Ω [LEVEL UP #4]

Hannah Collins stood at the bottom of the stairs with the overflowing laundry basket at her feet, an overwhelming rage bubbling up at the sight of that abomination taking up the entire basement. She couldn't stop thinking about Aurora, couldn't stop thinking about all the places that had burned him in the past, the ones that had sent him fleeing into the shadows like a damned roach and now here was evidence that he was back to repeating those old patterns again. A sigh passed her lips, and she couldn't stifle the animosity she felt at what her husband considered his sanctuary – a damned blanket fort, as though he was a child rather than a thirty-year-old adult. The last time that damned fort had been around was when he'd lost to Matt Ford. Now here it was again, proving that her husband had lied when he said he didn't care about losing the iiW championship, didn't care about the fact that the company had closed its doors and made him the scapegoat in the chaos.

Just knowing this was in the basement scared the hell out of her far more than the way Lex had started to pull away from her over the last few months. Glaring at the self-made fortress, she kicked the basket aside and stalked across the room. "No more," she snapped, ripping the blankets down. She couldn't see anything reasonable in this construction. To her it was worse than a thousand steps back in the progress he'd made since she'd finally convinced him to give therapy another try. It wasn't just the drinking that had her spooked, either. It was the way he seemed like a zombie half the time, this shambling shell going through the motions without any sort of actual engagement. She'd been lying to herself, hoping that once the baby had come that he would even out – it was just stress, she told herself. He needed to take some time off to heal. She'd been lying to herself for so long that she couldn't even begin to find the truth and the gulf between them seemed to be widening almost daily.

Lex's eyes snapped open as he rolled over on the bed, completely disoriented. Glancing over at the clock, he realized that his internal alarm had clearly broken along with everything else in his head because that three-hour nap had turned into at least seven by his estimation. He was alone in the bedroom and for a second he simply lay there, listening to the sounds in the house. He closed his eyes, focused on the pain that was a near-constant companion these days. Hannah had no idea that he'd been walking wounded for over a year. Had no idea that this toxic thing was filling him up inside, eating away all the parts of him that were good and kind.

"Fuck," it was more exhale than expletive as he pushed up on his elbows. The last thing he wanted to do was get out of bed, but the silence was overwhelming and then he heard a soft little mewl of sound. The baby monitor was still on and he could hear the soft sounds of his infant daughter's breathing. He rolled over and looked at the little screen, seeing the vague shape of the miracle they'd created, and he knew Han wouldn't have left him alone with the baby without waking him up first which meant she was here somewhere. Gingerly, he crawled out of bed, still feeling twice his age as his muscles protested at the movement.

A few minutes later, he was headed towards the basement, led there by the clues of a dropped sock in the middle of the living room floor. He froze midway down the stairs, the wind forced out of his lungs like he'd just been punched in the gut. His hand gripped the banister so hard that the bracket holding it to the wall squeaked in protest; the sound was lost under the flapping of linens and Hannah's heavy breathing.

It felt like some sort of victory to childishly tear apart the room and she was laughing by the time it was over with and only the Christmas lights were still dangling haphazardly from the hooks he'd screwed into the low ceiling. Turning around, she was balling up the torn sheet between her hands when she caught sight of her husband on the stairs. All at once that smile faded, the laugh dying on her lips when she saw the stricken look on his face. "I'm sorry," she tried to explain away that joy she'd felt in the moment, "but I HAD to do it."

"Wh-" he couldn't even finish the question, couldn't even move beyond the spot he was frozen in. His voice came out sounding strangled, "don't do this right now. I..." his knees came unhinged slowly and he sat down hard on the stairs, immediately cradling his head in his hands.

"You don't need it, Lex. It's a crutch. Like the booze was." Her eyes were pleading for him to understand as she approached him slowly as though she was afraid he might bite. "You-"

He snorted in derision, cutting her off. His voice sounded foreign to his own ears, "you don't know what I need."

