What You Mean To Me

Yo, it's ya girl, RIA Lockhart! There's a bunch of things that bother me, but you know what I hate? What really Ivans my Stanislav?

Cleaning.

Cleaning sucks.

You put all this effort in, you bust your ass, only to have to do it again far too soon afterward. And if you got kids or pets? Well, get used to doing it damn near constantly! It just never fuckin' stops! Dishes! Laundry! Vacuuming! Dusting! One big constant cycle of pain in the ass cleanliness and effort! But when you're done?

Oh that's when you get that dopamine fix! Everything looks so neat and tidy. Aesthetically pleasing, shiny as hell proof of effort, right in front of your eyes. That's what always gets me through that crap. That's my non-glue infringing finish line! It's what I always use. That's what I'm using now. My motivation.

You would think with me spending more and more time in Seattle and Kohime off taking care of Nate, that there wouldn't be much cleaning to do in the Vegas apartment. No dishes. Kohime and I usually use paper stuff now since we don't tend to be in the apartment at the same time often. Seems kinda pointless to load the dishwasher with a few things, then run it. Water is precious, ya know?

I dunno what the fuck Janni and I were thinking, renting this place. Like, renting in Vegas made sense; PRIME and SHOOT were both still there. We both agreed we'd build up nest eggs. Nothing earth shattering, but enough to cover any emergency that might come along. Still adding to that, thankfully. Say what you want about LT, she pays you well if you ain't a complete fuckhead. Also, don't get too rude about her or I'll smack you in the mouth.

Lemme explain… No, the location wasn't the problem. It was the size. Two bedrooms. Doesn't sound that bad, right? Well they're both big enough to be masters. That's WITH attached bathrooms that are bigger than some apartment’s sleeping quarters! And don't get me started on the fuckin’ living room! The kitchen is big, but that's actually a good thing. I'm able to chill with ‘Hime while she cooks without being in the way. You wanna see Kohime throw out the most adorable minced oaths you've ever seen? Get in her way when she's cooking.

Anyway, cleaning. I'm half-assing this shit right now. We got that wood laminate stuff for flooring. Looks great, easier to take care of than the real deal. Swiffer wet jet, baby! Also using that Swiffer duster thing that looks kinda like Big Bird’s ass. No vacuuming. No dishes. I'll take my laundry, what little there'll be, back to Seattle. But there's one kind of cleaning I neglected to mention. The WORST kind of cleaning: Spring cleaning.

You have to do all the normal shit, but, like, double. Gotta get in there real deep. But then you also gotta throw shit away too. That's the point, right? Out with the old, in with the new. Replace worn out crap. Get rid of junk you don't use. But sometimes, there's possessions that you can't bear to part with, even if they're worn or maybe don't have use any longer.

My particular hoarding weakness? Electronics. I have a PSP. In 2026. Have I played it recently? Fuck no. Will I in the near future? Naw. I have controllers I've kept, even though some of the buttons stick or are pretty damn loose. I got some of those weird rhombus ass USB cords that nothing uses anymore. But I keep all this stuff that may as well be in a junkyard or collecting dust in a retro store. Just can't help myself.

It's while swmopping in my bedroom that my mind drifts to the bottom drawer of my dresser where I keep all that. Why am I thinking about that at all? I'm not doing that deep cleaning crap today. So why worry about a junk drawer straight outta Best Buy circa 2010 (which is when my career started, by the way)? Well, see, I got a text this morning. ReVival 81. The Anglo Luchador.

Fuck.

This? I don't like this. Rob Williams? I'm happy to try and beat his ass. Especially after his bullshit accusation towards me. Anna? I wasn't super thrilled, but that match had to happen. We both needed it, even if things stay fractured. Hell, even if we worked through it, I was ready for that Colton match. I could probably pick out a good 25 or 30 people on the PRIME roster that I'd rather get in the ring with than TAL. I'm not afraid or anything. Tom’s a friend and I'd rather not wrestle him. Might even say he's more than that, if I'm honest.

