I Don't Care

[Brooklyn]

The early morning light in Montreal painted the city in hues of icy blue as Brooklyn, bundled up against the cold, walked through the frost-kissed streets. Meanwhile, in the warmth of her Las Vegas apartment, April squinted at her phone as it buzzed persistently on the nightstand. Groaning, she fumbled for it, her voice still thick with sleep as she answered the call.

"Brooklyn, do you have any idea what time it is here?" April's voice, usually steady and grounded, now carried the unmistakable weariness of someone torn from their slumber.

Brooklyn chuckled on the other end, her voice cutting through the line like a crisp winter wind. "Time? Who cares about time? We've got bigger things to worry about."

April rolled her eyes, sinking back into her pillows. "Always with the drama. What's the emergency this time?"

"It's not an emergency. It's a wake-up call, literally. Montreal style. You should see the frost on the windows; it's like a damn winter wonderland. I hate it," Brooklyn replied, her tone a mix of annoyance and amusement.

April sighed, running a hand through her tousled hair. "Must be nice. Meanwhile, I'm still clinging to the warmth of my bed. What's so important that it couldn't wait until a decent hour?"

Brooklyn hesitated for a moment, the gravity of her thoughts evident even through the phone. "April, we need to talk about Survival of the Fittest. The Extinction Event."

April's brows furrowed as she propped herself up, suddenly more alert. "What about it?"

"It's not like it was last time I was in it - back then I just had to pin one person and walk away with my title. Have you seen what they’ve turned this thing into now? It’s a winner-takes-all. And I'm not just talking about titles. I'm talking about everything we've built," Brooklyn's voice carried weight, the realization of the stakes settling in.

April's logical mind kicked into gear, pushing aside the remnants of sleep. "Brooklyn, you're sounding unusually serious. What's going on?"

Brooklyn took a deep breath, the cold air of Montreal swirling around her. "If I lose the Women's World title, what happens next? What's the next step for us?"

April sighed, knowing that Brooklyn's emotions were driving this conversation. "You're overthinking, as usual. Losing a title doesn't define you. You're more than a championship belt. You’ve known that since day one."

"But what if I'm not, April? What if this is all I am, and without it, I'm just another face in the crowd? Before this title, I was struggling to keep my head above water in the women’s division. After I lost it, nobody even noticed that I disappeared for, like, over a year. Tell me that doesn’t show you my worth without the title!" Brooklyn's vulnerability slipped through the tough exterior, a rare glimpse into her fears.

April paused, choosing her words carefully. "Brooklyn, you're the Big Bad Wolf, with or without the title. But I get it. You've built something here, something beyond championships. The Murder, the group, they look up to you. Losing might make you question your place in all of this."

Brooklyn nodded on her end, even though April couldn't see. "Exactly. The Murder, the group, Rowan... it's all tangled up. What if losing the title means losing everything?"

April sighed, grappling with the complexity of the situation. "Brooklyn, you've got to separate the title from who you are. If the Murder falls apart because you're not the champion, then maybe it wasn't as strong as you thought. And Rowan... she loves you for you, not the title around your waist."

Brooklyn paced on the snowy sidewalk, the distant city sounds providing a backdrop to their conversation. "I know, I know. But this is Survival of the Fittest. It's not just about the title; it's about proving something, not just to myself but to everyone. To the Murder, to the challengers, to the world."

April sighed, her worry for her sister evident in her voice. "Brooklyn, just remember, titles or not, you're a force to be reckoned with. But you need to figure out what comes after, regardless of the outcome. Have a plan, because life doesn't stop at Survival of the Fittest."

"Ugh … I hate it when you're right," Brooklyn muttered, a half-hearted smile evident in her voice.

"Someone has to be the voice of reason in this circus you call life," April replied, her own smile audible. "Now, what about the Murder? Are we just a group centered around you as the champion, or is there a greater purpose?"

Brooklyn sighed, the weight of the conversation settling on her shoulders. "It’s not all about me, I’d never want it to be all about me. But, I don't know, April. The whole point was to rebuild this division even if we had to burn it to the ground first. Build up new talent, and create challengers hungry for this title. I’ve … I've tried to make it more, but we lack the tools to work with here, and it feels like it's always coming back on me for that. I’ve wanted to see new girls rise and try to take this belt away from me … but they don’t. My toughest challengers have been Jennie and Caroline, and both of them are former champions themselves. Emmy was supposed to be the ‘next big thing’ and had been chomping at the bit to face me the day after she joined the company. Where’d she go, April? So tell me how that makes me look then … that this title is prestigious enough to want to fight for, just not enough when I make them work for that shot. So I’m left just sitting on the title looking like a champion who’s afraid to defend her title."

