008: It's a Wonderful Lie

I'm alright. Fine. Just fine. Nothing to see here.

"I'm alright," had become famous last words, a mantra that had been taken all wrong. He said it half a dozen times in the span of 12 seconds, waving off the professionals as he staggered down the hall towards his locker room. It was a litany, a goddamned soliloquy uttered over and over internally. His lips were moving to shape each syllable, unbeknownst to him. The walls were watching, silently judging. The hood of his BRUTAL Apparel hoodie was halfway covering his face as he slouched down against the wall, wedged between two of the rolling road cases.  A sea of movement flowed back and forth in front of Lex Collins, from talent to technicians – to his exhausted eyes they were like a blurred time-lapse video of traffic on some busy street. Someone out there might consider the beauty in the predictable rush, but he was doing his best to blend with the shadows.

Nothing to see here. Move on.

Invisible, he was pressed in tight against the wall. The tape on his hands was too tight, cracking and digging into his skin under the fight gloves, that little extra tension and flex as he curled them into fists. It didn't feel good right now. It didn't feel right, and he peeled them off, letting them fall to his lap – his hands stunk, that sour old sweat smell hitting him in the face like smelling salts, pulling him back to the present with a snap. He was still champion. By hook, by crook… by bullshit interference from the person he disliked most on the roster – the sword was still hanging by a thread overhead.

It's fine. I'm alright. It's fine. Don't worry.

He was probably concussed. It wasn't unfamiliar territory and the way his head was pounding, the way he had to keep closing his eyes to get his vision to clear, spoke volumes. He didn't want to see the writing on the wall. He didn't want to swallow that bitter pill. The words kept rattling around in his head, each repetition driving the certainty deeper and deeper until it found that crack and winnowed its way inside. The sea of movement blurred more when he blinked, becoming a body of water, becoming Lake Michigan, the black box beside him a weather-worn post and it was déjà vu all over again. It was the summer of 2013 all over again. If he were to put a finger on the pulse of his life, to pinpoint the moment it had all started to unravel, it would have been then. Finding out that his so-called father's poison had spread further into his life than he cared to admit had twisted them up so bad. Finding out that Clay Clarke was Hannah's biological father had been, up until now, the worst news imaginable.

His fingers gripped his left wrist, opening and closing his fingers as though he expected to feel that skip, to feel the twinge in the joint as he rotated his left hand.  Everything was good.  Everything was fine.  It was alright, and it was the twilight hours of 2018.  Knees up to his chest, he rested his forehead against them, still breathing as slowly as he could.

Nobody. That's who you are. That's who you need to be. Stop reaching for that spotlight. You know you're only going to get burned.

There were faces in the water and that reminded him of the cover of that Clive Barker novel that Hannah had lost back when they were in high school – The Great and Secret Show.  Funny he should be thinking about that now, but it was stuck in his head and his lungs were burning like they had when he'd gone too far, too deep looking for Vic – his father's – urn.  The air felt heavy, like the water had that day and his hands were so tightly clenched the tape was cutting off the circulation. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't see straight and time kept slipping and sliding around him until he wasn't even sure where he was, let alone who he was supposed to be. Fearless? Underdog? Silent Assassin? Which one was it today? Which lie was the albatross around his neck, waiting to peck his eyes out?

"Fuck." The single word came out on the exhale, the thought he'd been avoiding for months finally passing his lips, "I don't wanna be here anymore."

He closed his eyes, biting his lip. The truth was burning him up inside, making him want to lash out. Every day that he kept walking these halls, kept pretending he'd earned the right to call himself a superstar, was more penance that would be tacked onto the end of his sentence. He should have stayed on the shelf after Olympus. He should have let Claire's leaving be the final nail in his coffin. He should have put a bullet in his brain a long time ago. 

There was soft pressure against his arm, the air changing slightly before a voice he'd never heard before spoke, questioning him with a strange sort of curiosity, "is that what you really want? To disappear completely?"