Tom and I… It's so much more complicated. Are we as close as we used to be? Maybe not. Have we always been on the best terms? We threw each other into barbwire once upon a time, so naw. We were on opposing sides in a tag match not that long ago and I was 100% behind Kerry for that one. I'm not naive enough to think all of that means nothing, that there's zero impact on our relationship.

But here's the thing… Tom has given me something I went without for so long. Something I didn't even realize would make a difference in my life. Tom gave me a stable adult male role model. Now, I'm sure some people would chuckle about that. The Anglo Luchador? Stable? He'd probably be one of the first people to dispute that label. The guy has had enough problems to keep a therapist employed until retirement.

But he's always been there. Flawed, beaten up, and apparently narcoleptic… he's still here. My father, my stepdad, my uncles… Those men aren't half of what Tom is. Even when I was at my worst, he still saw good in me. Without him, I'm not who I am. Hell, I'm not sure if I'm even still here, and I don't just mean in PRIME. So regardless of where we are on our friendship map, he's definitely still marked on there.

That being said… I won't go easy on him. And I know damn well he wouldn't want me to. My mind is pretty much a fuckin’ bingo cage at the best of times. One minute I wanna prove my skill. The next, I'm content to just give my best. I might even be on an ass beating kick on occasion. No matter where my mind might be, where it might go, Tom is held in place; practically a surrogate father for me. And the last thing I wanna do is let him down.

But I'm also taking at least one lesson Anna taught me into this as well. I don't wanna let myself down either. That's my New Year's resolution (yeah yeah, cliche as hell); do right by myself in 2026. So TAL would want my best. I wanna give my best. I might not treat him like this Swiffer I'm fuckin’ sick of holding and mop up, but this win? It would matter to me, more than a lot of others might. So Tom better have a cup of coffee, a can of Red Bull and a whole 5 Hour Energy. Win or lose, Imma beat that ass and Imma do it with a smile. I'm not gonna let the faith he expressed in me once before go to waste. Hate couldn't beat him last time… Let's see how love does.

Cami top. Daisy dukes. Flats with skulls all over them. A hoodie. All in black. And a body covered in bandages. That's how Ria Nightshade was rolling on July 2nd, 2022. 3 AM. Great American Nightmare was only hours old at this point. Post Intense title match, The Anglo Luchador had drug Nightshade all over the arena, and to different parts of Vegas. It was all in an effort to foster both forgiveness from and the growth of Ria. She appreciated the gesture. Truly, she did. But fucking hell, was she people’d out at this point.

Timo Bolamba? That face paint wearing motherfucker, for all of the good that was in him, never shut the hell up.

“When does that jagoff even breathe?”

Nightshade’s hands roughly made their way into her hoodie pockets. She knew there was more to Timo deep down, but she really didn't want to think about it. TAL also insisted on having Ria meet with Pom Shinjoku. The two also exchanged numbers. The Toxic Queen even went to the effort of actually programming it into her phone. Would she text Pom? Not likely. Call her? Shit, that was even less likely. It wasn't personal. Ria had just started opening up to people. The walls were lowered a bit, but you still needed a ladder to climb over the damn things most of the time.

That's why she was wearing this goddamn hoodie in weather that said doing so was a stupid idea. She didn't wanna engage. Nightshade had started gaining in popularity as well. Yeah, sure, it was nice seeing that even through her snark and anger that goodness shined through. But she still wasn't exactly a people person. Unfortunately, she also wasn't hard to spot; Reason #2 for the hoodie. Ria needed her alone time. Hopefully, she wouldn't be recognized or spotted.

She strode down the Vegas strip lackadaisically. What populous was out seemed faceless, colored blobs that slid by. One nice thing about Vegas? You have to be keeping a pretty high profile for people to notice you. Exactly what she wanted. Nightshade wasn't unfamiliar with causing a scene, but it wasn't something she went out of her way to do. The hoodie, with what reprieve darkness gave from street lights, gave her cover.

