OOC: Just posting this mid-format so I don't get fucked by internet connection.




Step 11. To better understand and embrace your principles.

July 20th, 2023 10:43 AM

Ned’s older brother had an adage that he would often repeat when bringing Ned to some new, unfamiliar house for a party: the worst homes were ones where you could smell the carpet. Ned hadn’t ever given the concept much thought, considering it a drunken cliche that would stumble from Nate’s mouth during the uncomfortable swan song of their youth. And yet, as he sat upon the matted fabric of a couch no younger than the New Deal, Mark Flynn sat uncomfortably on the opposite edge, Ned understood precisely what he meant. The carpet had a metaphorical miasma that overwhelmed every other scent, the principle one among them being the cigarette smoke leaking from Nancy Robins. She’d been mourning her daughter, Lilabeth, ever since Mark’s mistake two Warfares prior. Attempting to foil a madman with explosives, he’d mistakenly caused Lilabeth’s demise. Bill, Nancy’s husband and the departed’s father, fidgeted awkwardly in a chair separated entirely from his wife’s. The smoke wafted and spread through the living room, propelled by the cheap fan that spun above. Underneath the various scents and sights, one aroma barely clung to life, incapable of fully fading nor distinguishing itself.

Flowers. Gifts held over from the funeral, underwatered, but still fragrant despite it all. Nancy finished up her cigarette, leaving barely any tobacco and snuffing out the meager ember with a firm press against a glass ashtray near her, joining at least a dozen similar pillars of previous indulgence as she coughed, clearing her throat in a pyrrhic manner. Her skin was soft, the dark eyeliner smudged beneath her sockets. She held an aura that longed for the ability to process this pain. To hurt simply to remind herself of the sensation. She did not meet her husband’s eyes once the entire time.

“So,” Nancy questioned, her voice monotone, “what do you want?”

Ned glared at Mark, making it perfectly clear that he wasn’t confronting this guilt on Mark’s behalf. There was an impressive quality to Flynn’s ability to slip seamlessly into a performance, the sheer levels of suppression being difficult for most to even comprehend, let alone achieve.

But Mark fancied himself a professional.

“Y’see, Mrs. Robins, Webster’s Dictionary defines regret as-”

The entire room silently groaned in response, but Nancy’s stare paralyzed Flynn’s tongue in a manner even Ned couldn’t predict. Underneath all the masks, ploys, and performance was a human being. Someone who craved acceptance. Who wanted to be good.

Who murdered Michael Graves.

“WELL, NANCE.” Mark broke the silence with his trademark volume.

“…Pardon?” Nancy’s face didn’t shift a muscle. But she quietly exuded rage, such that Flynn’s thought caught in his throat.

… “I said ‘well…’ Then, I coughed.” Flynn sniffed, rubbing his nose. “See, it might’ve sounded like I shortened your name informally.” Flynn cleared his throat, shaking his head. “Not me, no sir. MA’AM, I mean.” Flynn slammed his fist down on his leg. “Wouldn’t EVER do that. Especially now! With the gravity of the situation?” Flynn flicked his wrist, dismissing the notion. “Absolutely not. Nope, just coughed.”

A pause.

“POINT BEING, MRS. ROBINS.” Flynn increased volume again, parsing for that perfect formula of words to absolve him. “…I’m here to say… I’m sorry. Lilabeth could’ve been a lot of things and… she… can’t.”

The more Mark ruminated on the situation, the larger the cracks grew. Standing quickly, he retrieved his wallet, removed a check and extended it toward Nancy, who swiftly retrieved it, her eyes never faltering from Flynn’s. He intentionally, without hesitation, retreated to his seat.

“That right there? The full amount for dear Lilabeth’s funeral expenses! Every penny paid for by yours truly! To compensate for the whole…”

“...Y’know.”

In better times, Nancy would have found that fire raging within her and ripped into Mark, throwing scathing insults with reckless abandon. However, that flame had been doused. Wrestlers roped her family into a violent, pointless struggle for their own purposes and agendas. Wrestlers made a point of benefiting off of every second of her existence for months.

