AMERICAN REVOLUTION (Part One, Hamiltonian Tenacity)

"He reminds me too much of someone," her husband's words were still echoing in her mind, the last thing he'd said before he'd left for Birmingham, breaking his promise to their daughter. "I have to make an appearance. It's expected." She hadn't really understood what he'd meant and she'd spent an hour trying to find the stream of the show online. Until he'd said that, she was content in her ignorance. The less she knew, she found, the less sleep she lost worrying about him. That statement, though, it had struck a chord and she hadn't been able to let it go. After seeing the man, she understood what he'd been trying to say, even if he hadn't really had the right words for it. Now it made sense and if he hadn't managed to connect the dots on that memory yet, she certainly had.

America Jackson reminded her of Matt Ford in the worst possible way. Both were egotistical blowhards that seemed in love with the sound of their own voices. She remembered quite vividly how hard Lex had spiralled after he'd crashed into the glass ceiling in FTW, how bad it had been after he'd lost to Ford – he'd felt like his only recourse was to leave the company altogether and she hated to think that something similar was going to happen after World War Wrestling. She knew how much he regretted walking away, how much he'd agonized over the decision to give up the North American Championship.

She'd heard him come in, had been up all night, listening for his car in the drive for hours since she'd gotten the notification that his flight home was on time and when he hadn't come upstairs, she'd started to worry. Now, as the sun started to creep over the horizon, she stood at the head of the basement stairs with a pile of folded blankets in her arms, thinking if he'd gone back to 2013 mentally, he might need the blanket fort. She heard muffled crowd noise and could only assume he was obsessing over things he'd done wrong in the battle royal match. When she descended a little further and saw the image of her husband and Andrew Barnes holding the ring up on that projection screen, she wasn't sure what to think.

"Hey," her voice was slightly unsteady as she called out from the foot of the stairs. The noise cut off, the screen going dark as he turned his head to look at her. For a moment, she saw shades of that whipped boy that she'd fallen in love with when she was fifteen – maybe it was nothing more than a trick of the low light and her own overactive imagination. There was a crease in his brow as he narrowed his bloodshot eyes and she wondered if he'd even slept at all while he'd been gone. If he hadn't, he'd been up for at least thirty-six hours straight but she knew better than to lecture him on that front. Sometimes, she knew, he had trouble shutting down.

"Hey, sorry. Didn't mean to wake you." He tossed the remote down on the coffee table and moved to his feet, wincing as his ankles and knees popped.

"You didn't." She didn't have to force her smile as he moved out of the shadows, a level of lucidity in his gaze that made it clear he wasn't lost somewhere in the depths of that head of his. "I just wanted…" she trailed off helplessly, looking down at the bundle of sheets in her arms. "I thought maybe you'd need-"

"Yeah." He shook his head with a bitter chuckle, "I can see that."

Hannah bit her lip, almost bracing as though she expected him to lay into her for assuming the worst. Instead, he leaned against the arm of the couch, stifling a yawn. All of a sudden, he felt the undertow of exhaustion, as if some spell had been broken with her arrival – now it was all he could do to even keep his eyes open, let alone try and focus on whatever had motivated her to come down with the fixings for a blanket fort. He hadn't even realized they still had those sheets. He hadn't seen them since he'd tried to outright murder Angel Kash after losing to Matt Ford back in 2013 and a part of him had actually thought she might have burned them in effigy when he'd walked out on her. Seeing the threadbare flannel now left a sour taste in his mouth that he wasn't quite sure about – was it a premonition or a memory?

"Lex?"

He wasn't sure how long he'd been staring at her or what expression had been on his face for the majority of it but by the look in her eyes, it hadn't been good either way. With effort, he forced the whole subject from his mind and took a few steps towards her, surprised when his legs supported him. "She's pissed off, isn't she?"

Blinking, Hannah seemed puzzled for a moment before she realized what he was asking about: their oldest daughter, Allegra and the broken promise he'd made only weeks ago. It felt infinitely longer – this entire year felt like at least five and there were still three full months left to go. Seeing him now, she was convinced his desire to return to the ring had been a whim, one that he was going to regret the moment that mantle of responsibility dropped back down on his shoulders. If he won, if he managed to best America Jackson in the midst of a pretty impressive run, she knew what was going to happen next. The pressure would mount. He'd be expected to make more appearances, to continue breaking that promise to Allegra as he was forced to get back on the road.

"Without the Architects-"

"You think she'll-"

They both started talking at the same time, their minds in completely different places. Lex broke off with a sheepish laugh, lifting one hand to rub the back of his neck as he broke eye contact. He'd heard what she started to say and the fact that she had her doubts about him being able to hack it alone in APW hurt more than he cared to dwell on, let alone articulate.

