Can Do Ep. 13

All Trinity saw was her lover lying on the sweat- and cum-stained mat, sobbing.

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People and sounds passed Trinity in a blur. She recalled being congratulated by several people--including Bunny, who asked if she was going to be all right--and spent a few dizzying moments getting her picture taken with and without Zenova, who smiled bravely but refused to do more than put an arm limply around the blonde's shoulder.

The medal hung heavy between her breasts, the mass of gold only part of the weight. Someone took her upstairs to the partially furnished bedroom where she took a long tepid shower and dressed slowly, carefully, reluctantly. She wanted to remove the tarp, crawl into the big bed, and not speak to anyone for a week. The memory of the red spatter and holes in the walls persuaded her to leave the bed untouched. The walk downstairs was dreamlike, she didn't feel her feet, didn't really see the smaller crowd waiting for her, all asking if she'd come to one party or another. She answered each with a smile and a polite decline, telling them she needed to relax. She wavered at the doctor's invitation for food and drinks, but still said no, promising to contact her and her stunning wife after the new year. She wondered if she'd care enough to follow through.

Bunny stared at her from a corner, draped in a greatcoat, some kind of dead animal on his head. She went to him and allowed his bulky arms to enfold her briefly. She knew that he knew how she felt.

"There are winners and losers in everything, Trinity. You can't avoid it," he said.

"Funny. Someone once told me there aren't any winners in an intense fight. Only people who lose less. It didn't make sense until now."

With a sad nod he was gone, as was nearly everyone else. She waved goodbye to the rest, put a brittle smile on her face and found herself suddenly outside in the cold, coat open, snow drifting onto her bare, wet head. She'd lost her hat. She walked, not knowing or caring where she went. The sounds of people faded, and it was blissfully, agonizingly, depressingly silent. She was alone.

Light and the sound of people talking drew her to a coffee shop, one she'd seen the day before--when she had a future. She paid for a table in the far corner, ordered coffee, and sat with her head in her hands, praying for the knot in her stomach to go away. It refused and--perversely--got worse. The waiter set coffee and other things on the table. He waited, eyebrow arched, probably wondering if she was going to throw up on the floor. She forced a smile.

"Hard night," she told him in English. "Sometimes things aren't what they seem."

The man nodded vaguely. It wasn't clear that he understood. But, as she proved she wasn't about to pass out or worse, he left her alone.

The coffee burned her lips. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. All she'd hoped for was gone. Because... she'd won. The thing that was supposed to prove that she wasn't a can, that she wasn't a failure, proved that she was. Because... she sat alone sat in a coffee shop on New Year's Eve after winning an intense and memorable sexfight against her lover, only to find her--former--lover gone and her life in shards. The medal in her pocket was worthless. She was worthless.

Stop it, she scolded herself. You're making it worse. It's Zenova's problem that she can't accept the loss. If she'd won, would she have felt bad for you? No. She'd have told you you were a worthy opponent, but it was her destiny to win.

Trinity shook her head. The self-serving excuse didn't help. Her cup was empty. The waiter brought another. Distantly, she remembered she was paying for each cup. Yeah, she was paying. She needed to get things straight. Her eyes closed, her mind cleared, she mostly ignored the knot in her gut. She imagined the amber necklace coiled on her neck.

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The silence in the long hall wrapped around her. She was alone, as she expected. All the doors were closed and locked except for one on each side. Nothing had changed there. Still one last choice for Zenova and her to make. The large dial was a mess of browns and grays. The two pointers swung wildly from one stop to the other, completely out of sync. The door on her right closed. Zenova made her choice. Trinity sank to the floor, head bowed. She cried, great, gasping sobs echoing in the vast space.

-- What do you want?

The long-silent voice held a tone of resignation. It, too, was disappointed in her.

"I don't know anymore. I thought I did, but it all came out wrong."

-- Are you sure?

"What the fuck do you think?" Trinity yelled at the emptiness. "I'm sitting here by myself and that, that thing," she jabbed an angry finger at the dial, "is all fucked up. I'm all fucked up. And the fucking door won't open." She rubbed at her dripping nose. "Fuck."

-- What are you going to do about it? Bawling on the floor feeling sorry for yourself is giving up. Is that how you want to see yourself for the rest of your life? As a quitter?

"I am not a..." Trinity scrambled to her feet. "Can I get it... her back?"

-- What you want? Because sitting on your ass, wiping snot from your face isn't going to accomplish anything. I thought you knew that by now. What do you want, Trinity Stone?

