“What the hell did you do?” Candi screamed, scrambling backward on her sequined boots.
“Divas don’t fight,” the Divapocalypse cooed. “They pose.”
When they flickered back on, the ring was gone. The mat had turned to obsidian, slick and cold. The ropes were thorned vines. And the fans? They were silent. Petrified. Their faces were frozen masks of horror, because they weren’t watching anymore. They were feeding something. X Club Wrestling Divapocalypse
She threw the championship belt.
From the ceiling, a single drop of molten gold fell. It struck the center of the ring and exploded into a pillar of light. When it faded, she stood there: The Divapocalypse. “What the hell did you do
The Divapocalypse screamed. The runes on her skin exploded outward like startled birds. Her form unraveled—first the hair, then the face, then the horrible beauty—until all that was left was a single, old-fashioned microphone on a stand.
Sweet Charity, the submission specialist, locked in her dreaded “Halo Hold” from behind. For a second, it worked. The Divapocalypse grunted. Then she laughed. “You hug like a sister,” she said, and Charity’s arms turned to rubber, wrapping around herself in a self-inflicted embrace that would never end. The mat had turned to obsidian, slick and cold
“Labels,” the Divapocalypse sighed. “You’ll learn they taste the same when you’re devoured.”
“You’re not real,” Lana shouted. “You’re the shame. The part of every woman here who was told to smile, to shake her hips, to lose weight, to be sexy, to be quiet. You’re the monster we made by pretending that past didn’t hurt.”
Lana looked at the championship. The cobra’s eyes were no longer crimson. They were empty. A keyhole. “It’s not a belt,” she whispered. “It’s a lock. And I just broke it.”
“The belt,” Candi hissed, pulling Lana behind a toppled lighting rig. “You touched it first. What is it?”