She was long tired of wrestlers.

Tearing the check in half, she spoke, her voice a gravelly whisper that still managed to boom, “my family doesn’t need your money, Mr. Flynn. Nor do we want your help, thoughts, prayers or otherwise.”

“...Lady. I just wanna fix what I-” Mark said, desperation palpably mixed with his natural indignant tone.

“Fix?” She interrogated, “Fix what? What makes you possibly think that you can touch anything here and not have it come up broken? You know what I want more than any amount of money? I want you to know this feeling. I want to hate you, Mark. Every fiber of my being begs to and I can’t. You’ll never feel a fraction of my heartache. I begged for years for the Lord to improve her condition. Do you know how she was progressing towards the end there, Mr. Flynn?”

“Was… she getting better?” Ned didn’t often hear pure dread escape Mark. This instance, it flooded out.

Nancy almost smirked, as if her sense of irony gave its last, petering breath, “I have no earthly idea. I’ll never know. For you, she was just a prop to some fight you had. Meanwhile, I get to wake up, stroll back here and none of it looks familiar. I don’t even recognize my own home. You want forgiveness, Mr. Flynn? There isn’t anyone here to forgive you.”

She picked herself up, lighting a cigarette and resuming her reacquired bad habit, taking a long drag as she retired to the kitchen, turning around and giving a look to Ned, uttering one final thing.

“He’s a narcissist. What’s your excuse?”

Ned’s gaze lowered to the carpet, a hint of shame filling him. As his eyes focused, he felt the scent of the carpet intensify until Bill finally spoke.

“My wife is… hurting. But if you ask me, Flynn,” Bill’s tone took an unfamiliar edge, “that Graves son of a bitch deserved every bit. Thank you for sending him straight to hell.”

Mark’s demeanor lightened slightly with the approval. Ned’s did not.

As Ned stood to begin departing the house with Mark, he felt the world lightly spin around him, the sight of the floor seeming to extend. As much as he’d been able to avoid damage from the Bourbon cage match, his vertigo hadn’t eased. Thankfully, Kaye kept himself up, managing not to fall as Mark and he finally exited, seeing the pale, dead grass of the Robins’s yard, accented with a bleached stop sign nearby. There was momentary calm, until Mark nudged Ned’s shoulder.

“WHEW! That could’ve gone wayyyyy worse, Ned.”

He’s trying, the voice in Ned’s head insisted.

Mark cracked his knuckles, emboldened by Bill’s approval, “Deserved every bit, he says! The Good Guy clears away the street scum, Ned! Take note, might be viable branding there!”

He just needs patience. He doesn’t really know what he’s saying. Ned’s fist clenched hard, the ends of his nails sharp against his palm.

“Ned, I didn’t get why we came here at first, but it’s clear now. Great lesson: Being a good guy sometimes means taking out a bad gu-”

It surprised Ned how quickly it happened. His fist stung slightly from the clean blow against Flynn’s jaw, sending him toppling sideways. It surprised Mark moreso. Ned trembled a bit, letting the emotions settle as Mark jumped up angrily.

“THE HELL WAS THAT FOR?!?”

Ned exhaled, shaking as the disgust and rage filled his veins, shaking his head in disbelief, “You just don’t fucking get it, do you?”

“I DO! I JUST SAID I UNDERSTAND FINALLY! Sometimes, we assess acceptable losses!”

“That’s the problem!” Ned’s voice had a righteous fury underlining it, “There aren’t “acceptable losses!” I don’t get the choice to decide if someone deserves to live! I don’t pretend to be worthy of making that judgment! Michael Graves was a vile monster whom the world will likely be better lacking, but you don’t get to strip justice or redemption from others! You don’t have that right and if you need an example of where it leads, talk to Lux!”

Flynn could masterfully scavenge some grain of logic to lift up a sea of absurdity. Yet, now, he listened, just holding his cheek.

