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A Spark in a Storm Cloud - Ned Kaye - 06-01-2024 A Spark in a Stormcloud Droplets of rain stuck to the window of Ned’s cramped apartment, refracting the dreary skyline as its image cascaded through each drop. He looked down the TV tray before him, gripping the lid of a ramen cup and tearing it off completely, noticing the condensation fixed to its underside as steam bellowed from the container. The broth was a deep crimson. The images crept into his head. Isaiah’s hand on the knife. His inability to stop King from nearly killing a man. And looming over it all was Isaiah’s father, gleeful at the chance to watch Crucible’s hands stain with blood. Twirling a fork in his fingers, Ned slowly began to slurp the soup, looking to a shelf at his side while he ate. A few replica belts of the titles he had managed to win the XWF, sitting aside his Tag Team Championship. But sitting in front of it was a picture, framed with the glare of the lightbulb above him obscuring its contents. Reaching over, Ned stared at the image, smiling with a bittersweet nostalgia. His winning War Games team, himself, Mark, Isaiah, Crash, Erwin, and… He placed the picture back, content to allow the glare to hide its image. He had barely spoken to Mark in months. For all their attempts to help Isaiah go down a greater path, they had only succeeded in enabling his worst impulses and preparing him as a tool in the game of a manipulator. Building a weapon for the hands of his father. When Ned closed his eyes, he could still feel the stains burn into his skin, hot on his palms. Like a sin that branded you as you committed it. He looked into the cup, seeing his reflection in the brother, muted but focused upon him. He picked up the largely unfinished ramen cup, draining it before tossing it in the trash. His appetite had subsided. His gaze shifted towards the door, noticing a fancy envelope crammed underneath it. The red, velvety texture of the paper softly brushed his fingertips as he held it, unsealing the letter and looking at its contents. An invitation to Orun. From the man who loomed over him and Isaiah. From Senior. The plastic wheels of Ned’s suitcase hissed as they dragged along the airport’s flooring. Just the brief glimpses of Orun were meant to be majestic. Carefully selected scenes of the skyscrapers and the Great Tree overlooking all. There was an insistence on futurism, a sort of glazed over smile on the faces of those Ned passed. And, of course, every little place he looked, a small camera lens recording the people underneath. He’d occasionally stare at one for long enough to find that it lost all the detached disassociation of a mere machine. All they became were more eyes for the man who beckoned Ned here. As he stepped out, he was surrounded by the flora attached to each lumbering mass of metal, his attention only briefly on those traversing using the trees themselves and some… other means. Then his gaze turned downwards, to those stuck traversing beneath the immaculate image of a utopia, held in place by a man with hands that spilt more blood than Ned could if he had a dozen lifetimes to reconsider. His nails dug into his palm. Despite nature being stapled to the sides of Orun’s buildings, it felt as equally constrained as the most congested parts of New York. The city he loved, that he and Isaiah called home, was days away now. For the first time in a long time, Ned felt alone. “Beautiful sight, ain’t it?” The King of Orun stood next to Ned, admiring the view with a surprisingly soft few words. His presence was undeniable, the gold adorning his outfit adding a fitting nobility to his each subtle movement. Lesser men had been caught in its sheer gravity. For all of The King’s disapproval of Ned, he was not a lesser man. “Why am I here?” Ned’s voice was more sharp than usual. He had no love for the man standing next to him, who had so rapidly discarded the idea of morality on its merits in the face of power’s seeming divinity. His eyes only turned to The King’s after hearing him stifle a hearty laugh. “Sounds like a question for your own damn self,” He answered, twisting around and motioning for Kaye to follow him with a raised hand. It was only a few paces until his walk was once again interrupted by Ned, feet still as he stared down Senior. “You tell me why you invited me here or I leave now.” The King half-snorted, almost amused by the small “outburst” by his guest. His red eyes, glowing like embers around empty pits, trained on Ned, his footsteps carrying with the weight of the throne associated with him until he stood face to face with Ned. “You bring greatness out of my son, Ned. Might roll my eyes at the method, swear to God you don’t have the balls to follow through or hunker down, but you get results. In another life, you’re the kind of man I’d have by his side until death. So, take the compliment, enjoy Orun, and be my guest.” Ned stayed silent, his disapproval spoken through the air between them. The King grit his teeth slightly. “Jackass. Stupid kid. When are you going to get that this is what he’s being molded for? That this is what Adeyemi is meant to be? This is more than just his home, kid, this is his birthright! It’s what he needs.” “If that’s so,” Ned spoke as he walked forward, past the mighty King, “then where was it until now?” It didn’t take long for Ned to find his room, without the personal help of