He tasted blood, chewing on his lip, fingers idly picking at the tape that had snapped across his knuckles.

Is it?

Eyes remained closed, breathing steady as he pulled in a breath and held it until his lungs ached for the exhale. "I don't know. Sometimes I just say things… my mouth gets ahead of my brain an'…" he trailed off, sighing. "Sometimes I think it'd be better. I dunno."

"I'll show you, then. Give you a taste and let you decide?"


The room was dark, machinery beeping rhythmically. The girl on the bed was tiny, looking more like a child, swaddled in blankets and bandages. He blinked, unsure of how he'd arrived here in this room. Turning around, he found he was alone. The room was full of shadows, the curtain drawn for the illusion of privacy although in this facility, there wasn't much to be had. He approached the bed unsteadily, fearful for a moment that the honeyed dark hair he saw fanned out on the pillow belonged to Hannah.

Here, the scent of the roses nearly overpowered the astringent reek of the hospital, almost banishing darker thoughts from his mind. They covered the bedside tables, bright bouquets of pink and red, white and yellow – there were daisies too, and carnations, he saw – they were all starting to decay, as if they'd been here a while. Petals and leaves littered the floor, crunching underfoot as he drew closer to the prone figure beneath the sheets. With a trembling hand, he reached out and slid the tiny florist's card from its holder, dislodging more dried petals in the process.

Andi—

Sorry I wasn't there. All the best.

—EH

The card fell from his fingers, landing on the floor amid the dead flowers. He closed his eyes, unable to look at the bed. That voice came to his ears again.

"You weren't there. She provoked Riddik. She faced him in the ring and she was so confident, so sure that she could pull off the upset. She had him, too. And then…"

"I don't want to know." The words came out soft, tinged with anguish. He felt guilty even though it wasn't his doing, it wasn't his fault at all.

"That was four months ago. She wasn't the only casualty, the only career cut short for no reason. Someday, perhaps, she'll be able to walk again. If she's lucky. Eddie Havok was next – I know you don't want to see that, to visit where he lies-"

"He's dead?" Lex opened his eyes, turned around and saw that he was still alone. The machinery continued to beep, unconcerned with the stranger in the room.

"He tore the place apart. Injured everyone he could until there was nobody left. There hasn't been an event since AnarChristmas. There probably won't ever be again."

"What about Awoken? The Bastards? Didn't anyone stand in his way?"

In the bed, Andi looked like a broken doll, her cheeks hollow and her eyes sunken. She didn't move. She didn't answer him and the voice had fallen silent.

"I…" he began, his voice gruff with emotion, "I don't know how to say this, so I'll just say it. Nothing fancy. No poetry, no dancing around the subject: I'm sorry. You deserved better than this – you're one of the toughest fighters I've ever tangled with. You…"

 "Who the hell are you?!"

He took a step back from the bed, startled at the voice from the doorway. It was Andi's sister, holding a small potted pine tree in her hands. Tiny Christmas ornaments dangled from it, swaying and tinkling as she moved towards him. "I don't know who you think you are, but you can't be in here! You're not on the visitor's list."

"Nobody," he murmured, feeling the room grow darker around him. "I'm nobody."



There's a creak and a long sigh to start off the recording, that familiar soft-spoken and earnest voice of Lex Collins coming through the speakers without any video to accompany it— it's déjà vu all over again, but it works in a pinch.

"Andi, shit. It's been a while. You dropped off my radar – maybe I got a little too distracted with this glory dance to keep my eyes on the rest of the shit goin' down around us. Slept on this changing of the guard, on the rise of these Awoken jackasses. Blink an' the landscape's changed completely. Maybe that's not just my own shortsightedness. Nah. Maybe that's how this revolving door business goes. Maybe that's the thing we're ragin' against more'n mortality or fame or anything else. We just wanna still be here when the next group of new faces stumbles through that door, rarin' to go. Maybe that's the best aspiration of all: longevity. I just…"

He pauses, sighs.