“You… you thought all of this was about you and comforting you. You can recite title histories at the drop of a hat, but can’t comprehend the idea that, maybe, you need to see the results of what you do when you’re not careful!”

The defensive impulse in Mark summoned a reply from him, “OHHHHH, How TYPICAL! Saint NED, Holier-than-thou, wants to lecture ME about judgment! NEWS FLASH, BIG KAYE-HUNA! YOU do everything YOU can to dissect and decide everyone’s best parts. Fine, sure, no one made me a judge, but who the FUCK elected YOU the final voice on redemption, Nedster?!”

As much as Ned hated to admit it, no one had. He was just trying to lead by example. Attempting to show the world that his way worked. Yet here he was. Without a further word, Ned turned and began walking away, much to Flynn’s dismay. Flynn launched curses and egotistical proclamations, but none amounted to anything more than noise in Ned’s ears as he stepped away, Flynn’s voice fading further until it was gone.

---

1:03 PM

Ned rested his head on Darcy’s lap as she sat upon the bed, measuring out his hair through careful strokes. She’d worked to be more supportive throughout everything, especially given some of her past actions, but Ned seemed crestfallen. She’d be lying if she thought it couldn’t be a bit much at times, but then she imagined how it was inside his head.

It wasn’t a place she envied.

“If it makes you feel any better, I always thought he was a pretty huge jerk,” Darcy “consoled.”

“Believe it or not,” Ned gave a ponderous expression, “it doesn’t.”

Okay, Darcy, maybe not the best call.

She trailed her fingertips over his hair, frowning as she watched him stare at the ceiling, distracting himself with its details.

“Wanna talk about it?” She asked, her discomfort at asking something mushy obvious.

“What’s there to talk about? How I just keep watching people hurt others or myself and can’t get the hint?”

Darcy’s face curled downward. She hated seeing him self-flagellate like this, but holding himself responsible for everyone’s failures was how he operated. It was probably a Catholic thing, but it was his nature.

“Mark’s failures aren’t a reflection of you, Ned,” she placed a great amount of emphasis in the words, knowing he wouldn’t believe them.

“It’s not just Mark. Yeah, he disappointed me, but I’ve got Isaiah devoting his entire existence to taking me down, Amelia having gone through a whole crisis, and even Daniel,” his words hesitated at the mention of the man he once called a friend, Big D, Ned’s voice shaking, “he would rather be a puppet of someone to hurt me than be my friend. Maybe… maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I can’t simply trust people to try and better themselves for the sake of it.”

Darcy grew quiet, her hands still, following his logic to the other close friend who had wronged him in some manner this year: herself. Her body tensed as he looked upward, realizing what he had said without meaning to.

“Darcy, I didn’t mean it lik-”

“I know you didn’t,” she grew quiet, nudging him to sit up so she could have a little space, “but you sure know how to make someone feel low after the fact…”

Kaye took a deep breath, “I’m sorry. Just because I’m dealing with… all this, doesn’t mean you should feel like I think you’re some sort of liar or traitor waiting to happen. You know I want to help people… I guess I’m not sure what that looks like anymore right now.”

Darcy pulled herself up, grabbing a few of her things after glancing at the time, “I need to go see Amy, today’s her last day at the hospital anyway and she asked me to be there.”

“I’ll tag along,” Ned declared, Darcy shaking her head in disapproval as he looked on confusedly.

“You have to practice, Ned. Besides, I can’t have you fighting for attention while I’m trying to work.”

“Practice?” Ned chuckled a bit, “it’s not like I’ve got a personal trainer right now.”

Darcy slyly smiled as she looked towards the bedroom door, doing some quick calculations as she waited for the figure to reveal themself.

“Oh?”

Ned recognized the voice immediately, not believing his own ears until he saw Nate’s face.

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”

Ned felt a tightening in his chest, a mixture of excitement and anxiety building in his lungs. Nate hadn’t wanted to be a part of his life in months and yet…he was here.

