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No one ever asks Leo if he regrets it. He’d tell them he doesn’t, obviously. But it’d be nice to have someone wonder if he were lying or not. No one at the gym knows him, though, and that’s its own kind of blessing even if the equipment kind of smells like salt-cured fish and eggs.
Sweat drips down Leo’s temple. He mops it away.
“Is Mid trying to get another tag-team together?” Spoke’s lips twist. “You think she’d have put it together the first time someone dropped her.”
“Yeah,” Leo says absently. If he knows Mid — and he does, because the worst part of leaving her in the ring to be pummeled by Spoke is that he can't forget how she always had to tape her wrists just so and hated to change her bootlaces — she’ll be looking for someone else who’s just left a tag-team. He’s counting on it, actually. “Who do you think it’ll be?”
“She didn’t make too many friends,” Spoke says. “And she’s not exactly a threat to Ro and Mapicc’s titles. I doubt she’ll find anyone.”
“I think she’s more resourceful than that.” Leo shrugs and stands up. “Are we going to work out or what?”
Spoke smiles, messes with the sweatbands on his wrists. “I’m gonna get some more cardio in. Bet you’re doing weights, huh?”
“How’d you guess?” Leo says, as though he doesn’t have a gym routine that he’s spent years honing into a nine-day cycle that he doesn’t even have to think about. There are more important things for him to use his brainpower on.
Like who Mid’s going to pick for her tag partner. Or, really, whether or not her tag partner’s going to be Redd.
*
Mid had always told him to just give it up. Like, Redd’s not thinking about him, so why bother thinking about Redd. And the she said to shut the fuck up and focus on getting out of her jujigitame instead of brooding about some asshole who threw away his tag team partner for a number one title contendership match that he proceeded to lose. To Planetlord.
So Leo dutifully agreed to drop it, and he had.
The thing about Redd is that he doesn’t give anyone the time of day. Not even Ash, anymore. All Leo had wanted was a handshake. Redd laughed in his face. Brand-new wrestlers, both of them greener than the statue of liberty, and Redd couldn’t see past his own ego to try and make an ally. So Leo has a little bit of a duty to grind that ego down. For the greater good.
And the plan is coming along: now Redd has no allies. Whereas Leo has Spoke, and Woogie, and whoever else the three of them can round up with the promise of future aid. Leo has months of watching Redd’s tape, sharpening his moves, planning counters to Redd’s counters’ counters.
You know who else has no allies? Mid. You know who’ll be looking to stab him in the back just like he stabbed her? Three guesses and the first two don’t count. Her and Redd are a match made in heaven.
For Leo, that is.
*
“I can’t believe that they won’t even tell us who’s in the match before they make us go out there.” Spoke thunks his head against the wall. His mask blunts the sound. He always puts it on well before the match, like he has to hide his face from an invisible backstage audience.
“It’s gotta be Mid,” Leo says. “She’s keeping the element of surprise.”
“It won’t help her.” Spoke smiles up at him. It’s odd not to be able to read complexity into his face; normally he’s wry, tired, a conflicting mix of anger and righteousness, anything so long as it’s a maelstrom. The mask sandpapers it down. “We’re unstoppable.”
“We are.” Leo lets his anticipation show on his face. He can hear the crunch of Redd’s face under his boot already. The syrup satisfaction of settling a score. “Gonna make our record five and zero.”
“You think she won’t come back after this?” Spoke asks. “We’ll probably have to make it ten-nothing before her body can’t take it anymore.”
Leo snorts. “God knows her pride’s never let her down.”
Spoke gives him a look that’s impossible to interpret, of course. It’s easy for Leo to forget that Spoke has plans of his own, even if they’re so subtle as to be irrelevant. “Don’t let this get too personal. Tag me in.”
“Next you’ll tell me to isolate one of ‘em in our corner,” Leo says. “I’ve been doing this for a while —“ unlike Red, and unlike Spoke for that matter” — so don’t worry about it. I’ll stay smart.”
“They’re gonna want us in gorilla in like five,” Spoke says. “Get ready.”
“I’m ready.” Leo fishes his entrance mask out of his bag, hard white plastic that molds to his face. It’s comforting seeing the world through white mesh eyeholes.
They don’t see anyone on the walk to just behind the curtain, which is odd given how few hallways there are in the venue. It doesn’t seem particularly important until they get to the curtain and see nearly everyone in the promotion crowded together. People turn to them as they push their way through, but Leo keeps his head high. He doesn’t see Reddoons or Mid. That’s either a bad sign or a very, very good one.
Spoke’s entrance music hits. Four matches together isn’t quite enough time to figure out the details of anything complicated, so it’s mostly them doing their individual entrances at the same time. Not that Leo would admit to missing the copyright-free synth beats of his own theme song.
And then they wait. The crowd boos, voracious, but they aren’t throwing garbage.
Mid’s music hits.
She walks out, no surprise there. Her crown is set with fake rubies instead of fake amethysts.
A shot of adrenaline courses through Leo. Spoke bounces on his toes.
