Steven Cooper sat in his room quietly. He had managed to check the XWF War Games show as it aired, shouting in some frustration at the television several hours ago. He was hoping to see something that would make him smile after a few brutal chemotherapy sessions, but all he caught just ended up making him more sick. He had placed his boots on his desk and was inspecting them carefully. While they were newer, the actual design hadn’t changed much over the years. There was a tingling numbness in his body that reverberated through him even as he just sat still. The sensation drifted his mind away from anything else, demanding his complete focus. He had trusted Stone that this was the right way to go instead of ignoring his cancer further, but the feeling currently suggested the complete opposite. At least before, he just knew he was dying and he didn’t feel like it. He tried to center by thinking of a memory, just something to get his mind off of the pain and fatigue. He thought about a friend he once shared a locker room with, during his days of growing obscurity.

The guy’s name was Adam Alberts, but wrestling is never too kind for the less theatric, so he went by “The Duke” typically. Hell of an athlete, the guy could do all of the flippy shit in the world and still crank the shit out of your neck with a headlock. He was a real locker room leader. The kind of man who spoke on behalf of people he had problem with just because he viewed it as the right thing to do. Unfortunately, he just never got the big break that he deserved, despite his skill. Always seemed to choke when it mattered most. Coop recalled meeting him, years after they had both been shuffled around the smaller wrestling circuits, and seeing “The Duke” try and do all of that same stuff fifteen years later, nearing 50 fast. There was something truly painful about watching this great man struggle to do moves he so effortlessly could do prior. But what truly sat with Steven was watching Adam head to his car after the show and start shaving. A short talk later and he got to hear about this tremendous athlete starving, barely getting by, but keeping up the appearance at the cost of even his own health, just to keep looking good and getting booked. Steven tossed him a few dollars to get something to eat that day, even though he didn’t have much himself. Alberts nearly broke into tears by the gesture. Then, a few years had passed and Alberts didn’t appear too much any more. A year or so later, the man was dead. Coop heard he actually had to pawn off his boots just to keep afloat during the last parts of his career. Hell, he wrestled up until he couldn’t anymore, forced to retire barefoot in the ring. He couldn’t even leave his boots.

HIs boots. Steven Cooper stared at his own, noticing the scuffs from his recent matches with Eobard. What was odd about it all to him, was seeing how each nick, tear, and scratch hadn’t damaged the pattern, but only created a new one. Even a speck of blood had dried and become a part of its tapestry. Steven Cooper looked to the shelf where he kept his memorabilia from the ages long ago. He had no pictures of The Duke, nor did he have any of his old boots. He took a breath, wondering how many pictures of people he wished he had on that shelf. Would he even know with how much he’d been hit in the head over the years? Perhaps even his memory was as fragile as his body felt currently. That’s when the nausea came back, like a spinning in his stomach, curling violently to release what little contents it held. Steven stood up quickly, lightheadedness abruptly overtaking him as he rushed towards the door. Each step was a struggle, holding the urge to vomit as his balance became more and more uncertain. as he finally approached the nearest bathroom in Avalanche HQ. Upon entering, he fell to the floor, The Trooper having to crawl himself closer to the toilet before vomiting, his body forcing out everything momentarily before he made it above the water. Still, he managed to contain most, only small bits splattering onto the tile. Cooper’s body fell over somewhat as he rested his head against the cold porcelain, letting it ease the discomfort he felt somewhat. Each passing second as he sat there in this state made him wonder how long he had before he’d retire. How much time was left to.

Was this their fate? A life of fighting before twilight years of misery and a death no one wept over? Cooper wondered if he had the strength to stand up and, to his shock, he did. He held a hand up to his throat, an uncomfortable taste lingering there and turned to face the mirror. And, also to his surprise, it was still him. Maybe a little thinner and without as obnoxious a tan, but Steven Cooper unmistakably. He felt a buzz in his pocket, using a bit of bathroom tissue to wipe his chin off and felt his phone in his pocket, quickly getting it out. He didn’t have his reading glasses, so it wasn’t entirely clear, but there was only one person he’d imagine calling him at this hour. He fumbled with his phone a tad, finally answering after inspecting it for a few seconds.

“Hello?” Steven asked through a raspy voice.

“How are you holding up?” As Cooper expected, it was Ned Kaye calling, likely disappointed after his War Games showing.[/color]

“Me? I’m just peachy. It’s you I was worried about.”

“Oh, I’m perfect. I wanted to put Robert Main away and that’s exactly what I did.”

