. Pain .

Pain.

It was something that had become a constant companion of Jamie Hayter’s over the past 7 years but taken to an exceptional level the past two weeks. Pulses of pain radiated through her body with a steady repetition of an EKG heartbeat.

The recent hellish brawls had taken their toll. Pain had become more than a companion, but now clung to her tightly like the embrace of an all-too-possessive lover.

Sometimes it was a low throbbing dull. A “3”. Other times a “pinging” ache of a “7”.

Right now?

She was at about a 13.

Because of one person.

Momo. Fucking. Watanabe.

Every time she shifted in bed. Momo. Every agonizing, hobbling walk or ride in a car. Momo.

In the back of her mind, there was a voice that reminded her of the other important things. The Queen of the Mountain Match at Ascension. The fact that she finally had her chance to win a Women’s Championship in a major U.S. promotion.

 Miss Jamie?

Sitting on a chair on an open balcony overlooking Southampton Beach… Long Island… is Jamie Hayter. Dressed down in a “LARIAT ATTACK!” black t-shirt, black yoga tights, and a pair of white sneakers, she sits with her hair up in a ponytail. Her eyes are fixated on the rolling in waves that crash against the shore. Evoking a thought of an endless battle and siege between ancient enemies as the tide continually worked to batter and beat away at the shoreline.

 Fuckin’ appropriate.

 Hello?!

Snapped from her internal world, she finally takes cognizance of the whirring noise and the sound of Drake Maverick wheeling up tentatively. Dressed casual in a polo shirt and khaki shorts, he still has the neck brace around his neck and his legs carefully wrapped. A thought processes in Jamie’s mind that Drake probably must still be in a lot of pain too after being clipped by a speeding car.

Then another thought follows.

 Fuck ‘im.

 What?

 Nothin’.

Drake wheels closer with a large amount of trepidation. Hayter is already tempestuous and downright cruel as her normal modus operandi. After the past two weeks of straight out brutality and war with Momo?

The pint-sized Brit knows he might have better odds walking into the cage of a starving lion.

 So… is it workin’?

 What?

 Y’know? Bein’ in Southampton? A touch o’ home.

Jamie rolls her eyes while reaching for a mug of steaming hot coffee. As the waves keep crashing in, she lifts it in the air, pausing as she looks at Drake with a malicious thought to perhaps throw it on him for such a stupid question. But the inclination passes and she figures scalding him isn’t worth the hassle.

Taking a sip, she lets the hot, bitter drink flow down her throat with her eyes closed before opening them again and staring at her… manager? Advocate? Pest? She still doesn’t know what to consider him.

 The only fuckin’ thing similar between this Yank shitshow and home is the name, a coast, and they speak some form of the same fuckin’ language.

 It’s the symbolism luv! The idea of ye ‘comin’ home’ to prep for the biggest match of ya life! Queen of the Mountain! Madison Square Gahden! Get ya’self in the mindframe of bein’ centered and calm—ack!

Drake is cut off as Jamie, despite the pain, snatches his shirt and pulls him close. There’s a ‘boiling beneath the surface’ expression in her calm visage as she stares at him.

 You think I need ta be centered and fuckin’ calm? Want me to chat “Serenity Now!” or some bullshite?

 I mean if it—ack!

Drake groans in pain as he’s whiplashed again.

 The only fuckin’ thing I’m centered on is makin’ sure Momo goes back to Japan in a body bag.

Jamie releases Drake who snaps back into his Shoprider Streamer Sport. Wincing and groaning, he carefully cricks his neck, attempting to check for any additional injury as he hears (and feels) a hard *pop* in his neck and he whimpers.

However, seeing how wound tight and murderous Jamie is, he realizes that will have to discard that concern for now and focus on the bigger matter.

 Miss Jamie! I understand ya want… really, really, want… vengeance on Momo. I’d love nothin’ better than ta see ya drag ‘er by the hair and toss her into the garbage along with that buggerin’ bastard Sonny Onoo! But there’s bigger things at stake!

Drake wheels closer, as he pulls out his smartphone, showing Jamie a picture of the WLCW Women’s Title.

 You’re on the verge of gettin’ what ya wanted! You literally become Queen of the Mountain if ya win that match and seize the gold!

Drake looks incredibly hopeful and motivated with a sparkle in his eyes that downright disturbs Hayter.

 Endorsement deals! Commercials! Movie Roles! Stops on Oprah!

 Oprah ain’t even on TV anymore ya fuckin’ daffy wankah!

 …Dr. Phil? I mean, ye do got a lot of rage issues…

With a gaze that would rival being at ground zero of a nuclear blast, Hayter glares at Drake and makes the smaller man shrink back.

 Okay. Maybe not. But the point remains ya are on the verge of becomin’ a mega stah! Which means a large flush to our…

Drake notices another hard gaze from Jamie.

