OUTSIDERS

Luc LaBelle.

We haven't had a chance to meet previously, though at ReVival 73, that changes. Trust me when I say I’m looking forward to it.

Everyone in PRIME thinks they know what an "outsider" looks like. They picture the mysterious loner with designer gear and carefully manufactured angst. Maybe they see the second-generation star who burns bridges and gives management migraines. Hell, some probably think it's me – daddy's little girl gone rogue, playing with the big bad Russians.

But you? You're something else entirely, aren't you, Luc? That fascinates me. It also makes you dangerous as hell when I step into that ring with you.

So here's my question: Are you the real thing, or just another fraud who stumbled into the wrong fucking business?

See, I was never supposed to be here. Spent my entire life running from this industry like it was the plague. Even now, tucked away in Ivan's Red Army, I'm still the experiment – the American pet project they parade around, hoping I'll add some legitimacy to their cause. Ivan knows the truth, though. I'm the wildcard he can't fully control, no matter how hard he tries.

Here I am, going to war with the Glueminati – PRIME's golden children – while management wishes I'd just disappear. Lindsay Troy barely conceals her desire to see me gone, but unfortunately, she is stuck with me.

I'm an outsider because I refuse to play their game by their rules. They want to trot me out as the grieving daughter, the legacy act, the Second Coming of Dusk. My father's death meant one less legend for them to exploit when Colossus season rolls around.

But look at you, coming up from Montreal-Nord, from the actual gutter. Working-class in a business drowning in trust fund rebels and manufactured hardship stories. You can look across that locker room and see money everywhere – Farthington with his generational wealth, Ivan with an entire country bankrolling his ambitions, even Chandler Tsonda living off his pretty-boy face.

You hate the system from the bottom up. I learned to hate it from the top down. You're bringing real violence to a world of sports entertainment, authentic rage in a sea of carefully crafted rebellion. You're an outsider because they never wanted to let you in the door.

The question is: which kind of outsider is more dangerous?

Here's where it gets interesting, though. There's this beautiful contradiction at the heart of everything you do. You claim to hate everything about this business, yet here you are, still showing up, still cashing those checks. Your brother dragged you kicking and screaming into wrestling fandom, and despite all your protests about only caring about money, you got invested.

You try to pass along this veneer of not caring. If you genuinely didn't give a shit, you would've taken your first paycheck and disappeared into the night. But you didn't. You're still here. Part of you wants to succeed in this cesspool, and that terrifies you more than any opponent ever could.

I get it. I came here for revenge and stayed because something inside me needs the violence, craves the competition. This place has a way of corrupting even the purest hatred, twisting your motivations until you can't remember who you used to be.

You believe your MMA background makes you a real fighter. Cute. I've evolved from playing by wrestling's genteel rules to embracing actual violence, and look what it's cost me. Look what I've become. We both reject the pageantry – you never wanted it, I'm disgusted by what I became chasing it.

The crowds cheer for manufactured rebellion, for angst and confrontations. But you? You give them something they don't understand – genuine working-class fury – and they boo you for it. They can't process authenticity when it's staring them in the face.

You claim not to want to be accepted or understood, but I think that's just a front. I think you do want to be, but you're afraid of not being, and instead of showing that rejection on your face, you carry it as if it's a badge worthy of anything.

I'm here playing politics with the Red Army and my revenge plots. You're determined to stay focused. You might represent the path not taken, uncorrupted by wrestling’s seductive elements, but here's what you don't understand about being an insider and PRIME: this business is going to change you whether you like it or not.

You want to know the cold reality? You can stay pure, or you can win. But you can't do both. This isn't about outsider versus insider – it's about which version of the outsider survives the machine.

You represent Montreal-Nord, the real Montreal, the parts they don't show in tourism brochures. But this place? It demands sacrifice. It demands tribute. It takes everything authentic about you and grinds it down until you're unrecognizable.

This place will either embrace you or destroy you.

We'll see if your hatred burns hotter than PRIME's insatiable hunger for new victims.

