No thoughts, soul empty

Anna Daniels awakens to the crashing of waves and barking.

Last time the Daniels clan came to the beach, it was for Jacky. Marvelous, beautiful, wonderful Jacky. Right now is the reverse. It's him dragging her to the sand and surf. Because she needs it. She needs to stop thinking. Fuck thinking. Thinking hasn't done her a damned bit of good yet. Just go. Just do and let the rest fall into place. Just exist.

She watches with wide eyes for perhaps the first time since the Multitudes moved in. Watching aimlessly as he throws the frisbee with ease, watching Bucky leap high in the air and snag it from the air. The black lab aims gracefully on his feet, goes over to his dad, and the process starts all over again. It is a hypnotizing act. One that you can get lost in when you're in the right mindset.

Throw.

Catch.

Give.

Repeat.

Nothing more or less. A simple bit of mechanics that both enjoy. Dog's happy. Husband's happy. Both are even happier when they each sink their teeth into the plastic and perform a tug of war. She can't help but laugh. Of course he would do that. Some would call the action strange or even stupid. But it isn't. When you just do, nothing is too strange or dumb. Everything is just the right amount. Perfect in the chaos. What she wouldn't give to just…turn off her brain. Stop caring. Stop thinking. Because thinking and caring have become the most exhausting things. Internally, Anna--Multitudes and all–needs a nap and a clear mental reboot. Thus the sea and the shore.

We're just so fucking done.

Done with being screwed over. Done with every bit of hope being snatched the moment she believes in it. Done with the whole damned concept. But she can't really afford to be. Being a breadwinner means sacrificing everything you have for the person and hound that ultimately matter. Friends and acquaintances? They vanish. They are temporary things, much as she hates to admit it to herself. Much as everybody else doesn't want to believe it.

That's what people don't quite get. When she became friendly with Rob Williams, she knew it would be temporary. When it would end or how or why was a future Anna problem. Even now in the current, she isn't entirely sure if she's at the end or not. On one hand, he meant exactly what he said. That is something she’s certain of. He wouldn't have done what he did if he didn't. Never mind that they had to lie to Noah about where, exactly, that money came from.

(“I don't like this, Annie.”

“Neither do we. But you know damn good and well if we tell that stubborn ass the truth, he'll blow every gasket. You remember how hard it was for him to accept our help.”

“Yeah. I remember. You nearly brained him with that lockbox!”

“Damn right. That's exactly what us stubborn asses need.”

“So what do we tell him?”

“We don't know. Tell him we took out a loan or something. He'll still be pissed, but much less pissed than us saying hey, a guy we knew caught you up on the building without us knowing. And if that makes you uncomfortable, we'll make you a deal.”

“Hm?”

“When you tell Noah the truth about our ‘gimmick’, we'll tell the truth about the cash. With any luck, he'll be so baffled by the former that he won't even notice the latter.”)

Rob can bullshit his way in, over, and through all kinds of stuff. But that one action proved that he meant it. Somewhere in that old weathered soul, he had to have known that Anna would never ask for his help and more than likely would have had severe reservations about accepting it if he gave it outright. It can be considered a pride thing, at least partly. Yet there's also another element; a fear that if you rely on a person too much, you won't be able to stand on your own when they go. So he did what he did in the way he did it.

The one thing that is bothering her is that damned match and the aftermath of it. They got absolutely screwed out of those tag titles, the very goal they were aiming for, as a result of PRIME being PRIME. Rob Williams should be pissed off. Somewhere beyond her tiredness, Anna Daniels is pissed off. They should be burning all the fucking ships. They should be scalping every single little bitch on that pathetic roster. And yet…he’s busy having little campfire stories with the Whoresmen. Like everything they worked for

Never.

Happened.

Just like War Games. You galvanize a group to come together. You win. And in the end…well, cue Linkin Park. The good Linkin Park. Not the Danny Masterson sympathizer shit. It all comes back to nihilism. Even she is tired of nihilism, but

*motions everywhere*

It's like the roster develops amnesia a few days after a pay per view. And when you're the one that remembers, you're the one that gets treated like the freak. Because none of it matters. Just like she's been saying the entire time. PRIME is a place where gold is shit and shit is gold.

