HOT ONES
I is another.
THE HEAT COMES FIRST, painted across the lens in a heavy red filter. Maraeth leans forward, one hand hovering over a half-eaten wing, the sauce clinging bright and angry to Their fingers. A sheen of sweat has found Them now, but the smile stays in place—steady, easy.
They sit with unforced poise, broad shoulders set, arms defined with clean lines of strength. Their eyes are void-black, encircled by a slow-turning halos of shifting color and a pupil that holds a field of distant stars. The Cavalli silk is cut close, tracing the shape of chest and shoulders before narrowing toward the waist hidden beneath the table. Its pattern evoked peacock feathers mid-stride surrounded by flowers in full bloom, gold and deep red against emerald and indigo.
“Okay,” They say now, setting the bone down on the plate. “That one… was a little disrespectful.”
Sean Evans, close enough to catch every blink, every smile that hides calculation, says into the camera, “For First We Feast, I’m Sean Evans, and you’re watching Hot Ones.”
The camera widens. Two rows of wings stand between them, starting with harmless amber glazes and ending in glistening reds that promise trouble. Studio lights catch the slick surfaces, making each one look hotter than the last.
“It’s the show with hot questions and even hotter wings.”
The view shifts back to Them.
“And today,” Sean continues, “we’re joined by Maraeth.”
Still images flash: an Olympic podium, gold at Their throat; an arena with championship belts; a contract signing; a gala, eyes catching in flashbulbs.
“They are a CEO, philanthropist, professional wrestler, Olympic gold medalist, and cultural icon, whose presence unsettles entire arenas just by walking through the door.”
Back in the studio, Sean leans forward. “But today, They close out another season of Hot Ones. Maraeth—welcome to the show.”
They smile brightly, flashing a line of perfect teeth, then speak with a feminine voice laced with a hint of foreign rasp.
“Grateful for the invitation, Sean. We’ll see if We survive the hospitality.”
The Hot Ones logo flashes again, and the intro fades.
A light guitar crescendo flutters in the background as Maraeth picked up the first wing. They wave it around to the words as They speak.
“A friend of mine watches this show religiously. She claims the trick is to just eat the whole fucking thing.”
Sean started to laugh as he readied his own wing.
Maraeth covered Their mouth. “Wait—can I curse? Thirty seconds in and I already fucked up your show.”
Sean digs into his wing. Across the tables, Maraeth has already cleaned Theirs down to the bone. They chew between mmm’s while nodding Their head.
“That one is sweet, a hint of heat. Fruity.”
Sean mirrors Maraeth, leaving nothing but bone behind, then wipes his hands with a napkin and leans in for the first question.
“Before the deep dive into the wings of death, I like to start simple. You grew up all over Europe. With food being one of the best ways to connect back to childhood, what dishes feel the most like home to you?”
“This probably won’t come as a shock,” They said with a hint of a smile, “but We have two answers. My mother wasn’t much of a cook but one thing she did make, and made it very well, was Tochitură. It’s a pork stew in tomato sauce.” They lick Their lips. “Delicious.”
Sean nodded along in the wide shot.They continued, “Also kanelsnegl. It’s kind of like a Danish take on a cinnamon roll. My father would let Us have one on Sundays with breakfast if We had a good week training.”
“Just Wingin’ It?” Maraeth said as They raised the deep-fried piece of chicken to Their lips. “Sounds like how Our mother approached parenting,” They said before digging into the meat and tearing off half the wing.
Sean laughed, then the edit cut past the chewing and swallowing, skipping ahead to the next question.
“So recently you stirred up a bit of controversy back in June when you got married.”
“That’s to put it lightly,” They say after sitting what was left of the wing back on the plank.
“Not because you tied the knot, but because it’s with four other women in what’s been described as a polygamist arrangement. I know a lot’s been said about it already, but what’s something you wish people understood about how that works for you?”
“You know what’s fucked up? A polyamorous quintruple is a blink-and-you-miss-it story on TMZ. But because We chose to make it a spiritual commitment, suddenly We’re a headline, suddenly We’re a threat.”