"I got nothin' against you so this… it's actually harder'n I thought it'd be. You got back up after a few hard losses an' dusted yourself off – you came back swinging an' I guess I kinda feel a little pride at that. I feel like maybe I had a hand in that. Like maybe…"

There's a sheepish chuckle.

"Nah. See, I wanna draw a parallel here. Your tenacity reminds me of a little story 'bout a guy who made a buttload of money throwing fists in warehouses full of fish stink in bouts'at were never televised. That guy spent two years carvin' out a huge nest egg, buildin' up cash in the bank after a false start an' then he kept diggin' in deeper with them 'cause he loved the thrill of the fight. It wasn't 'bout winnin' for that guy. Not really. See, it was about that validation, y'know? No cameras. No fans judging an' screaming an' all that noisy hoopla – no assholes running in with chairs to fuck up a good fight, neither. Was just 'bout two circles intersecting in a way that made perfect point of impact sense an' I was really fuckin' GOOD at that math. Could see the twitch seconds 'fore the throwdown an' I could just react, y'know? No flashbulbs blinding. No oozin' ahhs... none of that shit. Just hands hitting like they were meant to. Simple an' almost… visceral?"

He chuckles again.

"An' you get that. I know you do 'cause I've already seen it in your eyes. When the Circuit imploded, I came back to the good ol' USA an' I found myself a steady gig in a place called Full Throttle. I racked up a ten-win streak – impressive, right? Twenty, really, if you factor in doing that dumpster fire CWF casually at the same time, beatin' guys like Ryan Corey an' Zack Lifer an' Brad Jackson – guys who retired a long-ass time ago. Baby's first brush with success – scrapbook-worthy moment, sure. All this pressure pushing down on me because they said I was a 'Rising Star'. Gave me this little trophy at the end of the year, acted like the world was gonna be my oyster an' the more praise they heaped on me, the more puffed up I got, the harder that fall became. They were fattenin' me up for the kill. Course you never see that until it's too late. You take the words at face value because it's better to believe people are good than be suspicious of everyone, right?"

There's a heaping helping of sarcasm in the last few words.

"Epiphany is the worst. Lemme tell ya. I know I'm not the bar... the glass ceilin'... the whatever you wanna call that barrier that we all feel like we gotta pass through. I… I'm just a guy who can take a punch an' throw a better one. I'm the guy too stupid to back away from it even when I know I'm gonna get hurt. Fuckin' D thinks I don't wanna be champion… that's the gist of what he said. Nah, see… that's the fucked-up part: I do. I wanna be the greatest so damn bad. I always did. I just couldn't say it, couldn't hold that close 'cause I knew the world wasn't gonna let me have that 'til it was good an' ready to. No sense longin' for a pipe dream, right? Just fucks you up an' lords knows I don't need any more of that, right? Fuckin' survivor's guilt."  

He sighs and the chair creaks in protest to some sort of movement.

"But, y'know, in downtime moments of silence an' isolation, I can play a little mindfuck game an' make myself believe that life's pretty much just passing through me uninterested like wind passing through a ghost town an', believe it or not, that's goddamn comforting to me. The only thing I fear now is the total recognition of my own bullshit. I… I find a way to rationalize it all. Maybe I'm scared of it all. Sometimes, sure. I see deep water an' I remember what it felt like to almost drown. The panic when I needed to breathe an' couldn't because I was in over my head, weighed down by all the truth, the guilt, the fuckin' regrets. Pride, it comes before a fall. We all know that. It's a given. But what if you fall first? How does it all change?"

That bitterness is back.