"Lumberjack Match… with the Troops. That favors him – I know that, Han. I know I've got no friends in that locker room this time. You think I don't-"

"I didn't mean it like that." She turned away from him, setting down the old linens on the table. "I don't want to fight over this. That's-"

"So don't."

The way he said it sounded like he'd already let all the poison back in, was already feeling it warping and twisting all the good things and she hated that thought so much. He deserved better. He deserved to be challenging for the World Championship. He should have more than earned the respect of everyone in that locker room a thousand times over but she knew he'd never see it. She knew he'd never get the cakewalk that so many others seemed to have.

"I need you to…" Lex sighed, shaking his head as the words got lost in the soup of exhaustion.

"What? Tell me. I'll do whatever."

He wasn't sure he was going to make it; wasn't even sure this had been a rational or even marginally sane choice to return to the ring. He just hadn't been able to say no when he'd been directly invited back. It was the first time that had happened and it wasn't as though he was habitually burning bridges in his wake or anything. He'd just never been one of those CORE PLAYERS that bookers saw as a foundation. He was loyal. He had a great following of fans that he could bring to the table – a guarantee of fresh eyes on the product. He showed up early, helped set up the ring. He put in the work without complaint, mostly.

Talk less. Smile more. Don't let them know what you're against or what you're for.

"Fuck golden boy Smitty... fuck this shit I'll never live up to. Never needed an entourage to get shit done in the past. They took my words, those damned Rise Against lyrics – Smitty got it all twisted up an' we landed so goddamn far away from where I wanted to. Where I'd intended. Wasn't about a damned revolution, Han. Never was any of that."

If you stand for nothing, what'll you fall for?

"Wanted to fix the foundation, all those eroded tenets. Had to walk away. Clean break. Reset, y'know?"

Hannah nodded. She knew he could clean house, knew he could lead a revolution on his own. Closing the gap between them, Lex pulled his wife into his arms, kissing the top of her head as he held her close and she let herself relax for the moment, comforted in the fact that he'd come home to her intact, this time.

He broke the silence with a hoarse whisper, his voice full of conviction, "I'm gonna plant MY flag at the top of the summit, Han. I am not throwin' away my shot."


"Mistakes were made..."

There's that rough, self-deprecating chuckle on cue and rather than being treated to darkness, the view resolves to show Lex Collins in glorious Technicolor. His beard may be a touch more silver than the last time he appeared on this channel but other than that, he looks the same. A wan smile graces his lips as he shakes his head.

"God, that sounds so impersonal, doesn't it? 'Mistakes were made,' like there's a startling lack of ownership, like there's some smug asshole high above it all, laying down a critique – they were MY mistakes, though. I've got no trouble owning my part in the whole mess. That's the trouble, though, isn't it? So many in this business don't. Never do. They point fingers. They do this elaborate dance, this shuck an' jive sidestep that's more suited to some TikTok challenge. Heaven forbid they take ownership for being the worst. Oh, but you can tell them a mile off. They're the ones who vanish the moment someone sees through the act. They smile, shake hands and politick with a nice little attaboy while they're scoutin' the nearest exit. Funny how that goes, isn't it? Exit stage left – just like that-" he snaps his fingers.

"Storm's blown over. Bye, Felicia."

He rolls his eyes, tone still carefully neutral.

"The streak remains intact, undermining the claim to fame. Still never won a battle royal. Been runner-up three times. Three huge matches, three huge opportunities. Until I saw Zaigon's name, thought I was the only one from FTW still competing, let alone ALIVE."

Sigh.

"Ego's useless here. See, Pinocchio became a real boy, trading immortality to be finite – what a head trip. Can't rationalize any of this. I can just hope my daughter understands, will forgive me for chasing this dream with Hamiltonian tenacity. I earned it, after all: the opportunity to right that wrong and do it the RIGHT WAY this time. On my terms. Never wanted to be a REVOLUTIONARY."

Those dark eyes hold so much, speak volumes. They blink, unflinching and he refuses to break eye contact.

"America wants me to write my own eulogy, braid my own noose with bombastic rhetoric. Hand him the means to my end like I don't have at least ten years' experience unseating would-be KINGS. Age brings wisdom. Experience says I'll get the job done. Falls on me, the orphaned son – survivor – outlasting's what I've always done."

Another raw chuckle.

"I know you, Ozymandias. No despair's found here. Just disdain. Just resilience. RESOLVE."

A beat.

"Hell yeah, time for the mighty to fall."