Cover me, I'm going in!
This has to be her least favorite iteration, she thinks as she comes to and an open fist is flying at her head. Lightning fast reflexes make her duck out of the way, a deep frown from the lady on the other end of the fist, off balance, keels towards her. She's a tall and imposing mass of toned flesh and pink hair. A flash of light, a purple singlet, the screaming crowd, and--no. No fucking way, not possible. This is possibly worse than the time she came to and found herself under the weight of ten expectant eyes. Pens sticking out of blue scrubs, the lot of them. Watching, waiting. One girl with an upturned nose and a ponytail piled high atop her head, face curling into a sneer. The huge woman with the pink hair in the hospital bed, the same woman who tried to punch her, her eyes were closed, the rhythmic rise and fall of the chest the only indication of life. An older man wearing darker scrubs among the others watching her, face darkening while her tongue fumbled over the words "parathyroid" and "sternocleidomastoid." There was another guy there, absently writing on a pad, dark eyes searching hers for something, she didn't know what. His confused face must have been a mirror of her own.
She remembered later, those same eyes darker and hotter still, as he tugged at the drawstring of her scrubs--or was that her military blues, in a deserted barracks?
She doesn't trust her memories anymore.
Her face heating up, he looked up at her through long black lashes while she gritted out, "later, pathology revealed ade- adenocarcinoma..."
In the present, the lady who tried to punch her regains her balance, hooks a tanned arm around her neck and pulls her close. The lady smells of sweat and the remnants of coconut. Her face, both of their faces now, hidden by waves of long, pink hair.
"--'re you doing?! We're live!" She says, muffled voice barely a rumble above the noise.
From somewhere below the curtain of hair, a guy in a striped white and black shirt says, "Okay, Shell, break it up!" Her takes a step closer and says, "thirty seconds." He steps away again and she recognizes him as the older guy from the hospital. The mean one.
"Ha! How'd you like that?" Purple singlet, Shell, says, louder, her voice further away like she's talking to the crowd.
Again, closer, the pink curls obscuring her view. "Rookie. Try that again and you're carrying my bags for a month, y'hear? Leg sweep."
"What's--"
"Oh, for fuck's sake--!"
This time, she does as she's told, wedges her foot the behind Shell's calf and feels herself being pulled backwards until she's swept off her feet. There's a moment of panic until they both hit the mat with a dull thud. Bright lights in her eyes, the camera dips lower, assessing the damage. Next to her, Shell rolls away, cupping the back of her head and pretending to look groggy.
The mean guy stands over them both, counting 1, 2, 3, long fingers splayed in a dramatic fashion. He sways in and out of her line of vision, blocking the glare from the lights, pausing after every number to look at the crowd.
He leans in closer to her, and says, "ten seconds. Pin."
Shell rolls closer, playing up all the grogginess she can muster. From beneath her hair, Shell says, "Pin me."
She gets up on her knees, crawls over Shell, half laying on top. The mean guy drops down to the mat with them and pounds in time to a count of three.
The crowd explodes. Flashing lights, cheers, and a disembodied voice booming, "Your winner! And NEWWW--" Suddenly music hits, something with staccato beats and distorted guitars--she remembers that from the time she came to in the middle of a concert--and she's being pulled to her feet, left arm raised high above her head. She almost drops the belt when they hand it to her, it's heavier than it looks. But she has enough presence of mind to place it over her shoulder. Tens of thousands of flashes going off at once, and her utter bewilderment must look great for TV right now. She looks left and sees Shell rolling out of the ring, holding the back of her neck.
"Mommy!"
As soon as she's backstage, a little boy comes running towards her. His smile takes up his entire face. She's about to move out of the way when the little boy catches her and attaches himself firmly to her leg. "Mommy!" he says, excitedly, "you won!" She reaches out a hand to ruffle the dark curls atop his head, but pulls back.
They warned her about this, getting too close.
Outside, she still hears the music playing, a bit softer and he must feel her tense up, but that only makes him cling more tightly to her. "Mommy, can I touch your belt?" He pulls away from her leg to look her in the face, and the wide, dark eyes smile makes her breath catch. She tells herself that the ache in her chest is from the belt sitting heavy on her shoulders. Sighing, she kneels to his level and takes him in. Brown skin and chocolate eyes, and a gap-toothed grin. He smells of cotton candy and bubble gum. His voice sounds like how the sun feels on her skin and he's wearing jeans and a t-shirt with her face on it. He's hers.
They warned her, but she always learned things the hard way. She'd get too close, and come to, with a sword in one hand, shield in the other. Or gold bangles clanging against each other as she shifted in the seat of a ivory throne. Or pulling a bullhorn closer to her mouth. Always a story to tell, some new adventure, something to make right. Always someone else's life, someone else's child.
Gingerly, she reaches for his hand, and watches his eyes light up as he touches the belt. Before he can see her face change, she pulls him close. Then, she comes to--