Steven’s ears perked, a little unsure what he was referring to.

“I don’t know if I was watching the same match you wrestled in, but I’m pretty sure he narrowly got you pinned.”

“It’s not about the pinning, Coop. It’s about his condition. You didn't see him as closely as I did. He might not feel it tonight or tomorrow, but I did some serious damage on him. It’ll take its toll, slowly. That’s the future he’s earned.”

Steven wasn’t sure how much he agreed, but he figured that was an effective way as any to damage someone. It was certainly what he felt recently.

“So, you think it’ll stick with him for a while?”

“It’s never going away, Cooper. He might not realize it, but there are going to be scars on him for years to come.”

“So, you leapt at the chance to hurt Robert in the long term at the cost of that team? Didn’t you like those fellas?”

There was a reluctant hesitation to Ned’s response.

"They were a cock joke. Fuck ‘em. Besides, I’m Avalanche for life.”

“You and me, too, kid,” Steven replied. There was another pause before Ned spoke again.

“The reason I called you is because you’re facing an old “friend” of mine and you’re not in any condition to wrestle again. I figure I can take him off your ha-”

“No. Cent’s my match.”

There was a hint of anger in Ned’s voice as it escaped the phone.

“I don’t think you’re acting rationally, Cooper. You shouldn’t take that match.”

“Look, I don’t ask questions when you start doin’ your shit, don’t go questioning me when I’m doin’ mine. I’ve got matches left in me and I’ll tell you when I’m done. Not the other way around. Are we clear?”

Ned sighed, clearly unhappy with the declaration.

“Very well. See you at HQ.”

A small jingle played as the call concluded. Steve stood in front of the mirror still, seeing the stain on his shirt that trailed down his chest. Maybe Ned was right. Myybe the smart choice was letting him or Eobard take this match and spending more time recovering. But he didn’t miss a match before because of an upset stomach or some missing boots, nor would he ever ask a duke to sit down. He was never a wrestler for the glory or the nice lifestyle. If he was, he would've traded it for his kids and wife… ex-wife in an instant. He did this because wrestling flowed through his veins and there was no extracting it, with knives or x-rays. He walked back to his room silently, making sure not to wake anyone else in the building. He stepped in front of his desk and picked up those boots, worn from even the few uses they had gotten thus far.

He was going to need them.

---

Steve Sayors stands backstage in front of a large Relentless: Noir poster, a somewhat concerned expression stuck to his face. He exhales before getting a few uncomfortable words to escape him.

“Well, ladies and gentlemen, I was scheduled for an interview with one Steven Cooper today, but it seems his personal health problems have intervened. Please accept my apologies for the incon-”

“Sayors!”

Steve jumps slightly, though not as exaggerated as he typically does, the volume of Steven Cooper’s famous shout less shattering than usual. Steven Cooper walks into frame, his body paler than normal, the weight of his illness plainly visible to everyone.

“M-Mr. Cooper! You-uh… you look like hell!”

Cooper stretches a bit, not missing a beat despite his less than stellar look.

“Oh, please, Sayors! I could say the same to you, but I’ve apparently got a few more manners!”

“This is serious, Mr. Cooper! Are you sure you should continue with this consider your condition? you like half a step away from death!”

Cooper, with an intense calmness, raises his index finger and places it right in front of Sayors’s face. Sayors gulps, frightened by the aura surrounding Cooper as words finally leave the veteran’s lips.

“Last time I checked, a half step from the edge is still solid ground. Besides, did you think I was gonna let two bastards be my last match? Not a chance! Nobody says when The Trooper’s done except for the good lord himself or the XWF executives and I ain’t gotten calls from upstairs! But I’m not here to talk about hanging up any of my boots. There’s a different man you oughta be talkin’ to about that.”

Steve Sayors steps away from Cooper, bringing the microphone back for a moment as he tries to regain composure.

“I-uh-I-”

He gulps.

“I assume you’re referring to your opponent for Saturday Night: The Great Centurion!”

“Psh.”

Cooper shakes his head and rolls his eyes, his energy not too affected all things considered.

“Ain’t nothin’ great about 25 Cents-urion. The man who’s a quarter of himself and spare change for a guy like me. Sure, I won’t act like I’m too big to respect the guy! He deserves acknowledgement for a being an old fart like yours truly with a fairly big track record, but he’s been stinking up the place for too damn long when compared to true trendsetter like The Trooper!”

“Preposterous! Centurion has a storied and historic career! How could you even claim to hold a candle to any of that?”

