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High on the List, part 1

Fake or not, scripted or not, violence still looked like violence, and Becky knew all too well that for all that wrestling was pre-planned, things could still go very, very wrong. Nia's punch came to mind, but when scenarios involved weapons, anything could happen. Tables might not break the way you thought they would, leading to someone being impaled. A simple slip could make a carefully choreographed blow from a kendo stick or sledgehammer hit its target harder than intended. A steel chair could be faulty and break in a way that cut its victim.

That last one was her current worry as she sat backstage—more correctly, forced herself to stay backstage—as Seth was getting pummeled by Brock Lesnar. Some her fellow wrestlers murmured quiet words of reassurance as she stayed focused on the television, nails digging into her palms so hard she almost drew blood. Eventually, though, everyone gave her a wide berth. Chairs opened up around hers like an exclusion zone, and only Natalya was brave enough to sit within reach. "I know it's hard to watch," Natalya said gently. "And I know that knowing it's all planned doesn't really help when you're seeing it. I've seen my dad go through it, my uncles, my boyfriend. . . ." Then she shook her head. "I know it sucks. I wish I could tell you it gets easier. For me, it never really did. Of course, my guy isn't wrestling anymore, but . . . I just wanted to let you know that if you want to talk about this kind of stuff with someone, I won't judge. I've been there." Natalya gave her a warm smile and stood. "You know how to find me if you need me."

"I do. Thanks, Nattie." Becky took a deep breath. Management had told her the next part was largely up to her. Seth would be taken from the arena in ambulance at the end of the beating. If Becky wanted to accompany him, she could. To her, the question was whether she should. Now that their relationship was public knowledge, it would look odd if she didn't go; if she did go, though, one of them would be reduced to 'the partner', which wasn't right either. "Before you go," she said quickly, gesturing up at the screen. The beating was mercifully almost over, so her cue was coming up; the backstage crew was going to text her with the timing. "Would you go in the ambulance?"

Natalya frowned a bit. "I've done that ride for real. It's not fun. For the cameras?" She shrugged. "It can be hard to navigate, Becky. I won't lie. If one partner's a champion and the other's not or if one's off injured. . . it can create a strain on the relationship. It's natural." Natalya ran a hand through her hair and shrugged. "Yeah, yeah, I would probably go. It's the business, it's the perception. I grew up in it and around it, so I guess some of it just doesn't bother me anymore, even though I know it should. If that makes sense."

Becky nodded. "It does." Then she stood and followed Natalya out of the seating area, her phone buzzing as they reached Catering. "There's my cue," she said with a wry smile as she read the brief message, little more than a time frame and a location. "Thanks, Nattie. I mean it."

Natalya gave her a quick hug and a pat on the cheek. "I know this will probably sound hollow, but just remember that ultimately it doesn't matter what the fans think. If you love him and he loves you, that's what matters. Then Creative will just have to deal with it if it doesn't go over well in the ring. You can only do so much. Don't let anyone else affect how you see him."

"I won't." Becky gave her friend a quick wave as she jogged past backstage crews to the area mentioned in the text. Some of the crew members there looked vaguely intimidated by her and she wondered if the Money in the Bank photographer had said anything to them. She hadn't been reprimanded by the bosses yet, so she was hopeful. "So what's the plan?" she asked, tucking her phone in her pocket. She already had the rest of her stuff packed up and sent ahead to the hotel, as did Seth.

It took a moment for anyone to answer her, mostly because they were all busy fine-tuning the small details that made bits like this look even halfway real. "The usual spiel," a roadie finally said. "Load him in the back, 'going to the nearest medical facility', so on and so on. No further blindsides or attacks," he added quickly.