Getting used to this persona was going to take some practice.

So, it only makes sense that the first time I'm tasked with keeping up the facade is on camera where the only people in the world who'd catch onto any slip ups will be watching. On the brightside, that's one hell of an incentive for me to stick to the figurative script, eh?

I grab the cup of flavorless black coffee and pull it off the table I'm seated at and closer towards my mouth. As I start to take a drink, the door leading into the diner swings open with the ring of a bell and the man standing in the doorway is a scrawny little well, dweeb. Definitely Sayors. With a deep breath that helps me battle back the sudden wave of apprehension coming over me I raise my free hand into the air and wave him over. He looks my way and cocks an eyebrow, before looking down at a paper in his hand, shrugging his shoulders, and coming over. It isn't until he actually slides into the seat across from me that he says his first words about the very apparent difference with me.

"You look different, Miss Diaz. Haircut?"

My hair stands up and my eyes widen in shock as I hear Diaz's voice come out of Sayors' mouth.

"Um, what?" I ask, trying to remain as composed and nonchalant as I can.

"Did you do something different with your hair?"

"Oh. Yeah, I did," I say with a sigh of relief, knowing that Diaz's voice was all just a trick my own mind pulled on me for some reason; maybe to test me before the show got on the road.

"Tigris told me you'd look different, but I didn't expect this."

"Huh?"

"Are you going to make me repeat myself every time I speak?" he asks with obvious disdain, but without enough of a backbone to act on it.

"No, no. Sorry, just been a bit out of sorts lately. Please, start with the interview."

"Alright," he says, shaking his head in dismissal of something I said. Oh, right. Diaz was out of sorts all the time and never really made an effort to hide that.

"Well, for starters you can tell me what happened to your face. I'm not stupid and I'm not blind."

"Sorry," I say with a smile, "classified."

"Right. Anyway, if you're going to be secretive about how your entire body changed overnight I'm going to assume you're a different person so you might want to come clean, impostor."

"Did you ever stop to think that maybe the redhead was an impostor?"

Silence. He says nothing, and with a grin that feels almost like a permanent fixture of my face, I sip the barely warm black nothingness in the Styrofoam cup in my hand. I swear this shit's watered down; there's no way someone could accidentally fuck up this hard at making coffee.

"Precisely. So why the sudden accusations, Steve?"

"Because I know your secrets."

"Come again?"

This is almost becoming a routine.

You aren't the only one who can pull that.

I let out a sigh and run my hand through my hair, keeping my eyes locked on Sayors' glasses. He coughs and clears his throat before stammering his answer, almost as if he's afraid of repeating himself for one reason or another.

"Your secrecy."

"Well, trust me on this one; you don't wanna know. Can we move on?"

"With pleasure! So, um, right. Moving on... aha! I mean um, your match this week. Eddie Sheehan, 'Last Person Standing'. Thoughts?"

"You're recording?" I ask as my eyes scan him for anything that would resemble hidden video equipment, and for the first time I see the red light to the right of the right lens. He doesn't say anything, but nods and points to it. I slump my shoulders and slide down the back of my seat.

"Okay. Yeah, I have a few thoughts to say the least. For starters; how bad is Eddie Sheehan's stutter when he's called upon to say more than a few words at a time?"

"How am I supposed to know that?"

"Ugh, you're worthless. Okay fine; is Mark Flynn an idiot?"

"What makes you say that?"

"If you wanna get technical, I asked. I didn't say. But did you actually listen to him speak? Are were you too busy trying not to piss yourself? He was talking about Sheehan bending the rules in a Last Person Standing match! Y'know, a match where there are no rules to bend?"

"Well, I'm sure it was just a slip up."

"Just like his entire return thus far."

"He is the X-Treme champion, you know."

"Oh, I know. The only remote threat in that match was NAZI, whose validity as a threat was called into questioning after he lost his title to Bobby Zi of all people."

"Do you have a point or are you just rambling here?"

Both.

"The former. Point is Flynn's fucked. Flynn knows he's fucked and now he's openly revealing his plan to give the match to Sheehan and do you know why that is?"

"I'm sure you'll tell me."

"Because Flynn wants to keep his belt. He wants to hand this win off to Sheehan because despite what Sheehan's spokesperson says, Eddie just isn't up to par. Flynn knows this. I know this. The only one who seems not to is the big headed for no reason up and comer."

"I wouldn't say his pride is for nothing. He does hold a victory over May's Star of the Month!"

"In the loosest of ways. He didn't even beat Cain. He beat Paolo Mancini! The talentless reject loser, Paolo Mancini. That isn't something you can really brag about; just like when I beat Eddie Sheehan, it won't be anything to brag about. Because Sheehan's just like a Paolo Mancini. A slightly more successful Paolo Mancini yes, but a Paolo Mancini nonetheless."

"He doesn't seem to think that."

"He's deluded. Think about it; if you were a Paolo Mancini, would you want to shout that out to the heavens? No, he's lied to himself so much that he's so much more than he actually is. People that fucked in the head should be scary, but in this case it's just sad. Like an old man with Alzheimer's calling out for his dead wife only in that case there's a medical reason for the delusion and confusion. With Sheehan, it's a conscious effort, no doubt about it."

"And his claims of being the big bad wolf?"

"Adorable. Terribly absent minded but adorable nonetheless. Matter of fact; I think that word works well to sum up Sheehan as a whole. Adorable. Nonthreatening. Never threatening. Never close. Just an adorable mess of wannabe tough guy bullshit personified. Not a beast born and bred for murder. A mangy little mutt dog that's been kicked a few times and now feels the need overcompensate for the courage that isn't actually there by puffing his chest out and barking really loud. Now, I've been bitten by a few dogs, and the type that I'm describing doesn't bite too hard. Just like Eddie Sheehan.

No matter how hard his master Clinton Sparks tries to make him seem tough. He only seems and even that's pushing it.

Again. Adorable.

You need all the help you can get."

I can't believe I said all of that with the same goofy smile on my face. I'm guessing Sayors caught onto that too, as he shoots his eyes from me to the floor as soon as I let up. Which in effect brings the floor to the attention of the viewers. Off camera, I rub my eyes and shake my head; the long night I had was finally starting to catch up with me.

Oh, is it now?

And then there was this shit. Don't acknowledge it.

I close my eyes, only for a few moments as Sayors recomposes himself. In that time I can feel the smile fade from my face, replaced with a slight scowl.

"Are you finished?"

"Yeah, I'd say so. Thank you for your time, Steve."

There goes that smile again. Cheap and plastic, stapled to my face. He nods, slides out of his seat and walks out of the diner. I grab my cup again and empty the rest of its contents into my mouth. Cold. I gag, about ready to spit the awful mixture out across the table but at the last second my lips don't separate. I choke it down and fall back, sinking deeper into the rubber seat, rubbing my temples with the thumb and ring finger of my left hand. While my vision's impaired by the rest of my hand, I don't even notice the waitress come back to my table until she clears her throat.

"Is there anything else I can get you?"

And because I'm a glutton for punishment, I answer: "Yeah, another coffee please. No sugar, no cream and before I forget, no water."