the royal family, of course. Revelry. A term of abundance. Of raucous feasts and glorious indulgence. Of Gods. The light trickled in through the windows of Orun’s throne room, draping across Isaiah’s face, scars that existed purely in the presence of shadow. He came here every morning to gaze at the seat he strived to fill. The one he’d yet to earn. A stifled air haunted the palace, its spirit overseeing Isaiah. As if every eye in Orun was waiting for him to falter. To fall to the wayside and feast like buzzards on the carcass. Scavenging was the language of weak predators. And the Prince of Orun did not speak in a cowardly tongue. A servant came up, informing Isaiah of the welcoming dinner for their guest of honor. He gave a nod, placing a hand on the throne, feeling the chilled metal cool his fingers, leaving a dissipating mark once his touch retreated. Now was not a time to covet, but to lead. The dining table had been set and filled with a plethora of fine cuisine as Isaiah entered the room. His father sat at the end of the table, his watchful gaze inspecting the food for any imperfections. He gave his son a smile, pleased by his punctuality. It was hard for Isaiah to see too far into the mind of his elder. Even with a bare face, he kept so much behind a mask. A careful collection of traits and behaviors all strategically chosen, but occasionally revealed a portrait of the man beneath them. What that portrait even meant was anyone’s damn guess. His head shot to the side as Ned walked into the room, escorted by one of today’s waitstaff. A greeting feast wasn’t a common occurrence in Orun, but there were figures who had earned it. Why Ned Kaye of all people was determined to be on that list was anyone’s guess. A few glasses of wine were poured and distributed across the table. Ned, despite his goody-two-shoes behavior seemed to carry a different energy when in the presence of Isaiah’s father. It was that killer’s instinct. That undying devotion to conviction. “I’ll pass, thank you,” Ned politely informed the butler placing the wine next to his plate, giving The King a moment of pause. “Do you really think me coward enough to slip some poison in your glass?” His question shot off with a slight chuckle at Ned’s presumed caution. “I don’t drink. Alcohol and I don’t… get along well,” Ned answered, keeping his tone careful. “Ah, well, we still have quite the selection for you,” He gestured across the table displaying the menagerie of dishes, “feel free to enjoy those to your heart’s content.”[/red][/font] “Unless you’re too used to eating that cup shit to enjoy real food,” Isaiah quipped, getting a mouthful of soup. The three men filled their plates, the uneasy air between them feeling tenser by the moment. Ned looked down to the soup in front of him, his reflection in the broth. “So, do you greet everyone like this or is the occasion special?” Ned asked, still uneasy about The King’s intentions. “My son has to learn how to rule conclusively. Decisively. And in your wrestling company, you two reign together. If he’s going to be living here, then it’s in my interest to make accommodations.” “So, you want me here only to push Isaiah forward. Did you ask him?” Ned questioned. “Does that sound to you like ruling decisively?” The King answered with an inquiry of his own before adding, “I don’t have to like you to respect you. I see you hesitate and let vermin live and you’re still the kind of man that’s pushed my son this far. So, yes, I think you deserve the courtesy. And the guidance, frankly.” Ned slowly ate at a steak, placing a small portion in his mouth before responding, “I’m not interested. My father gave me just about all he could before he died.”[/color][/font] “And what did that leave you with? A kingdom? A throne?” “A childhood.” Ned answered. The King leaned over, almost intimidatingly after Ned’s words left him. Everything was still for a few long moments before the king snapped his fingers. “The chef,” he ordered. The chef was dragged before them. The King lifted the steak off Ned’s plate, crushing it in his hands and letting the juices flow down his arm. “You see this slop you give my guests? Well done? You kill that animal twice and serve it to me?” The pleading of the chef filled the dining hall. “Let’s get out of here,” Isaiah said to Ned, somewhat directing him out as they saw The King’s boot crush the hand of the chef for such a profane display. Tough, but fair he repeated, in a tone that felt like a mockery of justice to Ned. Tough, but fair. Walking on the streets of Orun was a solemn experience. Where most merely used the technology of the country to easily transport, the old methods seem reserved for the unable and unwilling. It seemed that The prince couldn’t walk more than a few paces without catching a few glares. Some of inspiration and respect and others of disdain. A resentment for blood’s sake. The two traveled carefully, feeling the wind swirl around them as the glowing neon blues glittered across their skin. “So, they’re opposed to your father being able to rule with an iron fist?” Ned asked. He and Isaiah hadn’t spoken much about the internal politics of Orun for a myriad of reasons, but he could at least make an attempt to understand the intricacies at play. “That’s one way of putting it. They think us weak, Ned. Pushovers when a stronger bloodline would hold this place together better than we can,” He answered as he accepted