Promethean Progress

His hand trailed along the cinder-block wall, wet hand prints left every few feet as his unsteady gait forced him to stumble and reset, put more pressure on his palm. He hadn't let the medics touch him, or rather; they took one look at his expression and thought better of it. He stormed through the backstage area, vision clouded with sweat and tears. The door to the locker room stood before him, and he slammed it open with enough force for the doorknob to punch through the wall behind it. He made it three steps into the room before his knees came unhinged and he crumpled to the floor.

Hannah had been pacing, on high alert since his match had ended. She'd seen the way he could barely make it to his feet. She'd seen him bent over, winded and pale like some rookie who was about to toss his cookies after a hard workout. "Lex?"

"…m'alright," he muttered, relinquishing hold on the championship belt. It clattered to the floor and for a moment he stared at it, confusion over where it had come from written all over his face. He felt that spasm crawl up his back, muscles cramping and he felt his stomach clench in response to the pain sizzling through his nerve endings.

"Sit up," Hannah murmured, on her knees beside the title belt, helping him take the pressure off the nerve even though his initial reaction was always to curl up in a ball. "Here, honey. Here." She put a cloudy bottle of water in his hand and he tilted his head back slowly, taking a long drink – it tasted vaguely of mint. She'd dosed it as though he was a child, trying to trick him into taking what the doctor had prescribed after he'd refused the goddamned opioids they'd tried to push on him. The last thing he needed was another addiction he couldn't shake. Another couple swallows and he felt the tingle, that sort of disconnect that felt like it radiated from the back of his head – she'd given him the one that had THC in it too and he felt shame wash over him even as the pain retreated to a dull roar.

Without saying anything, Hannah rested her head against his shoulder, her hand still bracing against his chest, over his heart. He knew she could feel it racing, could feel that cold, sickly sweat on him that wasn't at all the same as the kind hard-earned through exertion.

There were no words she could say in the face of her conflicted feelings. She was proud of him, but seeing him like this in the aftermath was scaring the shit out of her.

He buried his face in her hair, closing his eyes as he tried to remember what it was to just breathe. The silence was deafening after the roar of the crowd out there – he had to say something. "I did it," his voice was almost gone, nothing more than a pained rasp as he forced those three words out. It almost felt like a question even though his inflection was flat.

She exhaled the breath she'd been holding in. "You did." Closing her eyes for a moment, she just held him tight, relieved that he'd made it out in one piece. She felt a prickle of tears but managed to hold them in, her voice level when she whispered fiercely, "I told you. I knew you could. You haven't lost a step, baby."

Sure. He'd pulled that last bit of his guts out, found that bit of liver to feed to the vultures but what happened when the guts stopped growing back? What happened when the tide came rolling back in, ready to drown? Would she still hold him like this, sing his praises even when all the other voices fell silent. "Don't say that," he murmured, desperate to keep her conviction from jinxing them both. "I'm not immortal. I'm not..." 

"You're champion," Hannah replied, her voice soft as her hand lifted to his cheek, surprise to find the warm wetness of tears there. "That's enough, isn't it?" 

Was it, though? He didn't have an answer for that. He still hadn't found that, even after all these years.

somewhere down the road, the line went blurry. 

the colors started to run, got smudged and gray. 

The words appear on the screen, hovering there for a moment, almost flickering before the image fades to black. 

"Who's being punished here?"

There's a rueful chuckle on the heels of that question, the voice of NEW North American Champion Lex Collins coming through loud and clear.

"It's like you've become The Architects' whipping boy, Spartan. Granted, you volunteered as tribute against Smitty for Liberty or Death, but hey. Let's not let facts ruin a rosy tint. So here we go, once more with feeling – round two. I'd talk about patterns, about sure things and the mysteries of the universe if I thought I'd get through your thick skull. The fact that Reenie's got you on a leash as her personal attack dog speaks volumes. It's a story I don't wanna allude to, let alone crack the cover on."

