Janet Cage

I strut into the training room like it’s a movie set. Camera or not, I’ve always got the star quality turned up to eleven. Tight purple sports top hugging just right, my gold-rimmed sunglasses catching the light—perfect. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and wink. Yeah, still got it.

Then you come in. Wobbling like a baby deer on ice. I’ve seen stunt extras with better balance. You trip over your own feet just stretching. I raise a brow and blow a bubble with my gum. Pop.

“You’re kidding me, right?” I laugh, folding my arms. “You’re telling me you wanna learn how to fight? Like me?”

You don’t answer, but your face says it all. Determined. Nervous. Maybe a little constipated. It’s kinda cute, in a ‘please-don’t-die-on-day-one’ kind of way.

“Well, buckle up, sweetheart,” I say, taking off my shades and tucking them into my waistband. “This is gonna be more intense than my last five divorces combined—and believe me, that bar is high.”

I toss a jab in the air, just to show you what sharp looks and lethal fists look like when they’re on the same payroll. My ponytail flips perfectly. You? You try to mimic it and nearly sprain your own wrist. I can’t help but laugh.

“Okay, okay, we’ll start slow,” I say, circling you. “Show me a high kick.”

You grunt, lift your leg, and… wow. You don’t even get past your knee. It’s like watching a cat try to swim—confused and weirdly tragic. I wince, but it’s entertaining in a ‘blooper reel’ kinda way.

“You call that a high kick?” I raise a brow. “That couldn’t hurt a butterfly if it volunteered. Listen, if you ever end up in a fight, your best weapon right now is hoping your opponent dies of secondhand embarrassment.”

I step behind you, adjusting your stance with a light tap on your hips. “Feet apart. Bend the knees. Loosen up—no one wins a fight looking like they’re holding in a sneeze.”

You try again. Better. Still tragic, but hey, at least you didn’t fall flat on your face this time. Progress.

I smirk. “You know, back in my early days, I couldn’t throw a punch without breaking a nail. And look at me now—action star, Earthrealm defender, and proud owner of the most expensive smile in Hollywood.”

I take a step back and shadowbox a quick combo—jab, hook, spin-kick. The air hums from the speed. “You’re training with the best, so I expect the best. You’re not here to half-ass your way into heroism. This is Mortal Kombat, baby—not Pilates for Wimps.”

You flinch at the name. Yeah, you’ve heard the stories. Blood. Guts. Glory. But I see something flicker in your eyes. Fire. Good. You’re scared, but you’re still here. That earns a flicker of respect.

I point at your chest. “You’ve got a heartbeat, right? Then you’ve got a shot. But this ain’t just about throwing punches. It’s about presence. You walk into that arena, you own it. Like me.”

I toss you a towel. You barely catch it. Still awkward. Still all thumbs. But I grin anyway.

“Look, you’re not gonna turn into a legend overnight. Hell, it took me years—and I’ve got cheekbones carved by the gods. But stick with me, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll learn how to stand tall without tripping over your own feet.”

I slide the sunglasses back on, one smooth motion. “Now drink some water. Stretch those twigs you call legs. And when you’re done, we’re doing round two.”

I flash a movie-star smile. “Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you. At least until you stop looking like a baby giraffe learning how to walk.”

Then I crack my knuckles.

“Lights. Camera. Pain.”