April's analytical mind processed the information. "Okay, listen, there’s a lot to unpack there. First, let’s maybe think about trying to define the Murder beyond just your championship reign. What's our purpose? What do we stand for? Talk this over with Rowan. Make her part of the decision, not just an observer caught between loyalty to you and loyalty to the Murder.

And as for defending the title; you can’t control the women challenging for the title any more than you can control getting new contracts signed. Before I made my way into actual competition I’d spent years at the Performance Centre training new girls knowing that they were the eventual, future of the company. Times have changed, Brook, and these kids … if they don’t get the immediate gratification of a title match, of being in the main event, seeing their name up in lights on the marquee, they walk. They go to some other company that will coddle them and tell them how special they are. D’you know how many special little snowflakes I had to watch walk out those Centre doors after Bob or Devlin told them they didn’t have what it took? Too many. But that’s not on you and you shouldn’t be losing sleep because the company had to throw together a battle royal just to find you an opponent."

“Hey!” Brooklyn cut in, "Don’t forget that it was a ‘thrown together battle royal’ at Diamonds are Forever that got me my big break.”

April sighed, “You know what I mean. None of those girls were standing out on their own, none were taking any initiative and wanting to grab that brass ring. They were happy just middling around and had to be given all the matches they’d gotten. None of them have asked for matches, and none of them have demanded matches, I mean, face facts here Brook, they’re not going to make a name for themselves because they’re waiting for someone else to do it for them. You either need to be okay with doing the heavy lifting here or start doing something about their laziness."

Brooklyn nodded, even though April couldn't see. "You're right again. Damn it, April. Why do you always have to be the voice of reason?"

"Someone has to keep you grounded. Now, go beat Virginia and the rest of them. Retain that title and come back to Vegas in one piece," April said, a genuine concern for her sister evident in her voice.

Brooklyn chuckled, the sound carrying a mix of determination and gratitude. "I will. Survival of the Fittest, right? I'll come back with another win under my belt, and we'll figure out the rest later."

As they exchanged a few more words, as the morning light in Montreal continued to brighten, casting a pale glow on Brooklyn's surroundings. The city, caught in the dance between sleep and wake, mirrored the uncertainties of her thoughts.

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Brooklyn sighed, her breath clouding the still too cold to be allowed air in front of her in these early morning hours of Montreal. As early as it was, the sun just kissing the horizon, the city still stirred like a waking giant. The sky was a canvas painted in hues of lavender and amber, marking the transition from the silence of the night to the buzz of a new day. The frigid air, biting and unforgiving, swept through the downtown area where Brooklyn navigated the unfamiliar streets.

Born and bred in the scorching heat of Las Vegas, Montreal's icy breath felt like nature's attempt to put her on ice, to halt her relentless march forward. The concrete jungle around her was adorned with remnants of frost, and every step seemed to echo with the crunch of snow under her boots. Brooklyn, draped in an ensemble that seemed more suited for the Nevada desert than the Canadian tundra, wore her disdain for the climate like a badge of honor.

As she continued her stroll through the awakening city, her breath visible in the crisp air, Brooklyn's thoughts spilled into the morning mist. "Stupid city. Why do people even choose to live in places like this? I guess it’s just more survival of the fittest," she mused, the words hanging in the air like a challenge. The looming Extinction Event, where champions would unite against challengers, presented a conundrum for the solitary ruler. Brooklyn, the Big Bad Wolf, accustomed to her solitary pursuit of dominance, now found herself in a different sort of pack, standing alongside former allies and, more notably, former kin—Dean Harper.

The cityscape mirrored the complexity of her emotions—cold, distant, yet pulsating with an undercurrent of energy just below the surface. The sun, a reluctant guest in the northern sky, cast long shadows on the snow-covered streets. Brooklyn, despite her stoic demeanor, couldn't escape the symbolism of the changing environment around her. She was a stranger in a strange land, wrestling not only with the temperature but with the dynamics of unity.

"Extinction Event," she whispered to the wind, a metaphorical chill creeping into her voice. The survival of champions hinged on their ability to defy the expectation that they were lone wolves, incapable of cooperation. Brooklyn, known for her indomitable spirit, grappled with the concept of teamwork. Her alliance with Dean Harper, once as close as family, now felt like an alliance of convenience.

Her boots left imprints on the snow-covered pavement as she continued her journey through the waking city. The looming match cast its shadow over her thoughts, and the competitors' names echoed in her mind like a dark chant. Wraith, Alexandra Calaway, and a brother turned adversary—Dean Harper—all stood, theoretically, with her as champions, but also stood in her path of retaining her title. The challengers, a formidable lineup including Angel Blake, Nick Knight, Warren Harper, and her own opponent, Virginia Stepanov, added weight to the impending showdown.