"So what if I can count all my losses in this company on one hand – does that make me good? Does that legitimize me in any way? When those losses are to the person I'm about to defend this torch – my Anarchy Championship – against, what then? Does it spell disaster? I'm trippin' the light fantastic over here an' Salvador Dali is putting stick legs on elephants and stretching clocks in the background – surreal-est mindfuck you ever had. I'm not you. I'm not trying to fill a gaping void inside of me with artificial highs. Fame. Booze. Drugs. Glory. They won't do it any better'n violence an' pain do for me, but hey. It's like that monster under the bed from childhood, y'know? Pretend it ain't there; it won't hurt ya. I ain't afraid, that's true. An' the sad part is people either think I'm lyin' or they just straight up don't get how that works 'cause everyone FEARS. That's human nature, right? Doubt an' fear an' pain an' all that stuff all mixed together until it's a sea of sucking brown muck holdin' you back. Fuck that noise. Ain't nobody able to keep me down, break me or hold me back. Not anymore."


The first thing he heard was the sound of rain – soothing, hissing against the window with that eerie whisper of white noise. Next thing he heard was the intercom, paging DR. ALLCOME. He'd always found rain soothing. Tonight, not so much. In Vegas it was too rare and this time of year, almost eerie when it came. Swimming towards the surface of consciousness, memory was a funny thing. The last few hours were a gaping black hole that threatened to suck him in. There were sights and sounds, disconnected. Neon-splashed wet asphalt. A red car? Blood? Too much red for him to remember which.

There was the beeping of machinery and his eyes flew open as he remembered that hospital room and Andi's damaged body.

Who's Andi?

He remembered her sister coming towards him before everything had gone dark. The memory was fading, insubstantial now. He couldn't put faces to names, had no idea what the significance of that other room was. 

He tried to sit up, making a low sound in his throat as pain shot through his nerve endings. He remembered a red car cutting him off. He remembered skidding on the bike and crashing into the cement median. Lex Collins bit his lip so hard he tasted blood, trying to tamp down the urge to bolt out of the bed and flee. “Hey,” he croaked, reaching up to rub his gummy eyes and finding that he was unable to bring his arm up that far. He could hear the murmur of voices outside this curtained-off alcove. He looked down, and saw the white cast on his right arm, covering from knuckles to elbow. “Fuckin' great,” he muttered. The shop had only been in his name a few months and he was backlogged already. He'd have to hire another mechanic if he was down to one hand. Just when he thought things couldn't get any worse-

"You're awake," a female's voice said, sounding relieved.

He turned his head, spotting the woman and promptly forgetting how to breathe. His heart felt like it slammed to a stop in his chest as he simply gaped at her. "I…" he couldn't even find words past the sluggish soup of his brain thanks to the painkillers and the shock at seeing her here like this. Hannah's hair was shorter, blonder than he remembered, and she looked incredible even though she was in scrubs with a white lab coat over top.

The woman stood up but didn't walk towards the bed. She wasn't smiling or really looking at him when she said, "you were in a serious accident. Your motorcycle sideswiped a car and you went off the bridge. You're lucky to be alive." There was no warmth in her tone, no spark of familiarity and he felt like he was going crazy. 

"Hannah? What..?"

She froze when he said her name, looking stunned. Those familiar eyes narrowed, judging and wary. "Who are you?"

Old memories and new were clashing in his head and he couldn't figure out which was real, and which had come from the booze-fueled fever dream he'd just come out of. He couldn't answer her question, couldn't think of what to say because there was no ring on her finger. There was no delicate tattoo on the inside of her wrist. This wasn't his Hannah.

"Must be rough working on Christmas Eve," he replied, the words coming from somewhere else.

"Not really," she still seemed wary as she checked his vitals. "I'd rather let one of the other doctors with a family be with theirs than…"

"What about your kids? The dogs?"

She looked at him strangely. "I think you've got me confused with someone else. I don't have kids and I'm allergic to dogs. Listen," she glanced towards the doorway, "is there someone you want me to call?"

"No." He closed his eyes, feeling the tears burning behind the lids, "ain't got nobody."