 Uh… YOUR bank account and the recognition ye so richly deserve! But it won’t happen if while ya bashin’ that tart Momo’s skull in, ya aren’t payin’ attention ta what Hikari, Julia, or worst of all, SASHA could steal the time from ya clutches! It’s already bad enough you’re startin’ disadvantaged by havin’ ta make ya’self eligible first! Which is even more reason ta pin Momo fast since she’s eligible but keep ya eye on Julia since she is as well! Ya can’t have it go wrong in ya big moment!

Drake pauses as a thought comes to his mind.

 Speakin’ of things goin’ wrong. Poor Rok-C. Bloody poor luck there. Reminds me I better call Booka’ T and make sure he’s not stole the shampoo commercial spot I’ve been negotiatin’ fer after Ascension.

As Drake rattles on about banal things such as shampoo commercials with Booker T, “Funime” parties with Act Yusakawa, and his wife?

Jamie leans her head back and closes her eyes.

Images of the past 24 months float through her mind as she thinks on the various trials and tribulations.

One moment? Part of Oedo Tai, doing her thing with her girl Bea in Stardom.

The next? COVID hits and everything shuts down and she’s stuck in her Japanese apartment twiddling her thumbs.

Worst? Hana Kimura.

To this day, Hayter remains unsure how she felt about the girl personally, but there was no denying Hana was on her way to becoming the next major star of Stardom.

And even if that wasn’t the case. A shocking suicide always has its ripple effects to those adjacent. Even a raging, mean bitch like Jamie Hayter.

Yet, she made something of herself despite the world falling to shit.

Isolation was spent in hard training, working off some of the thick padding that appealed to some fans but wasn’t doing her favors in terms of rising the ladder. Flab turned to sculpted muscle via hours of sweat-ridden intense workouts.

Jamie Hayter forged herself anew. A true powerhouse waiting to knock the blockheads off of any cunt stupid enough to get in her way.

 *muttering* Except for the fuckin’ game.

The game. Politics. “Business”. Whatever you wanted to call it? It was all bullshite.

A muscular body and ability to carry any minger with quarter the skill through a decent match wasn’t enough to break into the U.S.

Jamie had to have a friend with an in. And that friend happened to be Britt Baker.

But the cost was what it always was in these situations.

Be the muscle. Be the enforcer.

Help the superstar steal wins and eat the pins when said superstar inevitably fucked up.

Be the shadow. Be the second spot.

Wrestling tale as old as the industry itself… or at least since the 1980s.

“Be the Wardlow to my MJF.”

She could practically feel the scheming smirk and smarm from Britt on the initial phone call. Promises of fame and fortune. To be fair, the “fortune” had partially come. No one was throwing out the huge six-figure checks that Tony Khan was.

Still…

 I’m no one’s fuckin’ Wardlow.

 What?

Drake queried as Jamie’s inner thought burst outward without her awareness.

 Nothin’. Just thinkin’ that I didn’t work this fuckin’ hard, split from me girl Bea, come to America, and deal with all those other bollocks in AEW… just ta wind up in the same fuckin’ place I left in Japan. Stuck bein’ the fuckin’ gaijin that’s eatin’ shite from fuckin’ sawed off runt Joshi daft cows who followed me ‘ere.

Jamie’s hand trembles as she tries to control the pent-up rage. It’s a desperate, screaming voice that wants to erupt like a volcano and send her into a tirade that would most likely lead to a smashed and wrecked hotel room.

Thankfully for her? The pain is there to remind her to chillout.

 *subdued* Ichiban.

Drake tilts his head before he squeaks in pain.

 Come again?

 *eyeroll* Means “Number One!” in Japanese. Me and Bea used to scream it to the top of our lungs while flipping off all those pissant, polite pillocks in the audience. With their stupid restraint, stiff postures, and limp wristed claps. Made us fuckin’ sick. Which is why when she went home to the UK, I got my act together.

I swore I was never gonna be undervalued again and was gonna leave all those tossers behind. Become the star in front of a crowd that fuckin’ appreciated my talents as more than just bein’ the fuckin’ gaijin sideshow!

Once more the pain returns, forcing Jamie to take a deep breath and bring the stillness back so that the strained muscles relax and ease. Drake just watches silently, a bit in awe at this moment of depth from the woman who usually is busy berating him. Hayter drinks down the rest of her coffee, exhaling a long breath before continuing.

 And when the shit all collapsed on itself, what do I find? The same fuckin’ Joshi twats ‘ere in the States. Tryin’ ta fuckin’ run shite like they’re back stormin’ around the fuckin’ Korakuen Hall!

 Miss Jamie! Your temper! You’ll never heal if ya keep overextending ya’self.

 What are ya a fuckin’ doc now?

Drake seems to legitimately think on that.

 Think I played one once… but no. Just…

 *raised eyebrow* Just… what?

 Well I mean there’s a pickle sized vein on your foreh—OW!

The ceramic coffee mug goes bouncing off his skull as he falls back but his motorized wheelchair’s sturdy base keeps him stable. Biting his lip, he quickly turns the chair and motors away, the sounds of sniffling and tears heard as he fades away. Jamie just watches and rolls her eyes.

 Wankah.

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