Smart money says the machine always wins. At ReVival 73, I'll be its latest instrument of destruction.

The only question left is whether you'll be its next victim or if you'll join the rest of us feeding bodies to the beast.

DING

The elevator's ding feels like a funeral bell as I step into the lobby, designer bag slung over my shoulder like armor. Another generic hotel in another forgettable city – this time, Lexington, Kentucky, where dreams go to die and the bourbon flows like tears.

The lobby's precisely what you'd expect: scattered chairs that have seen better decades, overpriced restaurants hawking mediocre steaks to traveling salesmen with expense accounts, and a bar that screams "drink away your regrets here." I weave through the usual suspects – conference attendees with dead eyes and name tags, business travelers drowning in PowerPoint presentations, and middle management misery, determined to make it to the front desk efficiently.

Tapping the bag on my shoulder, I say, "Pickup tonight. Name's under Chen." The desk clerk – a college-aged kid with dead eyes and a forced smile – nods, takes the bag, and mentions my car's waiting. I mutter thanks and turn to leave, my mind elsewhere. Specifically, on Hayes Hanlon's ankles crunching under my boot at ReVival 72. The look on those Glueminati bastards' faces when karma finally came knocking. Julien screaming at me while I spoke to Angelica Brooks like I was some rabid animal he needed to contain.

My mind drifts to the stats an intern working backstage gave me as I left Chicago. Seven losses. Seven fucking losses in a row, and not against scrubs either. Cancer Jiles, Brandon Youngblood, Scott Hunter, Hessian – a murderer's row of PRIME's finest, each one adding another layer to my reputation as the dynasty daughter who can't get it done when it matters.

Two years in this company. Two years of eating shit sandwiches while management wonders what to do with Dusk's disappointing offspring. No title shots, just an endless parade of opponents designed to humble me into submission.

My hand's on the glass door when a voice cuts through my bitter thoughts.

"Got a moment?" The voice was gruff, determined.

Shoulders tensing like I've been electrocuted, I catch my reflection in the glass – pure irritation wrapped in designer workout clothes. I don't even turn around.

"I don't know who you are, but I don't do autographs for people who camp out in hotel lobbies waiting for wrestlers to show up."

He tries to interject – they always try to interject – probably about to explain he's not a typical fan, that he has something important to say, that this will only take a minute.

"Look," I spin around, letting him see the full force of my contempt, "I've got places to be and people who actually matter to see. Whatever sob story you're peddling, whatever memorabilia you want signed, I'm not interested."

I wave him off like the annoyance he is, pushing through the door into Kentucky's humid embrace.

"Your father—"

The words hit me like ice water down my spine. I stop dead, every muscle in my body coiling for violence. But I don't turn around. Never turn around when they mention him.

"My father's dead," I say loud enough for half the lobby to hear. "And if you're here to tell me some bullshit story about how he was your favorite wrestler, save it for someone who gives a fuck."

I storm away before he can respond, leaving him standing there like every other disappointed fan who thought they were special, that their story mattered more than the hundreds of others I've heard.

The car door slams behind me with satisfying finality. "Drive," I grunt at the hired help, and we pull away from downtown Lexington.

Lexington's downtown gives way to industrial outskirts. My phone's dead silent. No messages from Ivan, no check-ins from the Red Army, no acknowledgment that I exist. The reflection in the window shows precisely what I feel – tired, angry, isolated. A walking advertisement for what happens when you burn every bridge and wonder why you're standing alone.

Before I know it, the car stops at some nondescript warehouse building. The warehouse looks exactly like I expected – converted industrial space with all the charm of a Soviet gulag. I tip the driver a hundred because money's the only language anyone understands anymore, and step into the building where sounds of impact echo off concrete walls.

She'd done exactly as I had asked, found something with basic lantern lighting, concrete floors, and minimal amenities. I smile at the sound of boots on the canvas and the heavy breathing coming from the individual in the middle of the ring.

Arina's already in the ring, working through the technical drills I've been teaching her. Perfect.