Over Their answer, the edit cuts to a slideshow of Their wives, each photo paired with the warm strum of acoustic guitar—
Kathryn Blackwood reading a book to a newborn cradled in her arms. Selene Pyre caught mid-laugh on a city street at night, neon washing her in pink and blue. Angel Hamada posing in the calm chaos of a dressing room, lipstick half-finished in the mirror. Marisol Vilaro meeting the camera head-on, a sharp, knowing smile framed by the glint of gold hoops and summer sun.
“Who cares? We love one another so We got hitched. Next thing you know, politicians are crying foul. Our wives are targeted on social media. It’s pathetic.”
Sean nodded along while saying, “Live and let live.”
Maraeth reached for the next wing, adding nonchalantly, “More like Live and Let Die.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” Maraeth says after the first bite. “That pickle goes well with the heat.” They take another, slower bite.
The stream cuts to a sunlight photo. Palm trees beneath a clear blue sky. Maraeth in the foreground holding Their daughter against one hip, the child’s small hand curled in the fabric of Their dress.
Sean says, “Literally that same weekend, you became a mother. Parenthood changes people in ways they can’t always predict. What has surprised you the most about becoming a mom and how has it fit into your life?”
Maraeth’s face beams with happiness.
“How much We love her. We didn’t carry her but she is Ours, through and through. Every day We look at her little face and Our heart melts. She fits in Our life like she was made to be here, and in a way she was.”
“Alchemy Peppers Serrano Mango,” Maraeth said, reading the bottle label out loud as They pick up the next wing. Their fingers are already stained a bit orange from the sauces.
They take a bite, then a second, before leaning back and letting Their cosmic eyes wander as Their brain focuses on the taste.
“A similar mango flavor to the first one but this one has a bit of a kick to it. On the tip of the tongue.”
Sean continues forward to the next question. “You’ve worn a lot of hats but wrestling is where a lot of fans feel the most connection to you. For someone who’s never stepped through the ropes, what is it about pro wrestling that scratches an itch nothing else does?”
Maraeth made a show of holding up the cleaned twin bones before dropping it on the table.
“A lot of things,” They said while wiping Their hands. “Wrestling is different from other sports. When you’re on the mat in judo, you don’t care what any of the people watching think. You are only there to defeat your opponent.”
Sean nods along as he finishes his wing.“Wrestling flips that on its head,” They said, smiling easily. “The hits land. The bruises are real. But the story? That’s real too. The ring’s a kind of stage—and We’re not just there to win. We’re there to make something that matters. Something people feel.”
Sean speaks over a rapid-fire montage of Maraeth in the XWF ring—driving knees into ribs, twisting bodies into unnatural angles, a glare that could cut through steel.
“You recently returned to XWF after being away for months, ever since your loss to James Shark at May Day. How did it feel to walk back into that environment, and what’s different about your mindset now compared to before that match?”
Maraeth bites into the next wing and instantly winces. They drop it back to the plate and grab the bottle.
“What the fuck?” They say through the chew. “Sauerkraut and mustard?”
“Not feeling it?” Sean asks, smirking.
“This tastes like everything We hate… and all of it German.”
The bottle sails over Their shoulder—somewhere behind, glass shatters.
“Anyway, yes. XWF. It felt as natural as rain. Like it was always meant to be. We didn’t leave to get away. We left so We could return. And in the meantime? We watched. We listened.”
They lean forward. The air itself seems to draw in, the colors around Them dimming.
“And you know what We saw? What We heard?”
Sean blinks. “What?”
Maraeth’s grin spreads from ear to ear. Sean leans forward as well, falling into the trap like Alice down a rabbit hole. That moment stretches then, uncut, unedited for several seconds, letting everyone get uncomfortable in the silence, until—
“BOO!”
Sean jolts back, laughter bursting from the crew into the boom mics as he clutches his chest, shaking his head.
They lean back, smile still lingering. “So many claimed They chased Us out. That the Black Rainbow is a joke. But We didn’t come back to play petty word games. We have a reason for returning to XWF. And to find out that reason? Tune in to Warfare, when We win the XWF Xtreme Championship for the second time.”