Brooklyn's internal monologue spilled into the frozen air, carried away by the Montreal breeze. "I ain't one to back down," she declared to the silent skyscrapers, her words punctuating the rhythmic crunch of snow beneath her feet "Survival of the Fittest, they call it. Winner takes all. Well, if they think Brooklyn's just gonna roll over and let 'em take the victory, they got another thing coming."

The city, caught between sleep and wakefulness, seemed to listen. Brooklyn's voice resonated in the early morning stillness, and her words held the promise of a storm on the horizon. As she walked, her gaze shifted to the sky, where the sun struggled to pierce through the winter clouds. The juxtaposition of warmth and cold mirrored the internal conflict of a champion forced to collaborate with others.

The path ahead was uncertain, and Brooklyn's musings were laden with both determination and frustration. "These women," she muttered, her breath forming clouds of steam, "they just don't get it. I've tried to build this division, make 'em rise to the occasion. But they're too busy playin' their own games." The city, with its stoic buildings and indifferent streets, absorbed her grievances.

Montreal, with its frozen facade, became a metaphor for the chilly reception Brooklyn felt from her fellow competitors. Her boots crunched through the snow, each step a testament to her defiance in the face of adversity. "The only one who could take this title off me," she continued, her voice a low growl, "she's standin' on the same side of the ring. But until lil’ Ms. Ally decides to turn her attention to the big title I'll keep makin' examples out of whoever's the flavor of the week."

The dialogue with the city unfolded like a one-sided conversation, with Brooklyn pouring her frustrations into the urban landscape. The rising sun, indifferent to her struggles, cast long shadows that danced on the icy ground. “Virginia,” she whispered. The dichotomy of the frozen city and Brooklyn's burning determination painted a vivid picture. The concrete canyons absorbed her words, and the early morning light became a silent witness to her internal turmoil. "I don't doubt for a second I'll put her down," she declared, her tone unwavering. "But to guarantee a victory, I might have to do everyone else’s job too … might have to unleash the beast, go all out."

As Brooklyn continued her solitary exploration of the city, her thoughts melded with the surroundings. Montreal, with its frosty embrace, stood as a formidable opponent in itself. The world champion, defiant and unyielding, confronted the challenges not only of the ring but of a forced alliance. The streets, slowly awakening to the dawn, echoed with the footsteps of a champion navigating the icy terrain.

Brooklyn's footsteps echoed through the silent streets, the bitter wind serving as a cruel reminder of the unresolved tension that lingered in her heart. Memories of camaraderie, laughter, and shared victories clashed with the harsh reality of betrayal. The city of Montreal, indifferent to the internal struggle playing out within its concrete borders, bore witness to the emotional turmoil that Brooklyn carried.

"Dean," she muttered again, the name tasting bitter on her lips. The fractured relationship with the man who had been a steadfast figure in her life unfolded like a bitter drama. "You were there from the beginning when Rowan first took me under her wing. Made me feel like I had a family, a home. Dean, in many ways, you were the older brother I never knew I so desperately needed."

The nostalgia in her voice was palpable, a yearning for the times when unity and loyalty defined their pack. "We were a force, a family that stood strong. The Pack meant something back then," she reminisced, her breath visible in the frigid air, mirroring the cold reality of their shattered bond.

A bitter wind swept through the narrow alleys as Brooklyn continued her solitary walk. "But then you turned your back on your family, on the Pack. The unity we had—shattered. Broken and scattered," she spoke, each word punctuated by the echo of her boots against the pavement. The emotions etched on her face revealed the depth of the betrayal that still cut like a jagged edge.

The bitterness intensified as she dwelled on the aftermath. "No apology, not a single acknowledgment of the wreckage you left behind. We were supposed to be blood, but it didn't matter to you, did it? It was as if we were disposable," Brooklyn's voice held a bitter edge, the cold wind becoming a metaphor for the frostiness that settled between them.

Despite her resentment, Brooklyn couldn't shake the understanding buried beneath the layers of hurt. "I get it, on some level. You found out your biological father was alive, and wanted to build a relationship. Blood is supposed to mean something," she sighed, grappling with the conflicting emotions that bubbled beneath the surface.

"But we were family, too," Brooklyn declared, her words carrying a mix of frustration and regret. "There could have been a way for us to coexist. But you never gave us that chance. You ripped out our hearts when you turned your back on us." The gravity of her words hung in the air, the silence broken only by the distant sounds of waking Montreal.