In the pause, a creak is heard, as if Collins is struggling to get comfortable. It sounds like a metal folding chair, like the cheap ones usually found under the ring.

"Things change. I felt like I was trash, like the shit bein' said about me held a little grain of truth – weakest link mentality. Fuck. Don't need some two-toned, two-faced jerk to even tell me that. I live that. I have a monkey on my back. Absolutely. I defeat myself a thousand times over before I even step foot between those ropes because if I get there first, it's already old hat. It doesn't hurt anymore – mentally, physically, whatever – doesn't make any ripple in my pond. You feel me? There's no denying it. Sure, I get pissed off when people say I'm a trash goblin. That ain't ego. It's just that negativity 'cause I work my ass off… week in an' week out. You don't see me on a show? Doesn't mean I'm at home in my mansion in my silk smoking jacket with my feet up. I'm somewhere. I'm still losin' sleep, workin' fingers to the bone for this business; sAINT ZERO never sleeps. "

Another hoarse chuckle fills the void.

"The irony here's that you're not as clever as you think you are. Shit, I'm not either. I should know better than to try an' change my name, try to run from the past. Usedta be called Fearless – was 100% tongue-in-cheek, too. But see, I know I can't change a name an' force them to forget the past any more'n I can blot it from my own head. Believe me, I've tried and while the multiple concussions've dulled a bit, made a few new broken connections, the worst shit always seems to stick. Maybe it's a stain. Maybe it's just that the hardest truths to swallow are the ones that hurt the most. I've tacked on dozens of stupid-as-fuck nicknames but the essence of who I am's always remained unchanged. Always will. I could smile while I sign autographs for the kids an' somebody will still find a way to condemn me for it."

He sighs.

"You wanna know why I aligned myself with a guy who calls himself Nightmare? Why I call a guy who takes no fucks like Smith Jones an ally? I'm sick of all the vultures. All the pricks – all the jabs an' barbs. Sick of goin' out there, breakin' myself on the rocks and not earnin' a fuckin' OUNCE of respect in return. No. I'm not shittin' on the fans. They know where I stand. What we got is good… it's the only reason I'm still here. Feel more of an obligation to them to show up than I do to any of the revolving door assholes in the locker room. Pop off a head. Throw another on. Let them run their mouths in another variation of the same thing I've heard a thousand times over – I can only take so much before I stop checking myself. You feel me? I can only play by the rules for so long 'fore I need to start hunting for the loopholes. For a way out of that box that wants nothin' more than to close me in, shut me down… fuckin' confine me."

He takes a breath, trying to smooth out the vehemence.

"The state of New York's declared a STATE OF EMERGENCY and I gotta come down there, lace up my boots next door for what? To face a guy who couldn't hack it against Smitty? The guy who let Lucy do all the heavy lifting in our tag match? I already avenged that loss against the one worthy of my attention. I know this is gonna ruffle some feathers. I know this might lose me a couple subscribers or followers or whatever on social media – I don't give two shits. I did the same thing you did, Sparty. Threw down a challenge when a champion had an open spot on the dance card. The difference? I made good on it. I proved, without a goddamned SHADOW of a DOUBT that I belong in the same sentence as Smith Jones. I deserve to be considered an equal, to be BOOKED like one."

Again, he pauses, trying to control himself.

"There's a minefield in my head – what else is new? A whole new set of issues now that I got gold around my waist. There's... like... this delicate balance right now, like one of those sideshow acts where the guy is spinning plates. He's got fine crystal stacked on top. It's gonna fall – you know it. It's only a matter of time, of playing the waiting game, right? There's always a crash. Gravity always wins in the end – an absolute. See, I always wince when I hear somethin' break in a restaurant. I flinch. I bet you do, too. That's a shade of empathy. You feel something when you hear that distinctive sound – something breaking.

For me, though, it's a trigger. Breaking glass reminds me of a fall, one that prob'ly shoulda killed me. It didn't. I've just got a whole lot of scars instead. Some days I'm grateful for that. Some days it makes me angry. It makes me question everything, sparks a deep hatred that I use as fuel. I'm here. For what? For why? There needs to be a reason.