"Listen," she swallowed hard, "a bunch of blankets and pillows aren't going to magically fix what's wrong. Hiding down here isn't healthy, Lex – it's just like those times I'd find you up in the treehouse when we were kids and that-"

"Don't." She was right. All of it. She was right. He was backsliding like mad, regressing so that every little flick and glance in his direction was dropping on the pile – his guts were full of napalm. Every success led to a spectacular failure. PCW had closed the moment gold had gone around his waist. iiW had waited until it moved from him to that face-painted dipshit who called himself Syn. Felt like they wanted nothing more than to close doors and erase his existence from their annals – its collapse still felt like his fault. He needed to retreat into the dark because the spotlight kept burning him.

"…and this damned wrestling career isn't." He realized Hannah was talking, had been for a while and he hadn't heard a single word past his pulse pounding in his ears. If he listened hard enough, he could hear subtext lurking in his wife's tone.

Nobody wants you around. You're a mistake. Should have kicked you to the curb the moment you overstayed that welcome. He heard all those voices of the past – Clay spewing venom, that evil hiss slithering into his brain and settling there. Nobody will ever want you, boy. You're useless. Worthless.

Twelve years later, Matt Ford had echoed the same thing. You clutched at a brass ring that you aren't prepared to grasp. You aren't ready for this, Lex. You never will be. This isn't your place. There's no place on the mountain for you. You're flawed. You're weak... unworthy.

He stared at the lights hanging from the ceiling, watching the halos bloom and blur around them. The desire to hurt himself was always there these days, breathing down his neck. He was able to feed it scraps, dole out violence in little doses but with the bookings drying up, he couldn't pass off the damage as unintentional anymore. The bad wolf was growing hungrier by the day.

"There are other places to go. I just need…" he trailed off, realizing he couldn't really put what he was feeling into words. "Sabra said that SCW will hire me an' Rori's been tryin' to get me to come to Phoenix for a while now."

The look Hannah gave him could have curdled milk. "You don't need another wrestling ring. Another damned headache and for what, Lex? Why do you do this to yourself?"

He said nothing and she knelt in front of him, grabbing one of his hands. "It's killing you," her voice broke as she pleaded with him to understand where she was coming from.

His hand was shaking, and he knew she could feel it. He couldn't stop the words from passing his numb lips, knowing they'd hurt her the moment they were out. "No. You are." He pulled his hand from her grasp, turning and walking back up the stairs in silence. He didn't apologize. Couldn't bring himself to lie to her again.


There's a creak to start off the recording before the familiar sound of a tab being popped on some carbonated beverage. The darkness resolves into the face of Lex Collins – the stubble is a bit thicker, as though he's starting to grow that infamous beard back. The dark circles under his eyes are darker than usual before they're hidden behind his thick fingers as he presses his palms against his face. Bringing his hands together, he keeps them steepled over his nose before letting them drop as he sighs.

"I keep recording these little missives in the hope that they can serve as a time capsule to later generations. Some nights talking into this little recorder is a bit like my lifeline, like a tether to sanity that keeps me from drifting off the deep end. Maybe someday this'll serve as a record, to keep things straight, to separate the fact from the fiction, y'know? Things in this business have this nasty habit of gettin' twisted up, takin' on unholy lives of their own. It gets exhausting, the longer you do this. The thicker the muck gets around you. Everyone has a story. Everyone thinks they know you, know your most intimate details after diggin' around online for a little bit. But we bring that on ourselves, don't we? These days, there's shit everywhere and once it's online, it never disappears."

He sighs, shaking his head.

"There's always gonna be at least one guy who refuses to let it go. There's always gonna be the one person quick to remind you how you dropped the ball that one time – they'll take a moment of weakness and turn it into a whole three hour special. I'm not pissed. Tirri's got a right to his opinion and as much as I hate to admit that he had me going back through old social media posts to see where I put out the impression that I'm some manufactured piece of shit – yeah. I'm human. I got thick skin but if you prick hard enough, I'll bleed. You kick hard enough, you'll crack my cup an' bruise my dick, too. But I mean, semantics, right? I'm rollin' into this little rumble as the last entrant – undefeated in the ring thus far. I'm not gonna let the knowledge of all these rumbles I've been in before and come up short mindfuck me. Last one was in Alpha Pro, but it went the same way the one in Trinity did. The same way the one in Full Throttle did back in 2013. I could make it to the last two, could set records with eliminations an' the like… but I just couldn't manage to overcome."