"You're early," I call out, shrugging off my jacket to reveal the sports bra underneath. Training gear – spandex pants, wrestling boots, and enough attitude to level a city block.

She looks over with that surprised-but-pleased expression she's perfected. "Could not sleep. Figured I work on transition you show me last week."

I slide onto the apron, watching her graceful movements with something approaching pride. Months of training sessions have transformed her from Ivan's diplomatic pet into something resembling a wrestler. The improvement's undeniable, even if she still telegraphs half her moves.

"Much better," I nod as she completes another sequence. "Still broadcasting your intentions like a fucking billboard, but better."

She apologizes – always apologizing, that one – and I step through the ropes, rolling my shoulders to work out the kinks from endless travel and sleepless nights.

"Want to run through some groundwork? I need to stay sharp for this match against LaBelle."

She nods, but those eyes see too much. Always have. We lock up in a standard collar-and-elbow tie-up, and immediately, I know something's wrong with me. The aggression comes too easily, the elbows land too hard, the headlock tightens beyond training parameters.

"Easy," she groans as I wrench her neck. "This is training, not death match."

I break the hold, shake my head like that'll clear the red mist. "Sorry. Just focused."

But it doesn't stop. When she rushes me, I catch her with a spinning back elbow that drops her to one knee. The arm drag that follows sends her crashing into the canvas harder than necessary, and the sound of her body hitting the mat does something ugly to my brain chemistry.

"Rose, what in hell?" She cradles her jaw, staring at me like I've lost my mind.

Maybe I have.

"You wanted to get better, right?" My hands spread in mock innocence. "This is how you get better."

She calls timeout – smart girl – but I'm already moving, already needing to hit something, someone, anyone who'll take the punishment I can't seem to stop delivering.

"This not about training," she says, reading me like a fucking book. "What bothers you?"

The pacing starts before I can stop it, wearing grooves in the canvas while my mouth runs ahead of my brain. "Julien. That pompous French prick is supposed to be my ally, and instead he's playing patty-cake with Farthington. I thought we were friends, but apparently friendship means less than his precious Glueminati connections."

"He is Glue. He not betray this. You knew this. It be ‘long shot’ to convince him otherwise. You knew.”

I don't want to hear logic. I want to hear that I'm right to feel betrayed, that my anger's justified, that someone else thinks Julien’s a backstabbing piece of shit who chose his boys over someone who actually gave a damn about him.

"I thought we had an understanding," I mutter, the admission tasting like failure. "Thought he actually gave a shit about me."

"Maybe his mind is... clouded. Partners with Fontaine, so he clearly not operating with high IQ."

It's meant to be supportive, but it doesn't touch the real wound. The real problem isn't Julien’s loyalty – it's that I actually believed someone might choose me over their established interests. Classic Rose, thinking she matters more than she does.

"Let's get back to it." The violence calls again, and I answer.

But Arina tries to keep it technical while I'm looking to hurt someone. The drop-toe hold slams her face into canvas, and the STF that follows carries real intent, real pressure. My mind drifts to Julien screaming in my face, his voice calling me an idiot, his face showing disgust instead of understanding.

The submission tightens beyond training parameters, beyond safety, beyond anything resembling friendship. Arina's hand slaps the canvas repeatedly, bringing me back to reality just as I realize what I'm doing.

"Stop!" The word cracks like a whip. "This is not training anymore. This is you taking pain out on me!"

The self-awareness hits like a sledgehammer. I'm breathing hard, sweat dripping, using my friend as a punching bag for problems that have nothing to do with her. My fist finds the turnbuckle, seeking pain that matches the chaos in my head.

"I'm sorry." The words taste like ash. "You're right. I'm sorry."

She moves toward me despite having every reason to walk away, rubbing her shoulder where I nearly separated it from its socket. "Talk to me. I not think this is about Julien. What else is going on in mind of yours?"

My eyes find the canvas, the walls, anything but her face. "Ivan hasn't called. Not once since UltraViolence."