And then: it’s not Redd.
Leo mouths a curse, thankful for the mask over his lips and eyes. He can’t give himself away unless he loses control of his body, too.
Spepticle, of all people, raises his fists as he walks up the ramp. The headphones he has on are purple and gold. It clashes horrendously with the bright red of his trunks and jacket.
Something very akin to animal rage groundswells in Leo, toes to calves to knees to hips, until he balls his fists against the urge to lunge forward. He takes off his mask just for something to clench in his hands.
“Good luck for us,” Spoke says. “Spep’s not the greatest in a fight. She must’ve been scraping the bottom of the barrel.”
“Yeah,” Leo says. He knows his voice doesn’t sound right. With luck, the crowd is cheering too loudly for “Want me to tag in first?”
Spoke gives him a long look, then smiles, then says, “Sure.”
It’ll be good to get the rage out somehow. The bell rings and Leo’s storms the ring like a tank. Spepticle doesn’t stand a chance. He’s flat on his back. When he crawls to his knees, Leo’s right there to stomp him down again.
Leo knows he’s not an elegant fighter, but he doesn’t need to be. Spepticle doesn’t have the endurance to weather a full-on assault, and Leo doesn’t have to pace himself like he would with Redd.
The thud of his foot against Spepticle’s collarbone is satisfying enough. It’ll do. He’s surprised he can’t see the bruises form in real-time. There’s a pleasure in violence, just not enough to tamp his rage.
He leaves Spepticle curled in a shivery ball in the middle of the ring, and tags in Spoke.
“You didn’t need to do that,” Spoke says as their hands meet. It’s hard to hear him — oh. The crowd’s baying for his blood. Fuck you Leo. Fuck you Leo.
Leo shrugs. “I want to win.”
“You should’ve pinned him, then,” Spoke says. As he steps into the ring Mid tags in.
The fight is even, which Leo should have expected. Mid’s very good at what she does. It’s unexpectedly nostalgic to watch her work; he finds himself unconsciously leaning away from the backfist that he knows follows up her spinning hook kick.
Spoke messes up: he lets her get him in guard, and from there it’s just a pull and a twist to get her arm around his neck. She’s probably not much stronger than him, but she doesn’t need to be. Spoke’s mouth drops open as he gasps for air. His hands clutch at the mat, but he’s on his back.
The ref asks him if he wants to give up. It’s unclear if Spoke has enough breath to say “yes.”
He kicks his legs. Inch by brutal inch, Spoke makes his way towards the ropes.
The crowd screams. Tap. Tap. Tap. Spoke’s fingers brush the ropes. Out of bounds. Illegal hold. Mid lets go.
She has the gall to shove Spoke toward the corner, to tag in Leo.
“You motherfucker,” Mid yells. She gestures towards herself. “You fucking coward.”
Leo clambers into the ring as soon as Spoke reaches him. So neither of them have any backup anymore. Just the two of them. And Leo never even cared about fighting her. The guy he wants to fight wasn’t even in the crowd backstage.
“Let’s just do this,” he says.
“I trusted you,” Mid yells. She slaps him.
Something in Leo’s brain snaps. He throws a wild punch. Mid doesn’t bother to parry, just leans back and then comes at him with a throat chop to distract him from how she’s kicking his knee in. The world is very slow and loud.
Leo stomps her foot. Whatever works. He elbows her in the temple. She shakes it off, takes a run at him like she’s going for a spear. Leo steps out of the way and she bounces off the ropes. It’s like watching a video. Like having a premonition. He drops down to trip her. She jumps over.
It’s so annoying how well they know each other. He just catches her on the next pass, uses her momentum to spin her into the turnbuckle pad with a thud.
Mid spits a strand of hair out. “You don’t know how much I fucking prepared for you.”
Leo blinks. “You wasted your time.”
“I am going to grind you into the fucking dust,” Mid says. She stalks forward, hits him with a chop hard enough to wind him. Leo stumbles back and she presses her advantage, turning them around so Leo’s in the corner.
Leo blinks, tries to clear his head. Throws a palm strike. Mid steps back to dodge. Leo follows her — there are hands around his ankles.
He looks down. Of course. It’s her corner.
Spepticle gives him a battered grin, knuckles white over Leo’s tibia.
The world shifts white very abruptly. There is no sound but a dizzy ringing. Leo’s — oh god, his shoulders are down, and he can’t figure out how to pick them up again — one, two, three — Leo twists.
The bell rings. He wasn’t fast enough.
“That’s what you fucking get, traitor,” Mid snarls. She leans over Leo to offer a hand to Spepticle.
Spoke is nowhere to be found. Leo hadn’t thought he was that badly injured. And then he sees Spoke disappear through the curtain, far enough away that he had to have left before Leo was even pinned. Just gave up on him.
The back of Leo’s neck aches. Mid must have done a takedown too fast and vicious for him to process. She was always good at that.
There goes there five and zero record. Four and one for the rest of time. It’s fine. It’s not Spoke that matters.
The true villain hasn’t even shown up yet.