QUESTIONS & ANSWERS (Chapter 22: No Hero) [iiw]

Over the course of the past nine days, Sev had slept very little. He’d been cramming everything he could find into his head to prepare for this heist. The fact that they’d managed to plant an air tag on Archer after the Admiral’s Club meeting had been the first good thing that had happened in what seemed like an eternity – he could finally see a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel. Waiting for dark had been excruciating, but he’d filled the time with measured sips of chilled vodka. He wasn’t quite drunk, but there was enough in him that all the safeties were off. The MONSTER was loose, relishing the blood that was already on his hands. He peeled off the soiled gloves and stuffed them into one of his pockets before pulling out a new pair. The last thing he wanted to do was scare her, decorated in the blood of that bastard who called himself her father.

Now, crouched in the darkness with his face painted the way he usually did for the wrestling ring and his bald head hidden beneath a knit cap that was far too warm for the weather, he felt like a fool. Pulling the suction cup from his pocket, he put it on the glass and cocked his head, listening. The fibre optic cables had been cut down the road, making sure that the internet and cameras that relied on them wouldn’t be functional, not that he expected to be seen when he was under the overhang of the rotten deck at the back of the old farmhouse, shielded by weeds and wild grass that was waist-high on him. The night was deathly silent so he withdrew the glass cutter, tracing the circle like he’d practised a thousand times, popping out a hole big enough to fit his hand through and unlock the basement window. A few moments later, he eased his bulk over the sill and dropped to the floor in the darkness. He remained crouched there for a moment, willing his heart to stop pounding – he was sure they could hear him through the floor like Poe’s Tell-Tale Heart even though he was fairly certain this level had been soundproofed.

He’d spent a week watching the camera footage once they’d managed to hack into the cloud server. He knew the layout by heart, and was seeing it even in his dreams. Since this had all begun, he had been thinking too much about death, about sacrifices. He was willing to give his life for hers, to ensure that their daughter grew up with a mother who loved her. Acceptance had come at a cost but he had willingly embraced the darkness within himself, making peace. It had begun as an uneasy truce, but now that his full potential had been unlocked, he had found that all the doubts that had been instilled in him over the years had been silenced. The demons had stopped whispering, stopped trying to erode the last of his sanity.

Holding his breath for a moment, he took off the hat and used it to dab at the sweat that was dripping down his face. He knew the greasepaint wasn’t necessary now that he was inside and he felt as though he was covered in cobwebs. He scrubbed at his face with the inside of the knit cap before stuffing it in his pocket. The last thing he wanted to do was burst into the room like a juggernaut, dressed like some shadow monster from her nightmares even though he was feeling far more like the invincible ENIGMA tonight than he had in weeks. Easing slowly to his feet, he looked around now that his eyes had adjusted to the low light down here. There was a flickering orange glow on a huge chest freezer that looked like it had been here since the beginning of time – they'd probably have to saw it in half to get it out of here when it quit working. The thought was random, made him almost chuckle for how mundanely and absurdly normal it was when he was in the middle of committing several crimes. Dead flies crunched under his boots as he made his way across the otherwise empty space. Straight ahead was a door, one that had a padlock on the outside. He pulled out the lockpick, gently lifting it from its resting place and cradling it on his palm while he manipulated the tumblers. Twenty seconds later, the hasp sprung open and he took it off, reaching for the knob even as he slipped the lock into his pocket.

The room was dim, the blue light coming from a clock on the bedside table but it was enough to see a figure on the bed and his heart lurched into his throat. "Elle," he whispered the shortened version of her name, creeping closer to the bed. "Solnyshko. My love… can you hear me?"

Kneeling beside the bed, he reached out with one gloved hand, pressing two fingers to her neck beneath her ear. He felt the flutter of her pulse and then she stirred, a strangled sound coming from between her lips as her eyes opened. He immediately placed his hand over her mouth, fearful she might scream, not even thinking of how she might react to that action. "It’s me," he said, hoping that he’d scrubbed away enough of the soot that she could see his features, and could recognize him in the gloom. "You must be quiet, Solnyshko. We do not have much time. I need to get you out of here, before they realise the game we are playing."

The immediate surge of fear was like a rush but as soon as she knew it was Sev and not her father, she actually started to feel calm. Her eyes closed and she held her breath. So many times she’d dreamed about this, had the most vivid hallucinations that he was bursting in to save her like some action movie hero, only to wake up still locked in this tiny room. She could feel breath on her cheek, then her forehead before he pressed his lips there, his hand lifting from covering her mouth. She held herself still, feeling tears burning in her eyes, squeezing out from under the lids – she didn’t want to speak, didn’t want to pop the bubble all over again when she’d finally accepted that she was never going home.

