broadcast ended it would be roughly 1 a.m., still watchable. Stacey was in Orlando for a rare visit—Paul had come down to check on NEXT the next day—and the two of them were watching from their hotel room.
Even without them on site, Casey was running Rebellion remarkably well. John Michaels and Paulo Hackman were helping, sure, but plenty of people still failed with that kind of support. So far Casey’s score sat near perfect. The only deductions: both Japanese talents losing their debuts, and the Adolf Ziegler–Chris Jacob match landing flatter than expected.
Charina grabs Aurora’s head—bulldog!
—Thud—
Booker, Charina sure loves that bulldog, doesn’t she? Another Jacob influence?
Jacob does use it a lot. But even a classic move is all about timing. Bulldogs get reversed constantly, so most people stop throwing them. As long as she avoids that, it’s fine. Hell, maybe she keeps a bulldog as a pet at home.
Wouldn’t surprise me. A dog named Booker would be perfect.
Heh. Then that dog would probably hit spinneroonies. Hahaha.
“Why does Booker keep doing those lame gags?”
“Old guys love them. Kids do too.”
“All the little boys, you mean.”
“Maybe…”
Charina launched a Lionsault; Aurora raised a knee and caught her clean.
Ditch that outdated Lionsault and just hit a leg drop like me!
The leg drop’s even more outdated.
Hmph.
Aurora whipped Charina into the ropes, caught the rebound, and planted her with a spinebuster.
—Wham—
Oh! Aurora! That was crisp.
First time I’ve seen Aurora hit a spinebuster, but she’s clearly drilled it. Technique looks sharp.
This whole war has leveled everybody up. Beautiful positive cycle.
Aurora used the ropes for a leg drop and covered; Charina bridged out. Aurora locked in for her finisher, the Feather Grip—Charina’s head trapped between her thighs, reaching for the arms. Charina powered up from the position and dumped Aurora straight down with a pure back body drop.
—Boom—
Whoa. That back body drop was pure core strength, wasn’t it? Waist that slim and still that much power.
I hear even some light-heavyweight guys lose to her in arm wrestling. Insane physique.
Oh-ho! The mysteries of the East are real after all.
Charina scooped her up, walked her to center ring, and dropped a sidewalk slam. Then she lifted one of Aurora’s legs, threaded her own through, and lay back.
Oh! Charina’s crossed the legs. That’s Charina’s Scissors of Desire—CSD. Once you’re in that, there’s nowhere to go.
—Ooooh.—
A sound somewhere between gasp and cheer rolled out of the crowd.
“Why does she keep doing that? It’s so… indecent. Just win already.”
“Guess she wanted to show it off at least once.”
She wraps them up like she’s seducing them, then completely locks down the ankle and knee. The pose is a little much, but people who’ve been in it say it hurts like hell.
Aurora screamed and thrashed; Charina simply applied a little more pressure and the tap came instantly.
Wow! The second she locked it in, Aurora lasted less than fifteen seconds. That’s one of the most vicious submissions on the roster.
If that move ever catches on, I’m quitting commentary. Hell, I’m quitting watching wrestling.
Booker K dropped the line out of nowhere.
Booker, what’s wrong with you?
Ha! Picture Corey Rhodes and Roman Reigns lying on the mat doing that. You still want to watch?
Ugh! Damn it! Shit!!
That move has to be women-only! Hey, Paul Levesque, you watching? Ban it for the men. Make it illegal!
“Pffhahaha!”
Stacey lost it.
“What’s so funny?”
“I just pictured you and Booker doing it. Pffhahaha.”
“Damn it!”
While they cracked up, Charina had already retrieved her bag from ringside, pulled out a can of whipped cream, climbed back on top of Aurora—who was still clutching her ankle—and forced a mouthful into her. Aurora thrashed in protest; the crowd laughed again. Finally Charina stepped in front of the camera and ate her own share, pretty and deliberate.
“She doesn’t even have the sponsorship yet and she’s already doing the bit.”
“The prospective sponsors will love it.”
Next up: Tank Walker versus Brooke Breaker. Tank was the kind of guy who only looked special next to Hank Ledger; against Brooke he was short on size, ring smarts, and technique. He had a brief early flurry, then got systematically dismantled.
“If Brooke could just talk a little better, if his face were a little more marketable, he’d be top babyface champion material.”
“Can’t be helped. You can push a good-looking guy with no skills into the title picture, but you can’t force a guy with no charisma into the title picture.”
“Still, we should start thinking about a face turn. He’s too good to leave on the shelf. Give him the right spot and he might actually deliver.”
They kept sketching futures even while watching the matches. Some people might call it inability to focus on TV; for them it was simply how they’d lived their entire lives.
Brooke Breaker won and advanced to the quarterfinals. The next match was ready—and it was a men’s bout, not women’s.
Troy McIntyre versus Mickey Miguel. Troy looked vicious and savage, but in reality he was sharp and hardworking. He and the lighter Mickey put together a smooth sequence. Every time Troy set something up, Mickey slipped free with head-scissors whips, roll-ups, or joint locks. Then Mickey climbed the top rope and hit a DDT—Hurricane DDT. Fired up, Mickey turned to the crowd for a celebration.
Troy rose like the Deadman. Mickey spun around just in time to eat a running big boot—Claymore—straight to the face.
Mickey. So close. Tonight was the perfect chance to land a real giant.
Why showboat and lose, you idiot Mickey.
That single shot ended it. Troy advanced.
And now the main event. Lily Klein came up through NEXT—she’s a veteran, but she’s never been main-event material. Which means number 16 has to be someone who is. I still have no idea who. Booker, you hear anything?
Booker shrugged.
Iba used to talk if you buttered him up right. Casey? Forget it. Kid’s ruthless. Sometimes I swear Victor McMahon himself is sitting in that chair. She’s not Casey Levesque—she’s Casey McMahon.
Booker, stop. Just imagining it is terrifying. I can already hear “You’re fired!” ringing in my ears.
“Paul, how many times did you hear ‘You’re fired!’ yourself?”
“Plenty. If it hadn’t been for you I’d have walked a dozen times.”
“John said the same thing. Now Booker’s saying it too.”
“That Casey takes after her grandfather?”
“Yeah. I think I need to go see exactly what she’s doing.”
“We’ll go together.”
“Deal.”
On screen, Lily Klein stepped onto the stage.