“Great question, Sayors! Just look around! I walk into this federation and all of a sudden, everyone wants to do the throwback routine! You got Blankenshit and his tennis partners, Terry Boredom, and they even dug up Hunter Ryan! All because they saw me and wanted a piece of that Coop cash! But unlike these sellout samplers, I’m the main course! This has never been an act, this has always been the man I am whether I’m in a bingo hall or a superdome! I am old school as old school gets, unlike Centy here.”

“I can’t believe what I’m hearing! are you really trying to contest the validity of Centurion’s legacy, even as a fellow older star?”

“Let’s make something clear: Centurion’s aged, but the man ain’t grown old! Sure, he wakes up a few mornings with a sore hip, but he ain’t ever watched as folk forgot about him! He never had to pick up the telephone one morning to call his agent only to be sent to voicemail! He hasn’t had to look in the mirror and wonder if today is the day that he gets knocked out in that ring and doesn’t wake up! No, sir! Centurion is the golden child, even in his later career. He gets to have the champagne and parties! He holds the reunion shows with his little buddies from back in the day! He gets to wake up in a penthouse next to his fourteen year old spandex wearin’ girlfriend and feel like a regular Leonardo Di’Caprio! I can’t stand it when he tries to pretend he knows a goddamn thing about bein’ old when he’s got to play around like he’s 26 for the past two decades! First thing he said to me in this company was “I thought you were dead.” Are those the words of a man who felt the wear and tear on his body or the snarky comments of some man trying to act like a boy?”

“I’m sure he didn’t mean to offend, Mr. Cooper.”

“Well, I’m not so certain! Do you see how Centurion holds himself? Do you watch this guy’s entrance, let alone listen to a promo? He’s supposed to be a “good guy,” but all he ends up ever doing is being a condescending prick! You’d believe Cent lived on Mount freakin’ Everest with how he talks down to people! For him the golden years just never slowed down and he gets to live with his pyrite pool parties while some of the men and women I know have been forced to retire and work shitty jobs for a little over seven an hour? Do you know how many people I have watched die- die, Sayors, because this is all they had to make money and they had to keep going long past their quittin’ points?! And where is “The Great Centurion” during all this? He’s at home in his big bed fuckin’ a superhero! This man isn’t losing sleep over none of these other wrestlers because he got his and that’s all he’s concerned with. And then he pretends like he cares about young talent that he doesn’t sleep with, as if Ned and I don’t talk! Where was Centurion when that boy was feeling turmoil?! He called strangers, Centurion, because he couldn’t count on a “friend” like you! You didn’t even pick up the phone for a teammate, how could you for one of these veterans stuck working past their prime just to get a place to stay for the night?”

“You can’t expect Centurion to give out money to every wrestler in need!”

“Don’t you think I know that, Sayors? My problem isn’t that he doesn’t give a blank check to everyone struggling, it’s that only gives out that kind of support to his ex-wife! Do you know how many times I took it upon myself to give a little even when I barely had a penny to my name? Do you know how many nights I didn’t eat so someone else could? The fact is that I don’t know, because it was never about keeping track and feeling good! It’s because when you do this, when you become one of the boys, you take a certain amount of responsibility and respect towards those you share that ring with and you ain’t never gonna find a hint of that in Centurion unless he shared a stable with you! Cancer be damned, I am a teacher at heart and I’ll teach this old dog new tricks! It'll be tbe time honored tradition of showing how much some fellas have left to learn!”

“Are you really going to be able to do anything traditional in a match this… unorthodox?”

“Absolutely! SIlly name and weapons aside, this is an old fashioned last man standing, Sayors! And I never had the luxury of designer pillows or soft-silk cotton shirts! I never lived easy like him, so getting up after life smacks you down is something I am well, well accustomed to! He can have the praise of all these fans while he sits back with the blood of wrestlers on his manicured hands! I ain’t walking in there for them! I’m gonna be smackin’ this son of a bitch for every “nobody” that he thought was dead! I’m gonna give him a Nashville flavored can of whoopass for every wrestler who wasn’t as lucky as us to make it this far! But mostly, I’m gonna do it because it’s been a long time overdue that someone smashed ol’ Cent back to planet Earth and nobody is better suited than The Trooper!”

Steven Cooper storms off, leaving Sayors alone once more.

“Bold claims from the veteran Cooper, but will he be able to back them up in the ring? This is Steve Sayors, signing off for the XWF!”

No matter when or where you've seen
All the knives seem to lacerate your brain
I've had my share, I'll help you with the pain
You're not alone