010: The Show Must Go On

"C'mon, Lex. You can't stay out here; you're gonna get sick..."

The sixteen-year-old huddled against the treehouse's rough-hewn wall, his arms wrapped around his knees, wishing he'd thought to grab a hoodie before sneaking out. Shivering made his ribs hurt more, each breath shallower than the last. They were broken. Again. He sighed, flicking the lighter he'd filched from Clay before using it to light the apple-scented candle. Cupping his hands around it, he sniffled, pointedly staring down into the flickering flame. "That's," he struggled to sound normal when he finally replied, "an old wives' tale. Not like I'm diving into the lake or nothin'. And 'sides," he tapped the edge of the candle's glass, "I got this." The words didn't come out harsh at all. He was too exhausted to argue with her. "Just go back inside, Han."

"If you don't come in... just gonna stay out here. With you." Hannah's tone was serious, persistent. She stared at him, waiting for an answer.

He set the candle down and lifted the hem of his shirt up to wipe the tears from his face. The movement gave her a pretty good view of his body underneath; she could clearly see the bruises on his stomach and ribs, some old and some still puffed-up red welts from a fresh assault. Letting the shirt drop, he leaned forward, his breath catching on a gasp at the flare of pain.

"Lex, be reasonable—" she broke off at the sight of the dark splotches across the wood where his back had been, "a-are you bleeding?"

He looked up sharply when she stammered, confused at the shift in tone. "What?"

"You're bleeding," she said softly, kneeling beside him. She reached out to touch him, but he froze, pulling away until he bumped back into the wall.

"Don't." He looked away from her, ashamed of his reaction. "It's prob'ly just scratches."

Swallowing hard, she exhaled. "Do want me to... uhm... look at it?"

She grabbed at the hem and he knew better than to fight it. "Shit," the word came out on a soft exhale as he reached behind his head and dragged the t-shirt off his body to reveal the bloody lashes on either side of his spine.

"Oh, Lex, I—"

"Is it bad?" He closed his eyes, hands fisted against his knees. "Tell me. Is it?"

It was horrible. The wounds were still oozing but she couldn't bring herself to say anything past the lump in her throat and the tears welling in her eyes. The gouges were deep – had he been whipped?

"I can't miss anymore days. I'm behind as it is—"

"It's okay," she said quickly, "they're just scratches like you said. They just need to be cleaned up." Impulsively, she leaned in and placed a gentle kiss on his bare shoulder. "I'll get Hunter. He'll know—"

"No." It came out too loud, making him flinch. The last thing he needed was her brother getting involved. Twisting the shirt between his hands, he couldn't help but feel the tingle on his skin where her lips had been; he was trembling, terrified of something he didn't understand.

"It's okay," Hannah whispered again, her fingers touching his bare shoulder. It was like she couldn't stop touching him, like she could feel something happening inside him that scared her in the worst way. She went and got the things, cleaned him as quickly as she could and the whole time he sat there in that strange silence. He closed his eyes, holding his breath. She could feel him trembling slightly as he tried to hold himself still, vibrating like when she'd tightened the strings on her brother's guitar too much and they'd snapped. The way he sat there, breathing shallowly as though expecting more damage, the way he was steeling himself like that, the more she wanted to march across the street and put a bullet in Clay's head.

"Lex?" Her voice shook slightly, coming out soft as her breath tickled his ear. "Say something."

He slowly exhaled, his voice coming out strained on that single word and it was filled with equal measures of confusion and frustration, "what?"

"I..." she faltered and then cleared her throat, trying again, "I don't know how to help you."

His eyes opened, locking on hers with confusion swimming in their depths when he realized he was standing in the middle of the room, arms wrapped around his middle. She was still sitting on the bed, the open first aid kit still open in front of her. He had no memory of moving, of pulling away from her and his heart was beating so fast he felt lightheaded.

She got up slowly, approaching him warily as though he was some skittish animal that was going to bolt. "Say something," she repeated, her voice soft as she reached out to lay her hand on his shoulder. "Did I hurt you?"