“Now,” Nate adjusted his shirt’s cuffs, smiling slyly, “Let’s get you up a tower.”

---

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“Belief is something we take for granted until it is shaken. Like the ground beneath you, it’s easiest to appreciate when you’ve gone without. That is Leap of Faith distilled in its purest form. What will you believe in when the Earth below can’t promise you a safe place to stand?”

“My answer is myself. That’s what I believe in when the world’s upturned, something Jenny Myst sadly cannot relate to. Even with her progress, she’s still content to be Chris Chaos’s concept of a woman, just lacking his presence. Her entire life’s been performance for its own sake or being a doll for another to dress until she’s mindlessly going through motions, stuck in a Ferris Wheel car with no exit. The carnival of Myst’s life is one where the only prizes are a young woman’s trauma and the carnies consist of the most depraved men she can stumble into. Shit, I’d be scarfing down dog treats, too at that point. But a million different makeups can’t stop Jenny from being the person she is underneath: a people pleaser whose primary personality trait of the week is based on who she’s trying to impress or emulate.”

“But if we’re talking about hiding a face, we can’t dismiss Dionysus, a man so utterly humbled that the only way he can cope is by creating a handful of versions of himself, none of which particularly accomplish much. He was so sick of losing while being himself that he fractured into shards that can all lose together. And I’m not saying that winning is everything, but the second Dion traded his sense of self for a pile of masks was the second he truly lost. You’re a man starved for purpose and gorging on the possibility of a 24/7 briefcase. But all you have to eat are hopes, Dion. And if someone like Thunder Knuckles can so easily dash yours, then you were destined to return to your vineyard empty handed long before now.”

“But whose hands are perpetually emptier than that of Dolly Waters? At the core of Dolly is someone truly capable and she’s done any and everything to try and erase that person from existence. That’s why she keeps this rivalry with Corey Smith. Corey had to fight off an inner sickness and Dolly’s biggest issue is that she related to the illness. Even her occult schtick reeks of the rhetoric that surrounded The Engineer. In Dolly’s eyes, she’s the infection and that part of her with potential and compassion is the body she feasts on. Dolly would rather die the sad reflection of herself than live as a decent person. Deep down, she knows she’s unworthy of the Universal Championship, so she’ll squander every opportunity there. I’d pity you, Dolly, if you wouldn’t take that opportunity to try and put a dollar store curse on me.”

“Let’s be clear: Dolly will never outdo the synonymous relationship of squandering something good and Bobby Bourbon. I could sit here and reiterate why Bobby’s an insecure, inconsistent mess, but all you really need to know is that he saw Chris Page and Miss Fury sticking their fists up his ass and making him the dummy of their idiot crusade and his issue is that he didn’t have a puppet of his own. So, once he kicked out a corpse and a man who thinks his XWF spinoff is Frasier when it’s really Joey, he decided to go after my friend and accompany him to the dissolution of his personality. Bobby, you made this personal. You did it to feed your ego after I showed you your ass faster than a pair of mirrors. I’m not going to embarrass you, Bobby. I’m going to hurt you.”

“But my crusade isn’t the only one in this match, now is it? You’ve been waiting, foaming at the mouth for me to say something about you, haven’t you, Isaiah? You know what makes you the Kingslayer? The fact that your go-to move is career suicide. I may have taught you that you could bleed, but everything afterwards has been all you. You’re a man who pinned a reigning Universal Champion and instead of refining that talent, you wanna sully my wins because I made you realize that you are but a man? You are so deeply insecure that when I called you full of shit, you nearly had a meltdown over it. You think I try to be a hero to feed my ego because for you, that’s all it was. That’s all our WarGames team was in your eyes: a vehicle. Mark Flynn, flawed bastard he is, made greater strides than you. That’s not a hero complex, that’s a choice. You went all-in against The Ace. You pursued this confrontation since late last year. You believe this is what you want.”

“I am about to shatter that belief, Isaiah. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

"You can't run from yourself."