a small gift from a denizen passing by. An intricate bracelet, fashioned in the crest of his family, made by someone he’d never met, a young girl. He saw generosity and comfort in her eyes. But it was Ned who saw the desperation in approval. The fear in its antithesis. “So, they only think ruling with an iron fist is a bad thing when other people are doing it? Some rebellion,” Ned quipped, frowning a bit as he saw the young lady scurry off, retreating from the second most powerful man by law here. Isaiah's lip contorted, the regal wear adorning his shoulders glimmering in the light afforded to them, “Why do you have to make everything some big fuckin' charity case? We make tough decisions and you can’t handle it! We secure power so the irresponsible don’t come here and do all the real nasty shit and all you can do is sit back and complain!” “Yeah, I do!” Ned spat back, becoming impatient with Isaiah’s increasing comfort this worship afforded him, “Somebody has to voice some disapproval considering no one else can!” “That’s how we get peace, Ned! People are happy, living their fullest lives, but you just gotta have it your way or it's some tyranny all of a damn sudden!” Isaiah stood in Ned’s path, staring Kaye down with the same intensity that his father showed prior in the day. Ned exhaled, the huff of heated air almost burning his mouth as it traveled past his lips, “So, this is fine with you? All of this is just hunky dory because there are no complaints, even though nobody’s allowed to complain?!” “You always fall back on that hero shit, Ned,” Isaiah’s words stabbed back at Ned, “You say fuck it and let the bad men make the decisions because for you, good is being too chickenshit to step in!” “God forbid I show a little patience! That I don’t just throw myself into every situation like a hammer trying to smash everything beneath me! A man is on death’s door because I chose to follow beside you and he’s only alive because I stepped in the way when it counted! You know, for all you gain in haste, you lose in sleep! But that doesn’t matter, as long as there’s some kingdom to listen to you unconditionally, huh?” “Why do you keep acting like I wanna be worshiped, motherfucker?!” Isaiah’s voice boomed off the walls, like thunder reverberating amongst the trees. “Maybe because you decided to start preparing for the Revelry by indulging in every little damn treat you can find! Because you’d rather spit bars on the radio than grab back the most important prize in this sport! You gallivant here and talk about how it’s home, but what would Ezekiel think of Orun?” “How fucking dare you say that man’s name?” Isaiah clutched Ned by the collar of his shirt staring into his eyes hatefully. This man- this Ned Kaye who placed all of this shit in his head. None of that made Isaiah who he was? It was this. It was this path that brought him to the top… Wasn’t it? Ned needn’t speak a word. Through all this, Isaiah hadn’t taken a moment to truly mourn his friend. To miss a man he loved like a brother. To think what he would have wanted for Isaiah. Not as a prince, but a man. He released Ned and continued onward. Kaye’s footsteps did not follow him as he disappeared into his new home. Finally mourning an old friend. There's a deep seated hatred I have. It burns deep within me, making my skin crawl and my stomach churn. It's the feeling I get as I gaze upon the masses, living blissfully in delusion of their station. It's the feeling I get as I watch those with dopey smiles on their faces and hearts never broken. It's the feeling I get as I see the foolish stumble into glory. I hate the unprepared. I hate those who can't see what they have right on their doorstep. I hate those who expect to be handed glory… and actually get it. Razor and LaToya, I hate you. I hate that you stand at the cusp of glory after having faced defeat. I hate that you stand as our challengers when you've proven yourself to nobody, not your fans, not your employers, not your parents… not yourselves. I hate that you are rewarded for lackluster failure when. I hate you. I hate the way you walk, I hate the way you talk, I hate the way you pretend like you've earned your place at the top. I mean, don't get me wrong. I love your passion, I love your energy, I love that you seek to bring more eyes to the ring. But my dear friends, put some work in before you demand and… Get awarded, a shot at the tag champs. Sit and bleed before you try and stand in limelight you didn't deserve. Razor. LaToya. You both have a world of work to put in before either of you can dance this jig for gold. Ned and I, we know we're uncontested. We know there are the whispers of new tags in the mix… But none who seem keen to face a new challenge. The Blacks, for all their bravado and sense of superiority, would rather play house with the Bastards than come for gold. Pantheon would rather revel in momentary pops that out the work in, in the XWF. Where's the League? Where's Waters and Duke? Where are the people who claim to be… PEOPLE? We had a little resurgence only to have it die down. We filled the twitterverse, only to have to calm down. You're going to stick us with a walking shit show and the American Dream and expect to sell tickets? Cmon Theo, maybe it's time I stuck a boot in your ass? Maybe then you'd summon your kings and give us a challenge worth sweating for. You're sweet, really… But I think it's time we brought some drama