"Rose—"

"I was in the hospital for a week. A fucking week, Arina. And nothing. Did he forget that if it wasn't for me, he wouldn't have had the Universal Title? And now, I'm nothing? This is my punishment?"

The anger builds in my chest, and it takes everything I have to not just unload. "I bled for him. I went out to slaughter for him. I took my punishment and forged forward. Then Glueminati attacks me, blindsides me, cracks my skull open, and puts me on the shelf, and he can't even pick up the phone?" The isolation was taking more of a toll than I'd even realized.

She tries to make excuses about the WarChamber, about Tsonda nearly ending Ivan's career, but I slam my hand against the turnbuckle hard enough to split skin.

"Don't. We were in the same hospital. I sent flowers, I had nurses check on him, I gave a damn about his recovery. And what did I get? Nothing." My voice cracks, betraying emotions I've been trying to bury. "You know if it had been reversed, if Ivan was the one who got jumped by five guys with chairs, it would've been war on sight. The entire Red Army would've mobilized."

The truth tastes bitter: "I'm just the American experiment. My pain doesn't matter because I'm expendable."

Shit, my voice broke on that. I blink furiously to push the tears back. Not now, not here.

"You mean someth--"

"Then where is he?!"

Even with my back to her, I can feel her there, closing the distance. Her hand finds the small of my back, and instantly, I can feel my walls coming down.

"Ivan not handle emotional situations like this well, you know this."

"This isn't emotional, this is basic human decency."

Her hands move to my shoulders. "Look to me."

I turn, our eyes locking with one another.

"You are not alone in this, I am here," she whispers. The hug happens before I can stop it, before I can remember why physical comfort is dangerous, why letting people close always ends in disappointment. But her arms feel safe in a way I'd forgotten was possible, and I melt into the embrace like a child seeking shelter from a storm.

"I'm tired of fighting everyone by myself," I whisper into her shoulder, the admission more vulnerable than any submission hold.

"You not have to."

Our eyes meet as we break apart, and there's something there – understanding, possibility. Her hand grazes mine, electricity passing between us, and for one moment, I forget about Ivan and Julien and the endless parade of disappointments that define my existence.

Then the door screams open on rusted hinges, shattering the quiet.

The man from the hotel steps into our sanctuary, limping slightly, looking entirely too pleased with himself for someone who's about to get his ass kicked.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Following up on our conversation."

"We didn't have a conversation; it was me telling you to fuck off."

I extend my arm to keep Arina back – this is my fight, my problem.

"Your problem," he says, moving closer to the ring like he owns the place, "is your heart and mind aren't connected, sweetheart."

"How about more fuck off?"

"You're fighting with your heart instead of your mind. Clear as day when I watch your matches."

My mouth opens to deliver another creative variation on "fuck off," but he raises his hand like he's conducting an orchestra of my rage.

"I'm going to save you the trouble – fuck off, right? But here's the thing, kid. I made a promise, one I've been failing to keep. Thought you'd figure things out on your own, but watching you self-destruct tells me otherwise."

He starts circling the ring like a shark sensing blood in the water. "Take this match coming up with the LaBelle kid. You're so wrapped up in your pain that you can't see what's right in front of you." His voice carries the weight of someone who's seen this movie before. "That boy from Montreal? He's everything you used to be before this place got its hooks in you. Pure. Angry for the right reasons. Uncorrupted."

My hands clench into fists. "Get to the point."

"The point is you want to take your anger and fury on him because you want to drag him down into the mud with you." He stops moving, fixing me with a stare that cuts through every defense I've built. "Your father would be ashamed."

The words hit like a physical blow, and I take a step back without meaning to. "You don't get to—"

"Don't get to what? Tell you the truth? Kid, you're so lost in the darkness that you don’t realize you’ve lost your way. You might be getting it back with Julien, but you’ve got a long way to go. "

My brow furrows despite my better judgment. "What the fuck do you know about any of this? About my father?"

His next words stop my heart.

"Everything. Because I made him a promise. To look after you."