The first rule of FIGHT CLUB is you don't talk about Fight Club. Second verse, same as the first. It's clever. The repetition, I mean. See, you throw down enough and things start to slip rather than stick. Time flies easier. Names fall by the wayside.

Maybe you were Angel Face, maybe our fearless narrator just needed to fuck up something beautiful and now it's all gone to oatmeal up there. So you play the mnemonic game – find a way to keep it locked in that tenderized gray sludge inside your skull. There's always something, isn't there? A critic. A bridesmaid. A window opening when a door closes.

Just when you feel like you made it, you realize that fucking Miley Cyrus' team of songwriters nailed it on the head – Jesus wept. It really is all about the CLIMB.

There's always some adage that applies. There's always something catchy, some little ditty coined by someone else that suits the purpose.



"Don't shit where ye sleep," the phrase was jarring, coming off strange when coupled with the scarred Scot's accent. He slid into the seat across from Collins, setting his empty glass down with a thump.

He'd been staring at his phone, checking messages. Kait still hadn't replied and from what he'd been told, she hadn't checked in. It was looking more and more like he was going to be on the hook for her flaking on the scheduled fight which meant more hot water with the Russians.  

McLeod said it again, louder this time.

Collins made a rude noise, flipping the phone over facedown on the table. "It ain't like that. I vouched for her. I'm just... y'know..." he gestured vaguely, reaching for the beer in front of him. He took a swig and made a face – it was already warm and flat. "Protect ya neck, right?" When the Scot looked at him strangely, he clarified, "self-preservation."

"Aye," Bruce murmured, leaning in closer, "mebbe that's what ye believe, but I know better. Never sully the waters."

"Wouldn't it make more sense if it was 'don't shit where you eat'? Mean, that's more dangerous, right? Make yourself sick. Pretty sure that's how the saying goes. The other..." he trailed off and McLeod was happy to fill in the blank.

"Ye wake covered in shyte?" He chuckled raucously, pulling a cigarette from the pack after freeing it from his jacket pocket. He lit it with one eye squinted, the other still fixed on the younger man. "Either way, terrible mess. Wouldn't recommend, considerin' I'm actually fond of ye."

Collins shrugged, choking back the last of the skunky brew. "Don't matter much now, does it? I'm fucked without an ounce of pleasure to go with it."

"Here's a prospect," McLeod mumbled around the cigarette dangling between his lips, "Old lady's sister's come along, figgered she'd get to see the homeland or somesuch. Sightseeing an' the like. Needs someone to-"

"No." Collins shook his head, seeing where this was heading a mile off. The last thing he wanted was to have some third wheel pawned off on him.

"Bonnie lass, love 'er like me own sister. Needs someone tae show her a good time, 'tis all."

"No." He repeated it, more emphatically this time. "Abso-fuckin-lutely not. I don't... I'm not lookin' for a hookup, man. That ain't my scene."


What's the third rule? Nobody remembers and therein lies the joke, the part that makes it stick and makes that first one get broken. Only two guys to a fight. I know that was in there. We don't abide that one here, obviously.

Rebels to the core. Rejects. Rabble-rousers. Neurotic to the bone, no doubt about it.

Repetition makes it stick.

I've been here before. I remember it well but I can't say I'm a fan with any sort of sincerity. You don't shit where you sleep – someone I used to know used to say that one. You don't cross lines that shouldn't be crossed. That's the one to rule them all, isn't it? The golden one?

Do unto others.

Yeah.

I'll do unto. Just you wait and see how that goes. I might be shit with words, I might have trouble getting the hypothesis to pop off my esophagus but I'm just fine with actions. I have a very specific set of skills, you see. Make me sick and I'll keep on regurgitating until (this space left intentionally blank). Until I hit the wall, flip over and start on back the other way.

Repetition. Again?

Again.