"I’m sorry," Sev whispered, withdrawing slightly. There were so many things he was apologising for, the time it had taken to get here the least of those. Everything felt as though it was his fault, his mistake to fix.

She heard a snap, felt air on her face and when she opened her eyes, she thought she was alone again. A pitiful moan caught in her throat, "no. Please no. Not again."

Sev slipped the knife back into its sheath, letting the cord fall from his fingers before taking her hand in his, trying to ignore the marks the nylon had made around her wrist as he intertwined his fingers with hers. "I am here. You are not dreaming."

She could smell him now, the salty sweat on his skin mixed with the spicy scent of deodorant he used – he smelled like home and she felt surrounded in that warmth, overwhelmed as she closed her eyes. She was afraid if she looked, if she saw his face, it would morph into something else. This rescue had played out so many times in her mind that she was convinced this was all in her head.

"Stay with me," Sev murmured, his fingers gently touching her cheek.

Instead of answering verbally, Elle nodded and then lifted her hand up, weakly covering his. The happiness that she'd never thought she'd feel again had started to return. Sev’s hands gently gripped her shoulders, lifting her up to a sitting position. She felt dizziness slam into her like a wave against a brick wall. Archer and whoever was helping him had been sedating her round the clock. "I…" the words caught in her throat, "I love you." She rested her head onto his shoulder, her face burying itself against his neck. "Wanna go home." Her voice was barely a whisper as tears came to her eyes, so relieved to know that she was getting her wish.

"Я не могу без тебя жить." His voice broke on the confession, all those emotions he’d been stuffing down for weeks welling up into his throat. He wrapped his arms around her, hugging her close and he could tell that she had lost weight, could feel every bump in her spine as he ran his gloved hand down her back. "Can you walk?" He murmured the words against her head, pressing his lips to her dirty hair, not caring in the least. "If not, I will carry you."

"I don't think so." She hugged onto him, not wanting to ever let go. "I don't remember when I walked last." The more she talked, the more she realised how dry her mouth was. She also couldn't remember the last time she'd drank any water. "Water?" She managed to say as she held onto her husband.

He said a silent prayer and made a mental note to thank his surrogate sister later for insisting he wear the cargo pants, filling the pockets with silly things like a tiny pack of baby wipes and one of those chubby bottles of juice meant for a toddler. This he pulled out and cracked the seal on. "Apple juice," he murmured, pressing it into her hand, "Sam thought you may need the sugar."

Elle took the juice and practically guzzled the contents down. When she was done drinking, she managed to pop the cap back on the bottle. "Is our mouse okay?" The few times she'd been sober, Sev and their baby girl had immediately entered the forefront of her brain. She’d missed them terribly and had been convinced she wouldn't see them again. Even now, feeling groggy and woozy, this reunion felt more like a dream and she couldn’t help but try and poke holes in it, to test how deep this rabbit hole was going to go this time.

"She misses you," he wasn’t sure if that was true, given that their daughter was still too young to form those connections but it felt like the right thing to say. Taking the empty bottle from her hand, he slipped it back into his pocket and sat back on his heels.

She could taste the juice, sickeningly sweet and the fog lifted just a little. Maybe this was actually happening. Maybe her knight in shining armour had actually come–

"I am not that," he said, shaking his head, making her realise she’d just said that aloud. "I am no hero."

The way he said it carried a strange weight, a heaviness she didn’t quite understand but she didn’t have the right words to question it. "My…" she tried to make her thoughts coherent, trying to focus on the man who sat in front of her, with the black paint smeared around his eyes the way it usually was after one of his matches. "Archer. He’s–"

"Shhh," Sev admonished. "He will not bother us again." Gently, he lifted his hands to her face, cupping her cheeks so he could look into her eyes. They were glassy and red-rimmed but she seemed lucid enough. "I need you to trust me more than you ever have before. Can you do this?"

She nodded. "I’ve always trusted you, Sev. Always."

There had been so many consequences, so many things that had happened in the last year that had shaped them both – every choice had driven them deeper and closer together and now all the feelings he’d been trying to deny for the last twenty-four days came spilling free. He clenched his teeth, a muscle jumping in his jaw. The words twisted in his chest like a knife, stealing his breath but he forced himself to continue meeting her gaze, pushing through the negativity to lean in and press his lips gently to hers. It was more a promise than a reunion, the barest touch as though he was afraid of hurting her. He rested his forehead against hers, sighing.