A flash of blue sparkled on the dial, submerged by the overpowering browns and grays. The pointers slowed, moving listlessly on the No side of the dial, distinctly apart. Was it possible? Could she do it? Could she fix it? Another flash of blue surrounded by green pushed her to action.

Trinity grabbed the pointers, forcing them together. They pushed against her hands. She felt them dig into her palms. She ignored the pain, the sight of blood dripping along her wrists. If she was going to lose everything she cared about, she'd do it fighting. Whatever it was that asked the questions looked over her shoulder. She sensed concern, an urge for another question.

"Don't say anything," she said aloud. "You asked me what I wanted. This is what I want. If I can't have it, then it doesn't matter what happens to me, does it?"

She was alone, but this time she felt good about it. A door closed behind her, the last door, her last choice. She was going through the door below the dial or none at all. The pointers moved reluctantly together. If she let go of them, they moved apart. Only one thing to do. Trinity began twisting the pointers around each other. At least we'll be stuck with each other for a while, she told herself, though she didn't really believe it. Not yet.

With the pointers crudely entwined, she wiped her bloody hands on her shirt--she was clothed, to her amazement--and stepped back to think. The dial swirled with all colors, none dominant, none fading. The pointers quivered at the divide between Yes and No, apparently unable to move unless both of them wanted to go in the same direction. It was a start. All the doors behind her were shut, there was only the door in front of her, still closed, still locked. What now? she thought. Can I force Zenova to go with me? No. That's wrong. I think I can get her to someplace better, but after that, it's up to her. And me.

-- Well, that was unique.

The Voice was back. Trinity said nothing. She concentrated the dial, thinking.

-- Let it go, Trinity. Let the anger go. Let the pain go. Let the past go. Look to what is in front of you.

She pulled on the pointers. They moved so easily she nearly fell over, stopping well over three-quarters onto the Yes side. The dial colors remained mixed, though there were more flashes of green and blue. She thought she might have seen a glimpse of purple, but that wasn't what she wanted. Not yet. She wiped her hands on her shirt again. She was moderately surprised to see the cuts were gone. Let the past go. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and put her hand on the knob of the door under the dial. It turned. The door moved. She put her hands to her sides, waiting. Nothing happened. She squared her shoulders, bit her lower lip. God, I hope I did this right.

Trinity Stone walked through the last door.

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"Fräulein? Signorina? Mademoiselle? Miss?" The waiter bent over her, a hand uncertainly near her shoulder. Trinity blinked, the dial, door, and waiter all overlaying each other for a brief moment. She raised her hand and managed a wan smile.

"Sorry. I was deep in thought."

The man flashed a vacuous smile. He hadn't understood a word. She held up a hand, thumb and forefinger in a circle. "OK."

"Ah. Sehr gut." Once certain his customer wasn't going to die--without paying--the waiter resumed his imperious attitude. "Do, er, does the Fräulein, er miss wish more kaffee, er coffee?"

Must be from Austria, Trinity decided. Aloud, she said, "No, thank you. Oh, fu... rats. What time is it?"

A blank look. Trinity scrabbled through her memory before pointing to her watchless wrist. "Uh, quelle heure est-il?"

"Uh... ah." The waiter pointed above her head.

Trinity craned her neck to see a clock. Ten minutes to midnight. "Fuck."

That word the waiter understood. He wrinkled his nose until Trinity shoved two twenty euro notes in his hand and burst through the front door, knocking a couple out of the way with an apology thrown over her shoulder. She ran through fat, lazy flakes of snow harder than she had ever run before, including the time she vaulted two fences to escape Willow's disastrous attempt to scam an undercover police officer. She slid into the lobby of the Grand Hotel, suddenly aware she had no idea where she was going.

The desk clerk raised an eyebrow but said nothing. A gaggle of well-dressed partiers wobbled across the elegant floor. Trinity dug into her coat pocket, unballing the paper Zenova had shoved in her robe two days earlier. The number burned into her brain, and she was off to the elevators, mumbling the number to herself, afraid she'd forget.

She shared a car with six people who stood well away from her comfortable coat and jeans, smiling nervously with the unspoken expectation she was probably a serial killer. They got off a floor before her, which left her time for a brief panic attack until the door opened and she ran down the hall to the door that held her future. Or not.

The door looked like any other along the hall, anonymous, unassuming, closed. Trinity stuck her hands in her coat pockets, feeling the medal rub against one. She removed her hands from the pockets, stared at them as if they belonged to someone else, and knocked on the door.

"Qu'est-ce?" came a muffled answer.