There's a bitter smile on his face as he shakes his head.

"If I'm a fraud, must be damned good at it, huh? Fake it so good I beat you like a redheaded stepchild-" he breaks off with a sarcastic chuckle, "not even sure what the fuck that even means. But here we are. The world is my oyster, but I can't shake the foreboding. See, a whole bunch of companies that looked just as promising as this one crumbled around me while I was staying gold. I know that's not gonna happen here. Not in a place that Jack Michaels calls home – well shit – forgot about Zion. I mean, I'm not trying to be ol' Professor Doom over here with the portents and omens after reading the dregs at the bottom of my morning cup of tea, but shit happens. I don't want to see this place crumble and I guess maybe I'm the only one who's actually invested in that outside of maybe Maggie Lockheart."

He reaches off camera and grabs a can of Budweiser, taking a huge drink of it. Maybe he needs the liquid courage to keep on this track. Maybe he's just thirsty.

"If winning this rumble means I'm condemning the company to failure, it's not so bad, right? Tirri's got 2 other gigs. So does LEGION. I mean, there's hundreds of companies out there, cropping up almost overnight and some of them are so damned good at the sales pitch that they hook you right in. Some of them, you fuckin' wonder why folks're loyal. Why Edmonton, Tirri? You keen on facing Crystal Hilton in a best five of seven series until there isn't a single person left in the audience to watch that horseshit? And why Georgia, Wendy? You and Tracy get off on putting folks like Bianca Davis and the Daughters of Anarchy biker bitches over… I mean, when you're not stuck jerking the curtain or being largely forgotten – that's a goddamned travesty, Wendy. You know you're better than that. Deserve better'n that kinda treatment. See, that's why I called myself The Architect. I wanted to tear down places like that, wanna rebuild something better. Something that hearkens to the golden age of this business, 'fore little passive aggressive crybaby fucks started usin' their little text boxes to ruin something good. Shit's good for something though, isn't it? Spread it over that soil after we burn it all to the ground – fertilize that scorched earth so maybe something better'll grow…"

He trails off, shaking his head again as he reaches for the beer, only to stop himself.

"The more they say, the more I wanna rage. The more frustrated I get until all my clever thoughts run dry. An' who needs clever, really?"

He pauses, lifting his hand up to scratch his cheek.

"Never fails, though. You scratch one of those loud-mouthed shits, those abrasive so-called winners who like to tell you all about how much time they put in 'pulling up by the bootstraps', clawing their way to the top, an' nine times outta ten you'll find a scared little kid who had everything handed to him. It's like they need a way to justify their luck. Can't be fate or chance or bein' in the right place at the right time when there was a void anyone could fill – nah, you must be special. Gifted. Nobody can poke a hole in the fabric of that reality 'cause it's been proven as a formula now. It's been repeated. It's been touted – Eli Goode thinks everyone's still talking about him because Amber Ryan mentioned him in passing on social media two weeks ago. Oh, I shit you not. This is the level of nonsense it's gotten to. He believes he's a shoo-in for this belt, that he can overcome a pissed off Jack Michaels AND last long enough to overthrow THE OMEGA yours truly, simply because someone not even in the company subtweeted about his startling lack of sanity. Eli Goode believes he's reached the summit. He has no idea he's an ant on a sandcastle and the tide's about to roll in – he thinks he's planting the flag and celebrating his imminent glory because he jumped a guy after he fought his heart out an' kicked another in the dick to avoid the asskicking he deserved. Shit yeah, man. You're certifiable, alright. MENSA ain't callin' about the genius status, though. Nah. It's the guys with the butterfly nets, ready to fit you for the straitjacket."