There was a bump against his side, a cool hand touching his feverish skin. "There you are." He opened his eyes, saw Hannah's smiling face. "I've been looking all over the place for you." Her fingers skimmed his temples, probed the back of his head, checking for lumps and blood. "They said you didn't go back to the trainer's office." She clicked her tongue, mock-chiding him. She knew he wouldn't. She knew who he trusted. She'd been doing this as long as she could remember, making sure he wasn't too broken – she'd gotten very good at it.

"I'm here. I'm…" he choked on the word, shaking his head. It ached. Throbbed. The hallway was silent, deserted except for them. How much time had passed?

"I know," she murmured, forehead touching his. Her breath was sweet, like candy, warm against his lips before she kissed him gently. "You're in good hands now, baby. I gotchu," she said when the kiss broke and for once he didn't internally flinch at those words that Jana had used right up to the end.

"Had the weirdest dream," he blinked, meeting her gaze. "Was like that shitty movie… the one they always play a thousand times at Christmas – that Jimmy Stewart one."

She laughed, shaking her head, "every time a bell rings, an angel…" she trailed off, letting him finish.

"…gets his wings. Yeah." His dark eyes were locked on hers, staring as though he could see something else in her expression.  He wanted to tell her how much it had hurt, those damned visions. She could have been a doctor. Could have been saving lives. Would it have been worth it for all those other lives that would have been ruined? What could he even say? 

"What?"

He broke the silence with a shake of his head, lifting his hand to cup her cheek. "Nah, it's alright, Han. It all makes sense now. I'm through with living between moments without any sort of inspiration. I wasted too much time living day to day, drifting from one wasted motion to another – I need to fuckin' live. Outside of these walls, these fuckin' fights where I'm just tryna thumb my nose at death over an' over. I need to grow up, Han. I got things to live for. I… I got purpose an' I can't keep spittin' in the face of providence. I have to do what I was born to do. I gotta keep fighting, pushing forward."

She returned his smile and as she looked up at her husband, she knew without a shadow of a doubt that whatever storm had been brewing had broken. Somehow, in some way, he'd finally fought back those demons in his head. Her heart was so full of joy that she couldn't manage a reply – she just nodded instead, wrapping her arms around him. Yes, everything truly was alright.



"People love a good story – there has to be a hook, of course. They like to place labels and there are two camps out there. Some see me in a white Stetson, the sheriff ridin' into town to keep the law – the others've been callin' me a bastard for's long as I can remember. It's completely subjective. You see what you want. Said this before, talked all about the self-centered tint we put on everything 'cause that's human nature. You can't see shit for what it is, at face value. It passes your eyes, hits the brain for filtering an' processing an' that's where it gets twisted. Hero worship is about the worst kinda thing, I suppose. I mean, next to being completely and utterly wrong. Oh, hey, hindsight… didn't see you there. Yeah, I said some stupid shit lately – my head's been a hell of a mess. My focus is smashed to shit – got two of you to prepare for. Which one deserves more focus? How do you fuckin' choose?"

He sniffs disdainfully.

"What do you want from this? To be deified? Vilified? What does anyone want? Do you want them to throw a ticker-tape parade in your honor? Do you want them to weep an' tear out their hair when you get injured? Want them to hold their breath every time you collide with a monster in the ring? Every time they scream for someone like Erik Black an' his ilk, I feel a piece of my sanity chip away. Every time  they call my name I can feel a few more grains being eroded away. Eventually there'll be nothing left an' I've resigned myself to that existence. I'm not giving it away for free like you and the rest of the Super Friends. I ain't here to forge these bullshit alliances when I know you're all snakes in the grass. Nope. My payment comes in a form folks like you'll never understand. Something's different. Yeah, I said thing. What have I become? Who are we, really? Tonight I'm watchin' tape of the road, lost in memories. I guess I'm findin' myself grateful for all the moments as the year draws to a close. All these broken roads've taught me things. Something existential, esoteric, perhaps."