But that's old hat, right? That's normal. YAWN. Even that has gotten stale. The real irritating bit was in that match, only one person did the damned work. It wasn't Fred Dick. It wasn't Stronk. It sure as hell wasn't Rob Williams. At the end of the day, when it was gametime, the only person with their working boots on was her. That, perhaps, is the most exhausting part of it all. The more they think about it, the more tired they feel.

So stop thinking.

Turn off the brain because fuck knows none of them are using theirs. Not a single goddamn one.

Don't think.

Feel.

The vessel blinks at the beauty of the setting sun and the Herculean contest ensuing. Neither man nor beast are giving up their ground easily. With each stumble comes a flurry to recapture their positioning. She can even hear the both of them playfully growling to establish faux-dominance. Her sight is still in the distance, her body runs on auto-pilot. Normally, this would be something she would break up.

Instead, Anna Daniels gets on all fours and chomps on a forgotten side of the frisbee.

________

So…we get a pity shot for the Intense title.

We didn't flinch calling Coral Avalon's chance at the Universal a pity shot and we aren't flinching here, albeit with different circumstances attached. And oh, we can just gloat about how much of an absolute pussy Kerry Kuroyama is by not insisting on having his deserved shot be for the Universal title. It's almost as if he knew we were right about that as once again, the rules are proven to be fucking meaningless!

We see it for what it is. Normally, this will be the point where we say we don't want PRIME's pity. That's still true. But given in another universe, we lambasted an old friend for not seizing the opportunities like she used to, not seizing ours here would make us a hypocrite. Now, ‘Tone, we don't mind being a hypocrite. Existing with a brain like this and an ego like ours means you're going to be one regardless. Every single person on every single version of Earth is one. They just aren't noticed or called out 99% of the time. Considering the memory of PRIME lasts about as long as a fruit fly's fart, we can get away with it. But humor us, will ya? Humor us just this once.

See, we should still be crying and whining about that farce of a tag match. Buuuut what's the point? Nobody cares. Not even the people that were in it care. Not even the--airquotes!--”champions” care. They're too busy trying to get that bull milk and what's left of their legitimacy out of the stuffed corpse of a goat. Your little assholes certainly don't care. Rob doesn't seem to care and once he can get his balls out from your bedazzled saddlebags, he can come and find us. As a matter of fact, let's get him out of the way.

Bam! Not a factor.

The fact is, Daytona, you have a title belt and we want it. We don't want it for the sake of the championship because on the next show, LT can change it into the sunshine and rainbows title just to spite us and everybody would hee-hee and haw-haw like the worthless cunts they are. No. You wanna know why we want that shiny thing? We want it because of the paycheck. That little bump of cash. That bit of a kickup to our money. We have bills to pay and mouths to feed and a future to try and cultivate and your ass is in the way. And as a result of the circumstances of us not holding a tag belt right now? We're a little bit upset.

At this point, we feel like a dog that has been whupped on one time too many. Not that one that becomes a cowering mess to the point where you can't even call it a dog, but a dog that's about this close to biting somebody's face off. We're currently at the edge of being feral. We'll devour something with rabies just so when the time comes, we can pass that shit right along to you. That's if we don't shred your artery first. The funny part is…we don't even hate your ass. We'll do it anyway just to feel the slightest bit better for two-point-five seconds before the next round of lunacy hits.

Because in truth, we haven't fought for ourself ever since Culture Shock. Night one, we get a text. Our husband's coming home. We made an excuse to get away from the Glue for a bit because we rarely saw him in months. He finally gathers enough gumption to tell us the truth. That he spent every single cent of the money he earned to keep his trainer's wrestling school afloat. He was afraid to tell us, ashamed to tell us because of how much of a mess it was. We made a promise to him, Daytona Diamonds. And yes, we made a pledge to Cecilworth before then. We’ve made a promise to Rob too. But make no mistake. Not a single one. For our husband? For what we promised him?

We'll sacrifice it all.

As long as we can draw a breath and throw a punch, maybe even beyond that, we will burn through every single assfuck this shitmobile of a promotion places in front of us. Our mindset right now is very unga-bunga. At this point, we’re not even going to think about the ramifications. We’re here to break necks, cash checks, and go home. Anybody that goes against that can get allllll the smoke.

So yes, PRIME. We will take your shitty little pity shot. We will let you dangle hope in front of us once again because you just love it so much.

But there's gonna come a day where our punt ain't gonna aim for the ball.