Ria popped into a Walgreens, thankfully quite empty. Basket on her arm, she slowly moved from aisle to aisle. No itinerary, no predisposition towards what she wanted. The Toxic Queen was awake and needed to do something with herself. So snacks, drinks and cigarettes seemed like a perfect excuse to take a walk. Her mind kept fading back to earlier; the sting from barbwire, the markings still throbbing. Missing out on the one title she coveted. Anna didn't win either, which was her second choice if Nightshade herself couldn't.

But the fury towards The Anglo Luchador had already been cooling. He apologized. He took responsibility. Nightshade wasn't used to that. She was used to taking the blame when she got hurt; she did something wrong, didn't do something, spoke at the wrong time, etc etc etc. Lockhart was still stuck in that vicious cycle, constantly putting the blame on herself even when there was no reason to. Nightshade? She fought back against it. It didn't mean she was always right. But right or wrong, she was making the choice herself. She wouldn't be a victim of her upbringing.

Sour cream and cheddar Pringles. Milk Duds. A 2 liter of Wild Cherry Pepsi. Two packs of Maverick menthol 100s. After checking out, Ria immediately fished a pack of the cigarettes out of the bag, packed it and ripped off the cellophane, along with the foil. Her lips clasped the tobacco stick. She inhaled after lighting it, smoke pouring into the dark Vegas sky from a steady exhale. She had a policy that on show days, she didn't smoke until after her match. In this case, her tour with Tom had prolonged that.

That lightheaded feeling you get when the nicotine entered your system after going without for too long… One positive to not having access for extended periods. She loved that feeling. She had done harder drugs and would just likely do so in the future. This? This was more basic. Simpler. Safer. She was 27 years old. For almost a decade, this part of her being didn't care whether she lived or died. But these assholes had started chipping away at her. She actually… cared about them.

It's why on her stroll back to her hotel room that she found herself reflecting on TAL once more. When she said there were people she looked up to, his response was to immediately mention Anna. While not wrong, the silent respect she was trying to show flew right over his head. So she had to spell it out for him. Not really her style, but it was important for her to make it known.

“Goofy fucker…”

She had to steel herself when she heard his words. He could move on without her respect and be fine. But he wanted to have it, even if he didn't feel deserving of it. He wanted to be better because of someone like her. And she could be Universal champion someday. It was a good thing Lockhart wasn't in control because she'd be a bawling mess at this point. Even Nightshade could feel the lump in her throat upon hearing those words.

Encouragement wasn't a completely foreign concept to Ria. She had gotten it before in life; Janelle, her mother, her siblings, fans… This wasn't like that. TAL wasn't obligated the way her family was. He said this stuff because he wanted to. Because she earned it. She wasn't supposed to belong. She was an outcast. She was a confusing mess that wasn't worth the work to untangle. But he saw her, or maybe at least saw who she could be. He made her want to be better, and not just in the ring.

Back into the hotel room. Hoodie off and the snacks were set down. A little bit of ice, slightly melted from sitting in an ice bucket, was added to a paper bathroom cup. In went the Pepsi before the bottle was stashed in the mini-fridge. Ria gulped it down before collapsing onto the bed. It had finally all caught up to her; physical and mental exhaustion, converging at a point to finally drain her battery.

Nightshade didn't bother changing clothes. She almost couldn't find the motivation to crawl under the covers, but managed somehow. She grabbed her phone, finding a YouTube playlist to throw on. After it was playing, the bedside lamp was shut off, bathing the room in blackness. She nuzzled up with her pillow, doing her best to let her body unwind. For the first time in a long time, Ria Nightshade had found some sliver of peace. And she didn't want to let it go any time soon.

A girl ventured out into the wilderness with but a dagger and the clothing on her back to her name. Her training was minimal, just enough to potentially ensure survival. No companions. No rations. She was 16 years of age now. It was time for her to find her own path. And she must do so on her own. Minimal assistance.