It is what it is. You reap what you sow. So are we reapers or are we fighters? Are we winners or losers or something in between? The first rule is to keep your mouth shut, remember?



Hannah Donimari sat at the bar, a bundle of nerves. Her shoulders itched beneath the straps of the black and white print sundress she had on – sunburn thanks to a day spent sightseeing with her sister. She couldn't shake the feeling that she was making a terrible mistake – she hadn't been on any sort of date since she was a teenager. Her sister had insisted that this was something she needed. After all, she was in her mid-twenties and her last boyfriend had been when she was fifteen. Charity kept teasing her that she was going to end up some clichéd spinster with a house full of rescue animals, but she just couldn't bring herself to get out there.

Looking around the nearly deserted restaurant, she wasn't even sure who she was looking for. She'd been told that his name was Sparky. On the fight circuit, everyone had a nickname. McLeod had assured her that he thought they'd get along and if nothing else, maybe she'd make a new friend. Before her drink even arrived, she heard the soft clearing of a throat behind her. He'd been told to look for a girl in a black and white print dress. She'd been easy to spot sitting at the bar and he suddenly felt very under-dressed even though he was wearing a leather vest and tie with his pair of worn jeans.

Placing a friendly smile on her face, she turned on her stool and nearly toppled to the floor in shock. The blind date that stood in front of her was the last person she'd expected to see. "Sparky?" She managed to squeak out the name, earning a chuckle.

"Hannah," he said her name softly, closing his eyes for a split second as he dragged in a deep breath, feeling a twinge in his ribs that made him wince. He took a step back, shaking his head before his eyes opened again to find she was still there, still watching him.

"I can't believe it's you, Lex!" She felt a flood of relief, joy bringing tears to her eyes as she launched herself off the stool, wrapping her arms around him for a brief and fierce hug. "You're here," she whispered, remembering how they'd put both Paris and Athens at the top of the list of places they wanted to see when they finally made it out of New Orleans. "How... what?"

He bit his lip, tasting blood from the split as he murmured, "small world, huh?" Awkwardly, he hugged her back, putting his lips right next to her ear. "God, I can't even think of something to say... it's you. Jesus... I can't believe..." he trailed off, words failing him completely. Even after all this time, some things never really changed. Ten long years he'd been trying to train his thoughts to forget all about her and now she was here. Impossibly. Inexplicably.

Her hand stroked his cheek, fingers gently grazing the butterfly strip on his eyebrow thanks to the Russians. "What happened?"

"I..." the gesture was so damned familiar that it cut right through him. "You... you..." he struggled to put that dread into words. He was in too deep, wrapped up in this suicidal fight circuit bullshit. He was better off in these seedy dives, drinking himself into oblivion to kill the pain. She wasn't supposed to be here. She wasn't – he wasn't allowed to have her. That was what the universe had told him a thousand times over.

"Yeah, it's me," she looked away, brushing an errant strand of hair behind her ear, fidgeting now, unsure.

He could feel every eye in the place on them and it was making his skin crawl. "Han... I...."

"I'm sorry," she whispered, feeling foolish. "you don't have to say anything. I guess Bruce thought we'd hit it off." Nothing about this was going how she'd envisioned it.

He moved up to the bar beside her, getting the attention of the tender so he could order a beer. He let the conversation lapse while he waited for the bottle to be handed to him. Turning back towards her, he tilted the bottle to his lips and drained off a long swallow. "So... uh... he told me you're a nurse, huh?" He realized he was pushing her away – he could read that in her body language well enough. "That's great," he said softly, nudging her arm with the bottle.

She nodded, afraid to meet his gaze. "Yeah, I really like taking care of people."

"Guess you got a lot of practice when we were growin' up," he said softly, his tone slightly bitter.

She couldn't answer that. Suddenly shy, she hesitated before taking a chance. This was the man she'd been waiting for, after all – her Prince Charming had come. Happily ever after was within reach, literally.

"Do you-" he faltered when she reached over and placed a hand over his, giving it a squeeze. "Do you like it?"