I'm on the down-slope to forty. I could've died when I was seventeen – that makes a person think about divine purpose a bit too much in those moments when sleep should come but hasn't. There. Needs. To. Be. A. Goddamned. Reason."

He sucks his teeth for a moment, considering.

"For a long time, I was always there, y'know? In that moment where you hold your breath an' cringe on instinct. Stuff breaks. Always. Records. Bones. Trust. Streaks. Everything. An' the guy who wrote Fight Club wrote that thing about how 'on a long enough timeline, the survival rate for everyone drops to zero' but it really should've been, 'if you give it enough time, something'll break'."

There's a pause, just the sound of the North American champ breathing in and out for a few seconds. His voice is raspier now.

"You could learn from my example if you really wanted to. You won't. Nobody does and I'm fine with that. I like being in the shadows, invisible – they call me boring because I'm not waving my arms 24/7, playing the 'look over here' flailing tube man game most of you do with social media. I'm there, though. I read it all – never think I'm not aware of what's going on. It suits me better there, to watch an' wait… bide my time. They mistake silence for cowardice because in this business, the loudest idiots get everything they want. We're here to upset that status quo. Well, I am, anyhow. Nobody wants to hear about my malfunctions – my damage, right? Well fuck you. I need to get this off my goddamned chest."

He takes a loud slurp of some beverage and now his voice seems less hoarse.

"See, tonight, there's a guy with a headache he's had for weeks, one he just can't shake, sitting here talkin' to anyone who might wanna listen. He's sore. He's tired, feelin' time breathing down his back. He hears the critics tellin' him to give up like he always has, except now the words make it past the filters, past the cheers an' the white noise of adrenaline. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thinks he's on borrowed time. He waits every day for the other shoe to drop. Holds his breath, ready to flinch. Is that cowardice or just being pragmatic?"

There's a disdainful sniff.

"That guy, though? He's a friggin' anachronism. He hates himself when he does this shit but it's a necessity – he hates the sound of his own voice but chose a profession where selling's a big part of it. It didn't used to be, though. It used to be about the fight. About how many times he could just get up when he was knocked down – he was a pro at that from the get-go. He's running hot tonight. Always seems overheated these days like he's been too warm for too long. Running hot – all shades of angry… violent… afraid. No fear, right? Yeah. The litany doesn't save me even though I got that tattooed on the inside of my wrist where I can see it. Fear is the mind-killer. It shuts you down. It triggers instincts that go against logic. I can't function out there when my brain's stuck on replay, reliving all the bullshit like I wanna prepare for the next turn of the circle. It comes around. That was my point. We're all preparing for something. The next hour. The next day. The next big thing. The next fight."

His voice comes out soft, sounding hollow.

"There's no outrage here. I'm not pissed off to be facing you, Sparty. I'm not angry that I'm being punished for my association, for being a threat to the mediocrity in our midst, for DARING to rock the boat with the intention to UPSET it. If that's a crime, then I'm guilty as charged. Chain me to the rocks, then. I've accepted the reality. It's my choice and for once, it makes sense. I know this is my last hurrah. I know the end is near and I'm raging against the dying of that light to my very last breath. I want my time here to count for something. Existence is defined by more'n hash-marks counting days in the hole – wins AND losses. Same thing, aren't they? When you boil it down, yeah? They are. They mark a passage of time. Countin' up. Countin' down, too. When will it end? I don't know."

The pause is pregnant on the heels of that heavy thought. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, that rasp more pronounced, as if he'd been screaming this whole time rather than speaking quietly.

"You do not belong in this ring with me. Not out of some misplaced ego. You don't because I DON'T. This is hell. This is punishment. But whose? Yours? Mine?"

There's a pause before he concludes, that whisper almost harsh.

"Let's leave that up to the storyteller, shall we?"