Debut Preparations

Matt Hardy watched Rina and the Inquisitors signing autographs for the fans and turned to the Dudley Boyz.

"How the hell did you train them? All four of them are ridiculous."

"Their personalities were solid from the start," Bubba said. "We barely had to push them. They just worked."

"Rina being the centerpiece made a huge difference. She's the type who shows up on weekends at the crack of dawn to drill."

"Well, the Japanese are famous for that kind of diligence," Jeff Hardy put in.

D-Von snapped his head around.

"She's not Japanese. She's American. And she's Korean-American. Hey—how would you like it if someone called you English?"

Jeff wasn't Irish-born, but he was Irish by blood, and the jab landed.

"Hmm. I wasn't born in Ireland, though. Wait—she's Korean-American?"

"I told you last time. Same country as Jane Kim."

"Jane's Korean-American?"

Jeff Hardy. The man had worked alongside Jane for years and still came out with something like that. Same as ever—zero interest in anyone who wasn't family.

"I thought you quit the drugs."

"I did. So what?"

"Goddamn it. I'm the idiot for even trying to talk to you."

Matt, who had been quiet until then, finally spoke up.

"Ha. If a kid like that had been born five years earlier—if she'd been our sidekick—our whole careers would've looked different."

Where the Dudley Boyz had once had Scarlett Kibler, the Hardy Boyz had had Lita. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Team Xtreme—the mixed-gender stable that had been the best of its era and might still be the best of any era. Unlike Scarlett, who had been pure eye candy, Lita's in-ring work had stood shoulder to shoulder with TPA's Jane Kim at the absolute peak of women's wrestling. Then a stunt extra's mistake on a movie set had broken her neck, the lingering injuries piled up, and she was forced into early retirement.

"Her? As a sidekick?" Bubba burst out laughing. "Puhahaha."

"Why not? Rookies do that kind of thing early on."

Bubba's laugh only made Matt bristle harder.

"Matt. You think we never considered it? So why ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠do you think we dropped the idea?"

"…"

"We're not in our prime thirties anymore. Stand next to her and you'd disappear. Hell, we'd end up looking like her sidekicks."

Bubba finished and pointed a finger toward Rina, still surrounded by fans. Selma and Taina were right there ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠beside her, and Olivia—more than twice her size—stood at her shoulder. None of it mattered. Rina was the one who shone.

"Yeah. You're probably right. Fine. What about bringing Selma in, then? How is she?"

At that, D-Von and Bubba both bared their teeth in matching grins.

"Your sons and Jeff's daughters would cut better promos."

"You sure you're okay with that? Your blood pressure's gonna hit the ceiling."

"Hell, your youngest daughter might even out-promo her."

"…"

Being told he cut worse promos than his own five-year-old daughter, Matt Hardy let out a long, defeated sigh.

"What were you doing that you never taught her promos?"

"She's got a little camera anxiety. And we spent six months just trying to get the moves down. We were busy."

"Fair enough. Six months isn't long. Haaah. Maybe I should take on a student of my own again."

"Do it properly. There's a whole new kind of fun in it."

"Yeah?"

"Your boys and Jeff's girls are going to wrestle someday anyway. The experience—and the screw-ups—will help when it's time to teach them."

Matt nodded at D-Von's words. Jeff looked like he was zoning out, but his ear was angled their way all the same.

Olivia finished greeting the fans, made her way over to where the other wrestlers were gathered, and dropped onto a seat with a heavy thud. She reached for a bottle of water, then a towel to wipe the sweat off—and the other women closed in like they'd been waiting for the cue.

"That match was so much fun today."

"Olivia! Your work out there was killer."

"Hammering—once she started taking it like that, the whole thing looked clean."

They meant well. They were congratulating her on a great match. The more she listened, though, the worse she felt. What they were really saying was that a twenty-year-old's selling had done what none of them could manage—and that "looked clean" still meant her own striking was a mess.

"So what was it like working with her?"

"Did the chemistry click?"

"What was it like? You all saw the selling. And the striking was flawless. Didn't hurt at all."

"Really? You looked wiped, though."

"Yeah. I got too fired up. Overdid it. First time I've ever had a match like that…"

"That good?"

A few pairs of eyes lit up at Olivia's words.

"You have to work with her to understand. You have to get in there with that kid. If I were even a few years younger, I'd have gone thirty minutes smiling the whole way."

While she was at it, Olivia decided to throw a few more lines on the fire. The house show match against her was already locked in, and there was a decent chance the debut card would put them together again too. These women would be stuck on the sidelines sucking their thumbs for at least a week—maybe two.

As a veteran, admitting after a single match that an undebuted Rina was the real deal stung her pride a little. But the kid had been that comfortable, that good a dance partner. On top of everything else, she had manners—rare enough in this business to matter. Olivia couldn't push Rina up the card herself, but she could at least drop a line that might help her later.