"Sometimes."

He nodded, letting the conversation lapse.

'The Show Must Go On' was playing from the speakers overhead, soft enough not to be intrusive and Hannah found inspiration in the words Freddie Mercury sang. "I'm glad you're here."

"Almost didn't come," he admitted, "y'know me, Han. Not really into social situations like this." He took another swallow of the beer, shaking his head. "Man, this is fucked up..." he looked away from her, groping for something else to say, "h-how much did Bruce tell you... 'bout what we're doin' here, I mean?"

"Just that you guys get paid to fight," she said softly, removing her hand from his. Her arms folded against her chest. "He thought maybe you might need some medical attention." Finally, she looked up at him again, nervously smiling, "are you hurt?"

"Paid to fight don't really cover it," he shook his head, "it ain't pretty, Han. Gets violent. Couple months ago, a guy broke my cheekbone," he lifted a hand, touching his face, his eyes skittering away from hers. "I'm doin' good though." He lied, the words falling past his lips that felt numb, "winnin' a whole lot more'n I lose. It's, y'know... familiar, I guess." It hurt to say it, to admit that even though he knew she'd understand.

"Oh, Lex." She watched him struggle, feeling those old emotions washing over her. She wanted to hug and kiss him until he felt better. "Baby," the term of endearment just came out so easily, "what happened to you? What's wrong?"

He'd forgotten what that look in her eyes felt like, feeling like he'd dreamed it all along. Delusion was a hell of a thing in hindsight. "I..." he looked down at the stained bartop, unable to answer that question.


It's not about what you do when you get knocked down. It's about what you do when you get back up. That's inspirational – I could put that in some bold white text over a real nice sunset and everyone would Instagram the shit outta that tripe. Sure, it's true. Somewhat. People remember the things that spark a feeling – emotional rescue? Applause isn't all that filling, to be fair. Empty calories burn off too quick. Leaves you needing another fix and now you're looking for something harder because you fell through the gateway. Fame is the drug. Or it's the monster. Either way, it wants to consume and if you're not vigilant, it will. You put yourself out there and it's a risk. They say getting up in the morning is too. They say bringing a child into this fucked up world is a travesty or a triumph, depending who you ask. I'm not sure the creation part is all that hard, though. Donate something. Plant that seed, so to speak. Let it take root, grow.

That doesn't require any active effort on your part though, does it?

Happens on its own.

The rest is circumstance, the world taking its turn at the pottery wheel with hands on that malleable clay – too many fingers in the fucking pie or cooks in the kitchen and now it's ruined. I don't know what's happening. I don't know who these people are, who they think they are doesn't even cross my mind because your self-image has nothing to do with my first impressions.

I don't like you. I don't like rattling sabres or cages or donating blood for someone who hasn't earned the damn right.

You didn't.

Wanna try again? Be honest. I come from a place where intelligence is currency and weakness will kill you. Cunning, strength – those are insurance policies. If you try hard enough, you can take it back. Time. Respect.

Pain says 'hello' in a way nothing else ever will. I am awake. We won't flip the tense there. No clever wordplay. Just honesty. I don't play well with others. I think this most recent exercise in futility, excluding bullshitty intervention, speaks for itself.



His pulse was pounding in his head, in his ears as he closed his eyes, gripping the edges of the sink. He hadn't made it as far as the locker room. He hadn't even made it halfway down the hall, having to bust into the janitor's closet to puke his guts out in the sink. His throat burned from bile and the stench of bleach, the rusty metal flaking off on his palm as he lifted one hand to press it against the wall for support. He'd expected tonight to go sideways, expected Erik Black to join his buddies for the usual clusterfuck. He'd been prepared for that inevitability and was ready to cut and run the moment it happened. He hadn't expected to win two awards, certainly hadn't planned on having that short-lived moment of glory interrupted by some interloping asshole.

You got Kanye'd. You're Taylor fuckin' Swift. How's that feel, champ?