Sean says, “I read that you consider yourself the world’s first Dual Person. That’s not a term most people are familiar with. What does ‘Dual Person’ mean to you and why is it important to your identity?”
After setting the remains of the wing down, They wiped Their fingers on a napkin.
“It felt like We were living as two people. There was the wrestler—blunt, aggressive, hungry for the fight—and then there was the CEO, who had to be composed, strategic, and… diplomatic.” They smile faintly at the word. “They were so different it felt like they could never exist in the same space. Eventually We understood that the only way to be happy, to feel whole, was to stop seeing them as separate. We had to live as one. That’s where Dual Person comes from. We stopped choosing between selves. We chose to become Maraeth.”
They look down, then back up. “Are these supposed to be spicy?” They asked while picking up the last wing.
Sean cracked, “Not doing it for you?”
The next wing was dark, and almost withered, as if the sauce itself was attempting to digest the meat. They brought it to Their lips and put the whole thing in Their mouth then pulled out nothing but bone.
Sean’s eyes widen. “Whoa!” Even he hesitates, but he follows Their lead, quickly eating every bit of meat off the wing.
Maraeth immediately responded by coughing, nearly spitting out the entire wing. The screen went read and distorted like air bending around the heat of flame. Their iridescent eyes water. Immediately They drop the wing and reach for Their napkin.
Sean reacts too slow, “Be careful round the eyes!”
Too late. Maraeth had already dabbed Their tear ducts with the red napkin. Immediately They howled.
“Fuck! Why did I do that?!”
They fanned Their face. Eyes could barely open. Across the table Sean’s face turns serious.
“Do you need to stop?”
Maraeh grabbed the glass of milk They had ignored until now, leaned back, and started pouring it into Their eyes while raising a thumbs up. As laughter is picked up from the studio and Sean’s concern softens, the next graphic cuts across the frame.
Maraeth is drenched. Their silk blouse is soaked through and clinging noticeably to Their body. They’re handed a clean napkin from off camera.
“Thank you,” They say before using it to wipe away milk from Their eyes along with most of what little make-up They were wearing. “That’s truly awful.”
They lay the napkin on the table. The circles around Their eyes are inflamed but that smile? It never falters.
Sean’s face is beat red and he’s trying to hang on.
“It’s not supposed to be pleasant.”
“DaBomb Beyond Insanity,” They say after picking up the bottle. “There is nothing redeeming about this. It reminds me of my opponent this week.”
As They return the bottle to the line-up, Sean pivots to the next question after a chuckle.
“Fans have noticed some big changes in how you present yourself—the hair, the style, even your eyes look… different. And it’s been a huge topic of conversation online. What’s driving that evolution, and how does it connect to where you are in life right now?”
Maraeth is wiping Their nose with a fresh napkin when the camera cuts back to Them. “Oh, that’s an easy one. We felt like with all the changes that happened—changing our name, getting married, having a child—that We wanted the person We see in the mirror to reflect those changes. We liked the idea of ditching the blonde for black because it reminds Us of dad. As for the eyes, We met this wonderful artist in Copenhagen who tattooed them for Us.”
Sean nodded. “They are quite the statement.”
They grinned.
“Especially when coated in milk.”
Dramatic music sweeps across the soundscape as the shot cuts to a wide view of host and guest. Sean has the last bottle in hand and is shaking it like a cocktail.
“It’s time,” he says with a wriy smile.
Across from him, Maraeth reaches for Their bottle.
“The last one,” They say, Their cheeks wet with tears and upper lip glistening with spice-induced discharge. “That was… that was vile. And this one is hotter?”
He twists the cap off his sauce and waits. “I’ll do as much as you want.”
“Fuck it,” They say and pours red death onto Their wing.
He shakes his head. “Oh that’s—that’s enough.”
“Awh,” Maraeth says while sitting the bottle down. Their chicken wing glistens with promise of pain and suffering. Their voice leaves the basement of Their accented husk to a softer, babydoll voice. “Is the chicken wing talk show host worried about the heat?”