"We need to go, my love. Now."

LJ nodded again, and he lifted her to her feet before quickly sweeping her into his arms. She was light as a feather and her head lolled against his shoulder, the movement having made her light-headed. He muttered something under his breath that was lost to the buzzing in her ears even as her fingers grasped at the thin material of the jacket he had on, clinging for dear life. Her eyes squeezed shut as she felt them move, her husband’s quick steps carrying them from her prison for the last twenty-four days. She could feel herself on the verge of passing out, the vertigo of being airborne in an instant too much for her weakened state and her last thought became a mantra, a silent plea to the universe.

Please don’t be a dream. Don’t be a dream. Don’t–


Dreams come true, if only you believe. Such a trite sentiment, no? But here we are, headed back to Japan for another EPIC night of MONDAY NIGHT MECCA. Max Stone believes that the Mecca are everywhere. Conspiracy theories spewed from beneath a tin foil hat for $10 a pop. Ironic, I suppose. I had no designs on this battle royale. I was content to sit back and watch, wait for MY challenger to be decided later in the evening. That was until you felt the need to spew your vitriol in my direction. Now?

I am not inclined to be as forgiving.

This too shall pass – funny how I continue to be prophetic, isn’t it?

It would seem that the changing of the tides has come, and now we have a FRAUD taking to the airwaves, bitching and moaning like a child about how his CHAMPIONSHIP REIGN has been overshadowed by the RISE and DEMISE of THE MECCA. Boo hoo. Poor baby. He goes on to act as though this battle royal to find a new contender is just another machination, smoke and mirrors as if some giant production is necessary to disguise this nefarious plot. Who exactly are they trying to fool? Certainly not you. Oh no. You are so clever.

MAX STONE, BOY GENIUS.

The cranky child wants everyone to know how slighted he feels, despite how the company held that belt for him without forcing a VACATE, allowing what was purported to be BROKEN to have time to MEND. This attitude sickens me. 

I see you now, Max Stone. Ungrateful, miserable, jealous. One foot is already out the door so nothing I say will truly penetrate that thick skull of yours. My name was in your mouth, so I feel I have a right for a little rebuttal.

“I WANTED TO FIGHT ENIGMA.”

All you had to do was ask. I have never turned down a challenge – funny how I have been asking for WEEKS NOW for a better calibre of opponent and you were nowhere to be seen. A fart in the wind. Thoughts and prayers, right? Never an ounce of action because you’ve already made up your mind after taking so much time to craft this perfect little narrative. You’re just going through the motions now. Leave the belt in the locker room. Walk out the door and ride off into the sunset on your high horse of utter nonsense.

SAVE YOURSELF FROM THE RECKONING.

You lumped me in with the rest of these insane ramblings. You claim my championship was a gimmie, gift-wrapped and handed over without an ounce of effort on my part, as if this was necessary to entice me to stay? I had already made the choice to come here and the Mecca had nothing to do with that decision. The level of competition did.

I signed my contract before I ever set foot in an IIW ring. 

You took it further though, spitting on my accomplishments, acting as though I hadn’t run roughshod over those “outsiders” in the tournament and half of your precious Mayhem roster afterwards. 

I AM NOT AMUSED.

You want to keep to a tiny pond, an insular little circle? You would keep the doors locked, keep the waters still so that the company stagnates? Why? So that you can be the king on top of a pile of ashes, second only to the man who spreads himself thin as butter yet somehow is still considered the cream of the crop?

Ah, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

I know I should let this slide. I should be content with the knowledge that I am having the best year of my career, that my DUAL CHAMPIONSHIPS mean more than your Cracker Jack prize of the UK Title. Do you want to know why nobody cares about your reign, Stone? It has nothing to do with The Mecca. It has even less to do with me and what I have been doing with MY LEGACY.

Nobody cares because YOU DON’T. You have made that abundantly clear. Are you going to argue that point? You made it an afterthought the moment you stopped caring about the continued growth of IIW, well before you decided to toss the toys from the pram and have a meltdown about how nobody loves you anymore. Oh, but you’ll tell me I am a fossil, that my loyalty has been bought and paid for with MECCA money. You’ll tell yourself that it’s our fault that the spotlight shifted, that you fell from grace and you will bank those fires of pettiness all the way out the door.