The fact that he'd been pinned during the match wasn't even registering. The embarrassment was still hanging on him, making him feel like a fool. He should have known better. Blood was still trickling from the cut on his forehead, dripping down into the stained basin, diluted to pink before swirling down the drain

The last time he'd picked up two awards was in Full Throttle and he hated to think that cycles were repeating, that 2013 was coming back to rear its ugly head. Saliva flooded his mouth again, that bitterness in the back of his throat and his stomach clenched. He closed his eyes again. Held his breath, trying to exert some measure of control over the situation. He was supposed to be defending his Legacy Championship on a goddamned ship in international waters in five days. He was supposed to be on a flight in less than five hours. He had no idea how he was going to manage either one.

The doorknob bumped into his back as it swung open, a man in overalls goggling at him with surprise that morphed into recognition when he turned around too quickly. He staggered back a step, the edge of the sink there to keep him from falling over as his vision faded for a second. The annoying-as-fuck ringing in his ears was back but he still heard the man ask in a voice full of awe and pity, "what the hell happened to your face, mate? You okay?"

He grinned, teeth bloody before turning and spitting in the sink. "Sure am," he muttered. "Right as rain. Peachy-keen." He actually meant it, too.


This business is full of the worst sorts: nihilists, narcissists, solipsists. Where am I on that spectrum? Does it even matter?

Nobody cares about the big picture, the impact on others. I'd blame society, parents these days, but that just makes me sound old-as-fuck and let's be honest here: I just turned thirty-five in December. Am I over the hill now? Is this the down-stroke?

No.

I'm not your stepping stone or your scapegoat or whatever other stupid hat you want to cram on my head. I'm the Legacy Champion. I'm the master of this chaos around us; the Anarchy Championship grants me that title to lord over you. Not that I would. It just bears repeating. You know how it goes.

I hate people. I hate this business at least fifty percent of the time. Tag, Zepp. You're it. You won the lottery or maybe I drew the short straw? I don't know you well enough to honestly gauge and we're slated for this showcase network throwdown. Last time I walked out with new hardware, cut the line on Erik Black. And I'd laugh but it's not funny in the least because this is where I've ended up in my career. I'm gonna wrestle where you'd usually find Steven Seagal in some B-movie on TBS Superstation over Thanksgiving weekend – the middle of the fucking Atlantic Ocean?

You earned this somehow while I had my back turned. Granted, I can't see everything coming from all sides because I'm only human and I feel this sort of displaced vertigo. Perpetual motion? Is that what it is? I don't know. It's cyclic. It's part of this trip we're on and now I'm the bad guy because I'm thinking in terms of paying violence forward in a way I never really have. I could.

I've earned that right.

It's my turn to chase glory into oblivion, like the sun chasing the moon or a knight after a dragon. Do I fall off the edge? Do I get burned? Do I slay the beast, cut off its head and come galumphing back? What do I get if I do? A prize? A pat on the back? A second's reprieve?

Nope.

I get to go home. Rest, reset , polish up that dulled shine and do it all over again. Endlessly. Practice makes perfect, they say. Keep on keepin' on because it gets better. Or you get older. I've become comfortably numb – thicker skin, perhaps?  

With repetition, it sticks.

In your hat, like a feather? In your craw, bitter?

I guess that depends who you ask. We are tired of your abuse. Try to stop us, it's no use. Better words than mine, timeless and true. When there's a choice, my actions are already determined. Repetition, remember? My path is set.

You already know my answer. Or you should. Different strokes for desperate folks, right? That's how the saying goes. If it ain't broke... well.

Right. That.



"Daddy! Hi!"

He couldn't help the smile at the sound of his daughter's voice, even though it hurt. With his hair hanging over the damage on his forehead, he could pass it off as just tired. Jet-lag. Thankfully it was just FaceTime and he wasn't close enough to touch. It was after midnight in the UK, officially Wednesday now and he was supposed to be on a flight home that he'd missed.