He flashes a wan smile.

"I just wanna go down swinging against someone worthy. Someone who's actually earned it – don't think that's too much to ask, really. After all this shit lately, think I've earned that."

The smile turns caustic before vanishing before most can register the shift.

"Here's something you won't find in a Google search or a Don Tirri promo: all the time they were bleeding me, trying their damndest to cage and humiliate me by spreading lies, I was happy to be a target. Why? Easy, chief. It made me feel important. Gave me a purpose, y'know?"

He shakes his head, heaving a tired sigh.

"Heroes get tired and right now, I'm fuckin' exhausted. Not that it matters when the world wraps its iron hands 'round your throat, locking down the chokehold; when nobody gives a shit 'bout you, or what you gotta say, I want you to think of me. You and I, we have nothing in common. The truth is you can't live without them. You need to flap your arms and feign flight. You need to light fires because on your own you can't light the way. You're the flash in the pan with a ten-second purpose."

The smile's back, almost predatory.

"I know all of you. I've faced caustic self-proclaimed Queens before. I've faced the legends. I've faced the upstarts, the rebels, the feebs who think they're destined for greatness – a million different versions of the same damn thing over the last seventeen years. You know what's crazy? This ain't my first hot streak on joining a company, either. Did it in 2013. Did it in 2015. Did it again last fucking year and I know what happens when it ends – this isn't Street Fighter II, where button-mashing mice playing at being fearsome can fluke out a win. Nah. This is THE LAST OF US. This is survival of the fittest – this is where the guy who's spent all his life pickin' himself up after the blows and carrying on has the best chance to succeed. I know every survival song out there – hell, I wrote a few of 'em myself."

He pauses.

"You think any of you can do this better than me? The broken? The beaten? The liar? The damned? You think any of you are WORTHY of being called THE FINAL BOSS?"

The silence stretches out for a full thirty seconds before there's another chuckle followed by one last word.

"No. Hell no."

The words cut off into a hiss of static before the video ends, offering the REPLAY and SUBSCRIBE buttons on opposite corners of the window.




She heard the pitter-patter of little feet and rolled back over, pulling the warm blankets over her head. Dawn was just a smear of light on the horizon still, maybe another hour away if she didn't slip out of that warm-fuzzy place. Devious giggling was muffled by the down, forgotten an hour later when her eyes finally opened, and she rubbed the crusts of sleep from the corners. The clock read half past eight, sunlight doing its best to worm its way around the blackout curtain edges as she threw aside the covers, panicked because she'd overslept the alarm. She didn't remember turning it off and the ice-cold hardwood floor and then ceramic tile in the bathroom was enough to wake her up, even before she splashed cold water on her face and tried to run a brush through the snarls in her hair.

"Shit, shit shit…" It was almost a mantra as Hannah Collins grabbed that old Ramones hoodie off the chair and threw it on over her nightie, heading down to the room the girls shared. Both beds were empty, perfectly made – her eldest daughter's handiwork. Allegra was like her father in that regard. She needed some things to be just so. The ballet slippers were on the chair, laid out with her carefully folded leotard. Of course. It was Wednesday.

Hannah made her way downstairs, listening for the sounds of the two girls. Most days, they were thick as thieves, Allegra doting on her little sister in a way that would have been endearing, if she wasn't a bad influence. "I hope you two haven't gotten into Daddy's sugar cerea-" the words died on her lips when she saw the living room was empty and so was the kitchen.

Now she was really starting to panic. She could see the water in the pool gleaming in the sun and she ran to the window, making sure that there weren't any bodies floating in there. The gate was closed. She could see across the whole surface and it looked empty. She was about to go running back upstairs for her cell phone when she heard a muffled giggle from what sounded like behind her. She turned and saw a reddish glow coming from under the basement door – all sorts of grisly images were playing through her head now thanks to the episodes of Murder House she'd been re-watching with Lex before he'd gone to Indiana. When she pulled open the door and saw that old string of Christmas lights with that one rebellious blue bulb that was always trying to twinkle when the rest were solid, she felt sick to her stomach. She walked down a few more stairs and saw those old, faded sheets draped and propped up – the damned blanket fort was back. Her first irrational thought was to go to Reno, to find Don Tirri and beat him halfway to death with that Louisville slugger they kept behind the bedroom door.