So she hunted and fought and foraged. She had to start small at first; rabbits, squirrels, animals that weren't much of a threat. One false step, pushing for prey that saw her as the same, could end things in short order. Foolhardiness would be of little benefit to her in this environment. Patience and growth, that would ensure her long term survival.

Our heroine found progress, slow as it might be. She began to fashion new clothing from her kills. She found a successful fishing method. Creating temporary shelter out of what wood and foliage was available was starting to become second nature to her. Bigger beasts were becoming routine hunting. The girl was becoming a woman.

She had began to notice a shift in her when she would take on game; she became aggressive, almost primalistic when battling. The fight would consume her, regard for her well being secondary to the kill. It worried her to a degree, as the woman worried that she may be losing control over herself in these situations. She didn't want to be consumed by bloodlust.

As the vagabond woman continued to trek over the years, she found herself settling between two villages. She would make her way to both on occasion; exchanging wares, fixing or acquiring new equipment, seeking shelter during particularly harsh conditions. She would be welcomed in both towns. Despite this, she still felt like an outsider deep down, that she couldn't and wouldn't truly belong to either.

One of the towns was quite competitive with sport, both for recreation and hunting. She had joined a few of the villagers on their quests. They saw the side she hid, the seemingly anger filled force she would poach with. She was raw compared to these finely tuned hawks, but some could see her potential. Others still found her methods and manner of pursuit repugnant.

In time, she heard tale of a dragon that would come to the village. It was many centuries old and smaller than the behemoths fables often spoke of. Yet the dragon had respect. He would battle the villagers, though there would never be a kill. The dragon simply wished to test its strength. Others also spread word that it was almost a certainty that the beast could be beaten but not slain. Immortal.

The dragon would become witness to the outsider woman's fierce fighting style. He found himself intrigued with her; yes, there were villagers far more skilled with the blade. Many bigger, faster or stronger. What could this woman provide that the townsfolk could not only match, but best? The dragon could see what others might not.

Spirit. The woman, reckless as she might be in fight, also showed little fear against dangerous predators. She had been injured, battered, bloodied. The woman would never stay from the battlefield for long. She had went out with the villagers even when in less than adequate condition. Others had similar spirit, but there was something unique there. The dragon wanted to see how she would stand to his challenge.

And so a battle was set. The dragon, the warrior woman, a wizard and a rogue would cross arms. The woman and the wizard had managed to form a kinship during the warrior’s forays into town. An alliance was formed, each agreeing to only fight the other two. It was an extraordinary war; all four competitors would have their limits tested, their boundaries pushed. The bond set between the warrior and wizard would hold true. But the dragon would be victorious in the end.

A thief had laid traps in the midst of the conflict, having issues with the rogue. All but the dragon would fall into these ambushes. The thief cared not for the honor of the others, the downfall of the rogue all he concerned himself with. The dragon did indeed defeat the rogue. The warrior and wizard were ensnared by some of the thief’s chicanery and found themselves unable to continue the fight.

Despite the warrior's failure, the dragon was able to observe the sparks of potential from her spirit. He urged her to get stronger, to continue her growth, to become a proud champion. She needed not the dragon’s word, precious though it may be. The warrior had these ambitions all her own. Her own desires and the encouragement would guide her.

If only.

No step forward was without resistance. Wounds of both the body and mind would trouble the warrior. Addiction to unscrupulous substances stunted progress and growth. Injured by her own hand, while others around her pressed forward. The shining potential, her boundless spirit, seemed to dull. Through it all, the dragon waged his own wars, both with foes foreign and internal. Neither was unscathed by the years gone.

And now, once again, they stood opposite on the battlefield. There would be no other combatants this time; just the warrior and the dragon. The dagger had long since been traded for a sword. Many scars had been acquired by both leading to this point. The woman gazed into the beast’s eyes, feeling as if their past found life in front of them. She wanted to thrive, to find vigor once hidden, to have it swell deep inside once more. She would prove her worth this time. To the dragon. And, most of all, to herself.