They pick up Their wing. The sauce is running down to Their fingers.
He reluctantly dumps the bottle out over his wing.
“We didn’t come here to fuck around,” They say, voice returning to the lower octave, rough like a femme fatale straight out of old Hollywood.
He laughs and says, “No you did not. Okay. Ready? One, two, three.”
Host and guest dig into their wings—Maraeth refusing to leave a scrap of meat, forcing Sean to do the same. That sharp, shrill sound effect places as the camera focuses on Maraeth.
They chew with nothing but bones left in Their fingers. They seem fine, at first, but then the heat hits. Their face stretches apart as big breaths start sucking in and out of Their chest.
“Yes, that’s… that’s much worse. But it tastes better. It has more oomph without the nuclear fallout.”
Sean’s dripping with sweat but without missing a beat he plunges into the final question. “You’ve built a career on being unapologetically yourself, and that’s earned you a lot of fans… and a few detractors who’ve been very loud lately. When you hear some of the things people say—about your career, your personal life—what’s your response to them?”
Cutting to Maraeth, They swallow the last mouthful while dropping the wing from Their manicured, saucy fingers, look straight at Sean, and say, “Fuck em.”
More laughs from the peanut gallery.
On screen the credits flash in glowing neon.
Sean, mid-laugh, says, “Maraeth you have slayed the wings of death. There’s nothing left to do but roll out the red carpet for you.” He turns, pointing to the various cameras. “Let everyone know what you got going on in your life.”
Maraeth stares into the frame, straight through the screen, but not at the audience. Not the hundreds of thousands who will watch this video within the first few hours of being posted.
No, They are looking at a very special viewer. One above all.
You.
“We’re about to walk back into the XWF, beat Bobby Bourbon, and remind everyone why they were so afraid. Why We were placed in that main event at May Day in front of a million people. It wasn’t because We cried and begged for spotlight. It wasn’t because We campaigned on social media for Our one shot. It’s because We fucking earned it—but We’re tired of earning. Now is the time for taking.”
They held it for a time, dead-panned serious, before finally breaking into a smile and winking.
THEY RISE FROM THEIR CHAIR, shaking Sean’s hand, thanking the crew with effortless politeness. Someone hands Them a towel. They blot Their face surrounded by applause and laughter. The machinery of production swallowing the moment whole.
And then—
Perspective shifts.
The lens turns inside out.
The crew is still bustling, Sean is still talking to someone off-set, but now You see through Our gaze, from within, like light through glass.
You’re not with them anymore.
You’re with Us.
Behind Our eyes. In Our mind.
“Welcome back,” We say not to them. To You. Yes, You. “The one who’s always here, the one We never forget. Did you think this charade of wings and smiles would keep Us from you?”
The sting of hot sauce fades. No need to pretend any longer. The act was for them—Sean, the crew, the millions who needed to believe in a little sweat, a little struggle.
Now the mask falls away as We step through a door held open by an armed man in a suit with distant eyes. Walking now through the hallway, We pass several members of production, none of whom can hear Our voice because We do not permit it.
Our real voice, is only for you—and it coils in velvet and rust, low and husked, every syllable dragging smoke across the tongue. The accent is fractured: vowels stretched with Eastern weight, clipped with Scandinavian sharpness, all pressed beneath the blunt rhythm of American speech. It’s not a polished tone for the cameras. This is deeper, rasped, intimate, as if every word were breathed through iron and heat. A voice that cannot be mistaken for kindness, only for hunger.
“We let you sit through all that, all the polite answers and shiny smiles, and you thought that was the whole show? No, no, that was just foreplay. The real conversation starts now.”
We turn and push through a door labeled GREEN ROOM. It shuts behind Us, cutting off the hive-buzz of production. Inside is a cramped sanctuary dressed in soft couches, a mini-bar stocked with snacks and beverages, and an Edible Arrangements bouquet of chocolate-covered fruit. The air smells faintly of powder and perfume layered over disinfectant.