"Hey, peanut." He murmured, clearing his throat, "you staying outta trouble? Helpin' mama like you promised?"

She happily regaled him about her day, from her dance class the night before to the snacks she had for lunch. She was obsessed with grapes the same way he remembered he'd been at that age. He took it all in, laughing and nodding, keeping the pretense of being engaged when his mind was a million miles away. He heard everything. It was filed away for later review and he had the screen recording on in case he missed anything important. The little tricks were the most important these days. When she finally passed the phone back to her mother, he let out the breath he'd been holding in a sigh.

"You cancelled the flight?"

It wasn't an accusation. For that he was grateful.

"Figured it was easier to go from here. Less toll, y'know? Less," he lifted his hand, gesturing at his temple, "less cabin pressure."

Silence reigned for a few seconds and he struggled to quash the urge to blurt something inane to fill it. When she finally spoke again, her voice was softer, filled with concern. "How bad is it this time?"

"Lost a lot of blood." He chuckled ruefully, "headache from hell. This jacktard came outta nowhere... laid me out." The way he said it made it clear that he wasn't going to roll over and turn the other cheek and he saw a flash of something in her eyes. Was it pride? "Deal with that in due time. I just..."

She nodded. "I know."

"Do you?"

Hannah's smile was wistful, a little sad although it was still there even after everything. "You're defending champion. You gotta be at your best and twenty-seven hours of back and forth transatlantic travel isn't gonna help that. Lex, you don't need my permission. You know that, right?"

"I..." he hesitated for a second. "Yeah. I know. I just wanted you to know it's not avoidance or whatever. Y'know, 'cause of..." the words fell off into a rusty cough. He winced, took a slow, deep breath. When the delayed stream went live, he knew she'd be pissed at him for downplaying everything that had happened. If she was here, she'd have insisted he see a real doctor rather than the arena medic.

"Don't worry," she murmured, looking down at her swollen belly. "This little watermelon isn't due for another three weeks at least. You've got time."

He knew time wasn't a luxury anymore, but he didn't correct her. Sometimes it was better to keep hope alive. "Tell her to wait. Until I'm home."

"She can hear you." Hannah's smile was joyful as she rested her hands against the bump. "She moves when she hears your voice. Pretty sure she's already a big fan, just like our little peanut was when she was born. Remember?"

He felt an ache in his chest that had nothing to do with his injuries, remembering how he used to sit in the dark when he couldn't sleep, rocking Allegra as he talked through whatever was on his mind. It wasn't the kind of thing found in any parenting book, but it had worked well enough. "Han...." He bowed his head, knowing she could see right through those little tics after all this time. The words died on his lips as he raked a hand through his hair, forgetting about the concealed damage in his exhaustion. "Miss you guys."

"I know, baby. Just remember," she put her hand up towards the screen, knowing what he needed in that moment. He pressed his palm to hers on the laptop's screen, letting her words of encouragement wash over him. "We're so proud of you and we love you so much. No matter what happens. Okay?"

He swallowed hard, trying to push away that sense of defeat, that burning kernel of righteous indignation shoved deep down where it would likely fester into something far worse. He didn't care. He was sick of having assholes run roughshod over him. Kintaru would get his. In time. With accrued interest. "I know. I just..." he trailed off, sighing.  

She smiled as she pulled her hand back. "Then go get some rest."

"I will," he lied, knowing it was going to be a rough couple of days. "I love you. Give the peanut hugs an' kisses for me, alright?"

"Always." She let the word hang there for a moment, knowing he would catch the subtext. "No matter what happens." She looked over and then Allegra was crowding the frame again, waving enthusiastically. "We've got you," she said, knowing he needed the reminder. "No matter what. To the moon and back."

He nodded, feeling that truth finally reassert itself. With a shaking hand, he closed out of FaceTime after the call ended and opened the video playlist of his new best friend's career highlights. Sleep could wait. Repetition was everything, after all.