Trinity thought for a moment, racking her brain to think of what to do. A man trundled a cart down the hall, covered dishes rattling softly. What were the words? What was she supposed to say? She squinted her eyes, making a decision.

"Service de chambre, mademoiselle," she said, lowering her voice a register.

Silence. Damn, I messed up.

The door opened. Zenova looked terrible, a hotel robe draped awkwardly around her, a pair of raggedy sweat pants hanging below the hem. Hey, those are mine, Trinity thought before reminding herself there were more important things to take care of. The brunette had been crying, a lot if the bloodshot eyes and stains on her cheeks were any indication. A large green bottle hung from her right hand, mostly empty. She rubbed her nose; it was red and raw.

"Qu'est-ce que tu veux? Oh, I forgot, you cannot speak a civilized language. What do you want?" Zenova tried to sneer, but ruined the effect when she began to cry. "Come to gloat?" she sniffled.

Angry replies forced their way to Trinity's mouth. She swallowed all of them. She was here for a reason. Fighting with her lover--yes, godammit, lover--wasn't it. She fumbled off her gloves, dropping them on the floor, then rummaged in her coat pocket for the medal, which she drew out carefully.

"Showing off?" The words were harsh, but Zenova's eyes locked onto the gold disc.

Trinity hung the medal over Zenova's head. It dangled between the brunette's robe-covered breasts. Her mouth opened, lips working, but no sound came out.

"I don't want it," the blonde said. It was hard to keep from crying herself. "If it means hurting you, I don't ever want to see it again. It means more to you than it means to me. It's yours." She wanted to say more, but couldn't put the words in the right order. She remained silent, fingers opening and closing randomly.

"You won it," Zenova said. "I didn't. In the end, I wasn't good enough. It seems I am doomed to never be good enough. I can't even get drunk properly. This champagne does nothing for me." She waggled the bottle.

Trinity took it, reading the label. "It's Perrier," she said before she could stop.

Tears ran down Zenova's cheeks, her breath became ragged, her empty hands shook. "Leave me alone." She turned away. Trinity held her by the shoulders.

"No. I came here to tell you something. You're going to listen. Afterwards, you can go back to being miserable." She waited, then continued when she felt Zenova's shoulders slump, letting her hands fall away. "I thought I knew what I wanted. I thought what I wanted was to be a winner, something other than can, a way for others to prove how good they are. I thought if I won a big fight, others would like me, I'd feel good about myself."

Zenova stopped breathing. She reached for the medal, then dropped her hand. Trinity took it as a good sign.

"Instead," she continued, "even though I won, I lost. I lost the one thing I truly needed, and you know the really awful part? I didn't know I needed it until it was gone." Trinity felt tears running down her face. So much for being in control. Fuck it.

"I lost you."

The women watched their feet, neither daring to look the other in the face. Trinity reached out to touch Zenova, who flinched away. "I didn't know I was going to win," Trinity mumbled, "not until the very end. I could have lost, but I wanted to win. I wanted it so badly I forgot what would happen if I did. So I won, so what? You're miserable, I'm miserable, all because I didn't know what I really wanted."

The brunette finally raised her eyes. She'd reached the point where her voice was gone and all she could do was let tears run down her face. Trinity felt a glimmer of hope. Zenova turned away.

"Don't leave me," the blonde begged. The door closed.

Trinity stopped crying, there was no longer a need for tears. There was only the gaping hole in her heart where her life used to be. You are such a fucking idiot, she scolded herself. A sound drew her attention. Something--someone--leaned against the inside of the door. She laid her cheek on the cool wood.

"I like waking up to you," she said.

Nothing.

The hole became a yawing void. She felt nothing, there wasn't any point in feeling, not anymore. Instinctively, she bent to pick up her gloves. The door opened.

A voice said, "I like waking up to you, too." A hand grabbed her coat and dragged her into the room. The door slammed shut. A moment later it opened and a hand hung a sign on the knob that read Do Not Disturb in six languages. The door slammed shut again with the sound of all the locks being thrown.

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While the new year began for almost everyone immediately after that, it didn't start for Trinity and Zenova until at least 14 hours the next day. It took that long for them to decide the real sexfight champion. The title changed hands several times until one of them finally raised a sweaty, cum-slick fist in victory.

The winner of what Trinity and Zenova would call--from their home outside Waterloo where they trained sexfighters for the Hexagon Consortium--the True and Actual Complete Once and For All Sexfight Championship of the Whole Universe was never revealed. Anyone who asks gets a polite smile from the pair and a change of subject. Because, after all, it's not if you win, it's what you win and how you win it. Most important of all, it's who shares your victory.