She heard that giggle again when she reached the bottom of the stairs and she felt like she was still in a dream when she knelt, lifting the edge of that ragged flannel and slipping inside. There were more fairy lights up against the ceiling – a dim set of blue LED's that intensified that dreamy feeling. Freddie was curled up against her father's side, a lock of hair twisted around her fingers and she looked like she was halfway to Dreamland. Lex was reading to his eldest daughter, that well-worn novel in his hands unmistakable – of course it was THE OUTSIDERS and she sat there for a moment, feeling like traitor and intruder in the worst sort of way. All the fear and panic had morphed to guilt and she hated herself for jumping to conclusions. He'd made this for them. For the girls to have a little sanctuary, tucked away into the corner of his domain – she loved him so much for that.

"Han?"

She almost jumped out of her skin when that soft murmur of her husband's voice rose in volume, calling out her name.

"Hey." Sheepish, she reached up and swept her hair off the back of her neck, twisting it around her hand. "I overslept and thought I'd-"

"Got in early again. I turned off the alarm," Lex cut her off with a sigh, "sorry. I thought you could use a little extra sleep."

"Oh." She looked down, feeling the sudden prickle of tears that was almost overwhelming. Rather than retreat, she crawled over closer and sat down on the old futon mattress next to them, resting her back against the wall. Her smile was shaky when Freddie crawled into her lap, snuggling up against her before drifting off to sleep the way toddlers and kittens had a knack for doing.

Lex handed the book to Allegra, letting her decide if she was going to mark the page or read on ahead on her own. "I beat him," he said softly, a little hint of pride in his voice before he chuckled and shook his head.

"Good. I hope he choked on every last word."

"It's worse than that."

She lifted her head, looking at him and for once he didn't seem to be carrying that damned weight of survivor's guilt in his eyes. They were clear. Warm enough to match that hint of a smile on his lips. "Oh?"

"Think he might actually respect me now."

The way he said it came off like a joke, but she could tell he was surprised. Things like that rarely happened – every social interaction was ass-backwards and excruciating, going off the rails in ways he'd never understood and that she could never truly explain. He seemed to have a knack for speaking some foreign language that nobody understood, despite using the plainest English imaginable.

"No passive aggressive backhanded compliments?"

"Nah." He laughed then, just that little shaky exhale through pursed lips as he shook his head. "Straight up. Saw it in his eyes. Bought him a drink after and he shook my hand rather than spit in my face. I guess I finally made it, huh?"

"You did." She said it with such pride, her eyes welling with tears again and now she understood why he'd done this. He wanted to turn it around – all of it. This was the last of his purge, the last tainted memory he hadn't replaced with something good. It made sense now and she was so happy for him that she wanted to get up and dance. Hell, she wanted to do cartwheels in the back yard and run through the neighborhood shouting his name.

"You deserve it," she finally said, "and you're going to win this rumble. I feel it in my bones."

He nodded. "Winds of change're blowing, Han. It feels different somehow. Fresh. Almost new." He looked down at his daughter for a moment, reaching out to ruffle her hair as she read the book that had gotten him through the worst years of his life. "Jack can be the ALPHA. First in. Maybe first out? Doesn't matter what happens before I get out there. I'm the OMEGA, Han. Last. Not at all least. Not gonna be left by the wayside again, tossed over an' forgotten, shit on by all those petty little pricks – this is my time. I paid my dues. I earned my spot. Time for me to grab the brass ring – fuck Matt Ford. Fuck everyone else who said I wasn't worthy. I'm the best damn wrestler in that company – I'm gonna be the FINAL BOSS."