to these championships. So how about any of you with more than a pair of balls between the two… show yourself on Sunday? Why not you stick your necks in the ring during our match? Why not risk getting guillotined, elbowed, sent to oblivion? And show Ned and I that there is a division worth purifying? One full of impurities worth putting through the furnace? A speck of gold worth purifying in our crucible? Because right now, it just feels like these titles are worth nothing… Like this division is being whored out to fill a card… Like there's a clown running the show. We are Crucible, and we need some real heat to make us grow, not the lukewarm bullshit you're throwing at us. America will only mourn the death of its dream this Sunday, and in its wake, I pray there will be another to walk. “What does it mean to stand for something? For an idea?” “For a country?” “I ask, Razor, because it is one of the only things you truly claim to do. You slap the word American next to your name like you’re running for an election each time you open your mouth. And, of course, you always make sure to add something like how Latoya and you were going to best the Bastards at Star Warfare. How you were going to tear through them and then beat the holly hell out of Isaiah and I. Well? How’d that go for you?” “See, unlike my partner, I don’t hate you. I think you seem a decent fellow, but your words lack impact. Weight. Meaning. Sharp name, dull speeches. All flat, no points.  You come out here running down a list of words you think people want to hear like your country and heritage puts you on a winning team. And it’s easy to get mad at you, to see the way you contort that label you insist putting on yourself: “American.” I’d give you the nightmare part, but Blade, you’re a weak night’s sleep at worst. So, you trot around with this limp patriotism and you think that makes you someone. That it gives you a story. A path and a purpose. But what do you really have? A routine of walking in that ring and incomprehensibly yapping about Isaiah and I and this pay-per-view while you fall prey to the lesser threats of the tag division? What have you gone through in your life that hasn’t been at ringside, Blade? What’s truly there beneath the surface because all I see is catchphrases and capes. The laziest superhero act this side of Hollywood. And you’re convinced that you have this straight shot to these titles. These belts that epitomize collaboration. That speak to the spirit of this company in its purest form and what do you give us? What do you give your fans? Sit down interview after sit down interview where you might as well be playing soundbites off of your phone? A loss against the Bastards and a face full of mat against HGH? Being a professional wrestler means being vulnerable. Putting yourself on the line, letting your heart be dissected by hundreds of challengers and having to tear through the storm despite the fact! I give my heart everytime I dare to enter that ring and you can’t even find yours when you lift up a microphone. I don’t hate you, Razor. You’re not worth the intensity of such an emotion.” “You disappoint me.” “You spent so much time looking forward to this match that you didn’t pay attention to any of the steps on the way here and categorically tripped on each and every one, smiling with a mouth full of loose teeth about how you’ll climb to the top of the mountain when you can’t even keep even footing on the damn floor.” “Crucible was founded on one truth: Isaiah and I are not content. We won the Universal Championship while we’ve reigned as the Tag Champs. There is no end point to where we stop striving to improve, to take down historically great tag teams and newcomers. We push one another to be more in and out of the ring! We face our problems head and on and we give ALL of ourselves to this sport! Every last ounce until there is nothing further to give! And you two waltz in and you’ve only given your names and you think that makes you a tag team. You think that makes you allies. I trust Isaiah with my life and he has rewarded that trust even if he struggles to understand it. He is a man worth falling beside in a battle. Discontent with the state of this company. This industry. With himself. And that drives him and me farther than you could ever comprehend. We are the bright light in a dark era. A spark in a storm cloud.” “But you? You are content to spin your wheels with a partner who might even have less of herself to give than you. Latoya, I’m pretty certain that Taco has had more notable mentions in recent XWF programming. Centurion is about to put his career on the line and if he loses he will have more of a presence in professional wrestling than you do right now. I cannot stress enough how the only note that I have on you is your name and it is more descriptive than anything you’ve ever shown us. If TK thinks I’m a ham sandwich, you’re an empty fucking wrapper.” “And I’m not saying you two have to splay your life out in front of the public, but they can’t believe in you if you won’t give them a person they can believe in. You are two performers happy to show up, get beat, and wear a smile and a nod the very next day while providing non-answers to Steve Sayors. It takes two people to win these belts. To hold them with the honor and grace of the tag teams of history. To show the tenacity it requires to fight in the XWF.” “Let me know when you’ve found one.”