There's a soft exhale, almost a sigh.

"See, the concrete that paves 'em teaches me about wear an' tear. After endless cold the concrete cracks. I watch the cracks, study the lines. Fissures, fractures. I memorize them, that subtle road map of stress. I study the decay an' it helps me understand myself. In relentless heat the concrete bends an' expands. Sometimes it crushes the curbs an' chokes the roots of trees. I study the distortion and suffocation. I watch things crumble an' I know intimately what that feels like. I know what it's like to be alone on twenty acres, watching the sun come up an' knowing she's never comin' back. Follow the cracks to the source, observe closely this substance that's pushed to extremes in both directions. Realization sets in an' hey, here's the truth in it all: I know about cracking up, an' I know some things about expanding an' crushing."

He chuckles bitterly.

"The pressure – I study the fine lines around my eyes, the furrow between my eyebrows. Those lines beside my mouth. I study those cracks in my face, an' they teach me things about myself. Are they from anger? From smiles? Where has all this silver come from? I rage – I rage so hard against so many things but the lines around my mouth are smile lines. The silver on my face is the lining, the joy that fills my heart when I hear my daughter's laugh. The imperfections in my face teach me about others an' about being pushed to extremes. Streets flow endlessly in every direction, rivers of concrete. Streets as rivers, waters that can drown you if you're not careful. You can easily be swallowed, devoured like you're nothing. Believe me, I've tried. I've succeeded. I've seen too much. See, the faces change an' the rivers remain the same. Rivers're eternal. The hearts of these rivers are pitch-black. They beat not for love of life or for love of death, but BECAUSE of those two extremes. The rivers don't judge. They don't care. Professional courtesy, I suppose. They are kind enough to let me taste the death inside, allowing me to taste the life in me. Passage up the river affirms my existence."

There's a brief pause before he continues.

"I know this doesn't make sense. I know you don't understand me, understand why I hate myself and why I cling to these championships even while I say I can't be your champion. I've looked into the eyes of too many of the living dead to believe their shit any longer. I don't need to justify myself anymore. Not to you. Not to any of you.

Yeah, you're staring me down. You don't know who you're fucking with but you act like you do. You treat honesty like a light an' you're flicking it off and on at will. You're slapping on labels. You're pointin' fingers an' you're saying that I need to be dragged out behind the barn an' shot. Why? What crimes've I actually committed here 'sides bein' honest in a sea of complete and utter bullshit? Well? Tell me why you fuckin' hate me. Tell me why this always happens. Make an excuse.

I jumped off every goddamn ledge out there, threw myself off like I had wings made of wax. I can't fly, but I killed myself trying to. I slashed four miles of wrists for them, and I'm still standing. Invincible. Inconceivable. Still here with you now. I see you two, standin' so straight an' proud, like you have nothing else to prove. You don't. You're PERFECT. Fuckin' hell, you make me wanna puke. I'm not like you. I'm too broken. Messed up and needy. I want to be like you; I want nothing more than that. So straight. So perfect. But I'm not like you. I have inside me the blood of gypsies. Not blood of kings. I am not a God. The black water calls my name. I have no choice but to answer. I'm nothing like the man you beat in that very first match, Andi. I'm not the man who almost lost to you before Erik Black interfered, D. Something got knocked loose. Something's changed."

He sighs.

"I'm my own worst enemy – I know this. I wanted to be nothing for so long, to be nobody – I wanted to be a shadow, to slip among you all so unassuming, unnoticed. I was wrong. I was so naïve, so damn stupid. I see what needs to happen now. I understand my purpose, why I'm here. They need me. You need me. An' the fucked up part in all of this? I'm gonna destroy you. I'm gonna walk outta that place with my head high, come whatever may – champion 'til that last breath. That makes me happier'n anything else in this fuckin' world. That's the truth, like it or not."