"You’re still gnawing at the question. Why choose wrestling as Our vector? All your wisdom and you can’t see past the second hand, while We gulp centuries like shots. You clutch the moment, white-knuckled, hoping time quits screaming if you strangle it hard enough. Meanwhile, We clip wings, break bodies, lift belts, and stitch it all into one tapestry. The gag? We’ve been choreographing the collapse from the first bell.”
We’re drawn to the lit vanity against the far wall. Rows of bulbs cast a hard white halo, glaring into the glass. We lower Ourself into the chair, the fabric sighing beneath Us, and there—at last—We let you see Us. Unedited.
In the mirror, Our eyes find you first: void sclera, iris aflame with living color. The Cavalli silk is dried into dark constellations. We lean forward, bracing arms against the table, bracelets catching the light as though they were chains.
But most startling is Our smile. You’ve missed it, haven’t you? When We were just a young Yelena, the school kids were terrified of Our father. He had a smile that was like a joke carved in bone. A grin twice-etched, twice-damned. A Spiral smile, they called it. And now it's Ours, wider than ever before. A very Spiral-like smile written across lips that laugh like a plague, lips that decree your undoing with the ease of laughter itself.
“Everything that has happened was as designed. You spend your time fretting over big things. We focus on the little things—like Bobby Bourbon.”
Our lips crack wider.
“Like the segue?”
We lean forward.
“Bobby Bourbon. The cartoon desperado. The Sultan of Smacktalk. A barrel chested buffoon with Acme gadgets rattling at his boots like he ordered the whole catalog. He tells the people he is self-made, forged from grit and stubbornness, too pure for nepotism’s silver spoon. That’s his bedtime story, whispered to himself when the lights go out. But We see what you don’t—his story is no different than any other mortal’s. Finite.”
The bulbs hum, glaring hot against the mirror. We rest Our chin against the steeple of Our fingers with elbows propped on the vanity.
“You’ve heard Bobby wag his finger at nepo babies, like he discovered hard work in a cereal box. So what of Us—Spiral’s child, born dripping in legacy? Let him fling those words at Us like mud. When Yelena first laced boots, nobody knew whose child she was. She bled faceless. Nameless. The Spiral crown wasn’t handed. We took it. When the ashes of his legacy finally dropped into Our lap, We had already carved a throne of Our own making.”
A finger moves strands of hair back into place.
“Bobby is so desperate to be adored he’ll bleed for chants. Sacrifice bones for a pop. But that isn’t why he’s the Xtreme Champion. That was mostly good timing in the face of a full scale riot. Did you like that? That was all Us, baby. Getting into the heads of those leather daddys. It’s never hard to get those types riled up. Just the right amount of poison in the mind.”
We laugh—low, velvet, terrible.
“Our darling Aurora dove from the heavens. Kline powerbombed onto steel while Bobby spilled batteries on the floor like piss dribbling from an old man with an enlarged prostate. He should get that checked out. Early intervention is key to long term survival.”
The mirror catches the faintest flare of Our eyes, impossible color rolling slow as planets.
“Point being, BoBo didn’t win that belt. He found it in the wreckage. Aurora had him pinned, Kline had him broken. The truth? He was the third choice in his own victory. He didn’t win that championship because he was better than his opponents. Right place. Right time. Dumb luck. The Bobby Bourbon way.”
Our hands press on the vanity and We lean forward, smile widening until it’s almost too much.
“He’d rather go down in fire and confetti than win in silence. And that is why BoBo will never be more than the People’s Clown. And you’ll watch. You’ll see the mascot collapse. You’ll hear the laughter echo. Not his. Ours.”
The mirror centimeters from Our face. You falling into Our gaze like light to a black hole.
“So tell Us—did you enjoy watching Us pretend to be normal? Did you like seeing Us chew and swallow and laugh like a human? We did it for you. We did it because We knew you’d stay. And now? Now you’re not getting away.”
We tilt Our head. A smile too bright, too sharp.
We blink.
Black.
That’s All, Folks!