"And more than anything, Rina is smooth. Soft. The texture is incredible. Nothing like the rest of us meatheads. Touching her is half the fun. Kyaa. That's something you only learn by working a match with her… What? Jealous?"

She lobbed the line into the middle of them and disappeared into the locker room.

But the thirty-odd posts that followed painted a very different picture. Every one of them came from well-known named fans—and a few of those people were the type who wouldn't lie even as a joke.

With the thread in that state, believers and skeptics alike locked in on one plan: get to the house show and see it with their own eyes. The date couldn't come fast enough.

The day after we wrapped the dark match, our theme music came in.

"The Inquisitors are faces for now, so we've only got the one track," said Clint from the performance team, the guy assigned to us. "If a heel turn gets booked later, we'll prep another one then."

He hit play on the spot.

Ahh~ ahh~ ahh~~

"Is that a choir? They sound like kids."

"Not kids. We got help from a local chorus."

Honestly, I couldn't tell if I liked it. But Alf immediately threw up a thumbs-up, and once he was sold, James gave it the OK too.

"So we come out slow and reverent on the entrance?"

"Exactly. Walking the ramp with the hoods up, nice and solemn—that should play well."

"Let's carry flowers."

Jane, who had been listening quietly, cut in.

"Go in holding lilies or white roses. Before you get in the ring, hand them off to a woman in the crowd or a kid."

"Ohh! That's good."

"Damn. Female fans are going to lose their minds every time they see us."

"As if! With that face of yours?"

"Selma!"

Jane shot her a look, and Selma clamped her mouth shut.

Next up was Selma's track.

Screeeech, CRASH—

It opened on the sound of a car slamming the brakes and wrecking out. Then—

Break it all down!

—and a slow-rolling hip-hop beat dropped in behind the line. The song itself was excellent. I just couldn't picture it matching A.G. Lee's light, bouncing walk to the ring.

"Selma. How do you want to handle the entrance?"

"Urgh."

"You don't like the track?"

"No. I love it."

"The sway-walk is going to be tough, though, right?"

"Yeees."

"Then just walk it in with a hip hop bounce. Throw in some of those rapper hand gestures. Think you can manage? If even that's too much, go full ice-queen model strut."

"Yes, ma'am. I'll try both and decide."

Last was mine.

My track had already been locked in as Unstoppable. The original leaned hard on the guitars, but just the way I'd asked, they'd thickened up the low-end bass and drums.

"Want us to drop a laugh track or some lyrics on the front?"

"No. Leave it like this. I like it better clean."

And just like that, our debut prep was basically done.

All that remained were the promos—and for now, even the house show was booked without them. We hadn't debuted yet, so there was no concrete story built around us. No one knew who we'd be feuding with, which meant there was nothing to cut a promo about. For all I knew, we might work a few more matches after the debut before any real storyline kicked in.

In the run-up to the house show, Selma, Alf, and the others stayed busy grinding on weak acting and chemistry drills with their opponents. Olivia and I didn't need any of that. Our problem was the opposite—we worked too fast. Slowing down a notch would fix it.

So with the spare time, I ended up training with Anne Clements, the current TPA Knockouts Champion.

"How do I even put this?"

"…"

"I saw your dark match with Olivia, so I'm not questioning your work rate. But hardcore is a completely different animal."

"Yes. I know."

"Right—you came out of Team 3D Academy. Fine. Let's do it. But we set a hard line first. How far are you willing to go?"

"Sorry? What do you mean?"

"You're not actually planning to use thumbtacks, are you?"

Barbed wire on bats or two-by-fours got blunted at the tips. Drag it hard enough and you'd still bleed, but it was manageable. Thumbtacks were the real thing. Not one or two—hundreds of them carpeting the mat. Any human being with a nervous system would flinch.

"If we're doing it, we might as well lay the whole bag down. I'll be the only one taking them."

"Are you insane? What if that pretty face of yours ends up scarred? Have you thought about your parents?"

"I don't have any. My parents. They both passed away."

"…"

"Car accident. Both of them."

Anne twisted in place, clearly flustered, and scrambled to apologize.

"I—I didn't know. I'm sorry. Really sorry."

"It's fine. It was a long time ago."

Truth was, the memories had been injected like a movie I'd watched once—hollow shells with no feeling attached. Completely different from the parents I actually had back in Korea, the ones I could never go home to see.

"I tested it a few times at home. It's doable."

"I'm sorry about the parent thing. But why are you trying to wreck your body? Are you a masochist?"

I shook my head hard and fast.

"No. Don't even joke about that. I just want to lock down something I was going to have to do eventually anyway. And a match like this—doesn't it put you at high mid-carder at minimum?"

"Wow. You are ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠cold-blooded. You want the title that badly?"

Anne narrowed her eyes at me.

"No. I won't even look at it for a year."

"Then why push this hard? You've got plenty of time."

"I want the fans to remember me from the jump. Hard. Unforgettable."

"Okay, but why?"

"Because even if I'm never champion—I still want to be the wrestler who represents TPA."