A sudden gust of wind seemed to emphasize her next words. "Rowan doesn't talk about you anymore. It's not healthy," she admitted, the concern for her love was evident in her voice. "But there are lines you don't cross when it comes to Ro." The unspoken pain resonated in the crisp morning air, a testament to the wounds that went beyond words.

A flicker of anger crossed Brooklyn's face again as she contemplated her conflicted emotions. "Nothing would make me happier than to drag a beaten and bloody Dean Harper home and give him to Rowan. Gift-wrapped, of course." The thought, though tempting, was quickly dismissed with a resigned shake of her head. The internal struggle etched on her face revealed a longing for closure.

"But I won't," she declared, the resolve in her voice cutting through the bitter wind. "For the champions, I'll coexist with you during the Extinction Event. Play nice for the greater good." The internal turmoil, however, lingered in her eyes, a storm waiting to be unleashed.

"The moment I get within striking distance, my emotions and my brain are gonna be at war," Brooklyn admitted, a sense of foreboding in her words. The tension in the air mirrored the internal conflict that threatened to spill over when the inevitable confrontation with Dean arrived.

As Brooklyn's journey through the city continued, the fractured relationship with Dean became a poignant undercurrent in her narrative. The streets of Montreal, now bustling with the awakening city, seemed to resonate with the unresolved emotions that Brooklyn carried. The impending Extinction Event, a battleground for titles, also promised to be a battlefield for emotions long suppressed.

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Brooklyn's figure dominated the scene, the Women's World Championship draped over her shoulder like a glittering trophy of conquest. The intensity in her eyes pierced through the lens, a tempest of disdain brewing beneath her confident veneer.

"Well, well, well, look at who managed to claw their way into the Extinction Event at Survival of the Fittest. Virginia Stepanov, the supposed shining star of New York City, the latest in a long line of delusional nobodies who think they can tango with the Women's World Champion. Congratulations, Virginia. Truly, a round of applause. You managed to triumph over five other women in a six-pack challenge, an achievement you believe grants you the privilege of sharing the ring with me. But let's not indulge in fantasies, darling."

Brooklyn's voice dripped with venom, a concoction of sarcasm and unbridled disdain. "You secured your spot by scrambling over a handful of other desperate souls, but don't delude yourself into thinking you're even remotely close to my level. You're not swimming in the same pond. You're not even in the same galaxy. You're a blip on the radar, an afterthought, and you're about to realize just how out of your depth you truly are."

A devilish grin crept onto Brooklyn's lips as she continued her verbal onslaught. "Oh, Virginia, with your 'I'm from New York City' gruff and tough attitude. It's almost charming. But let's not confuse your overcompensating bravado with any real substance. I don't see you as a challenge. I see you as a minor inconvenience, a bothersome gnat buzzing around the Women's World Champion, thinking it's entitled to attention."

Brooklyn's confidence radiated with every dismissive word. "You see, Virginia, I'm a well-polished champion. I've faced and conquered the best this industry has to offer, and solidified my reign at the top. And then there's you—a contender who believes a six-pack challenge victory is a monumental triumph. How quaint, really."

A scoff escaped Brooklyn as she tore into her opponent's journey. "Beating who you beat to earn a spot in this match. Impressive, I suppose, if you're into celebrating being the crème de la crap. But let's be crystal clear Virginia: this isn't a fairy tale, and you're certainly not the plucky underdog who overcomes insurmountable odds. In reality, you're just another forgettable name in the long list of challengers I've dispatched."

Brooklyn leaned in, her eyes ablaze with unbridled intensity. "You've got that loud, brash New York attitude, Virginia, but let me spell it out for you—attitude doesn't win championships. Skill, determination, and the ability to back up the trash talk—that's what matters. And honestly? You're severely lacking in all those departments. So keep barking, keep pretending like you're a big deal, but when you step into the ring with me, you better bring more than just your mouth."

She circles the space, the championship still casually slung over her shoulder. "I've seen contenders like you come and go, Virginia. They talk a big game, they swagger into the ring like they're the second coming of … well, me, and then reality hits them like a freight train when they realize they're up against the real deal, the Women's World Champion. Mark my words, sweetheart, you're not going to be any different."

A malicious grin played on Brooklyn's face as she delivered the final blow. "So, Virginia, keep clutching onto this delusion that you're some kind of threat. But when we step into that ring at Survival of the Fittest, you're going to get a firsthand lesson in humiliation. You'll understand, albeit too late, exactly why I'm the champion, and you? You're just another unsightly smudge in the history of my unparalleled reign."