OOC: Formatting in the morn.




4/2 - Specimen has conflicted feelings on family and community. Intensely grateful for connection, but immensely distrustful of its longevity. Hard to tell if the latter is slightly self-imposed. Must research further.

Eventful mornings, paradoxically, often don’t feel as such. Rarely does one emerge from the chasm of slumber awaiting an alarming or off-putting circumstance. It was something Ned had learned when he was younger, waking up with his fiance missing in the spot she usually occupied in the early moments of the dawn. That unsettling, still air that highlighted the hidden, intense revelation that would be thrust upon him in the matter of a few hours. Every now and then, he dreamt of that morning, barely gaining consciousness and yet the miniscule details that were etched into his mind from that moment onward. The slight rhythm of the fan making it appear lopsided. The ways the carpet seemed to remember his fiance’s last footsteps as she left their room and drove off in the middle of the night for the final drive she would ever have in her life.

Ned woke up. The sweat on his skin kissed the cool blast from the air conditioning unit to his side as his eyes instinctively went to check for Darcy. He reached out, his vision somewhat blurred until refocusing, his eyes gazing upon her as she snoozed away, snoring loudly, even for her. The grip he held on her hand was gentle, yet firm as he took a deep breath, remembering what day it was. He had to go see an old friend he hadn’t in some time. He felt a twisting in his stomach as he pulled himself up to sit on the side of the bed, uncertain whether it was a lingering effect of his vertigo or merely the discomfort in leaving Darcy while she slept once more. They rarely seemed to share the same time together since Ned had begun his campaign to make a true difference in the XWF. Yet, with every moment he was needed due to training with Isaiah or some crazed Mark Flynn scheme, it was a few hours that the woman who dragged Ned out of a dark period in his life sat alone. They still loved each other, they were certain of it, but the honeymoon phase could only last so long before it began to wane.

It was a new moon kind of morning.

After quietly getting dressed, nearly falling on his face from the dizzying effects of vertigo, he planted a small kiss on Darcy’s forehead before walking out into the hallway of her apartment building, locking the door behind him.

---

“Do you always look like a fresh bag of shit these days or is it a look you’re setting up for 2024?” Theo asked, swirling a small glass with some amber-colored liquor within. It wouldn’t be the office of Theo Pryce without a high priced drink Ned preferred not to know by name, a desk both overflowing with papers and oddly organized, and a healthy amount of snark. Despite his comment, Theo handed Ned a glass of the same set, filled with his finest tap water.

“I was kind of hoping I’d just get a bit more sleep and it would figure itself out,” Ned admitted as he took a swig. They hadn’t spoken much since Saga fell apart, but Theo, the complex man he happened to be, never really lost touch with Ned. It was hard to determine specifically what he saw in Kaye, but it felt enough like a friend as to not prompt the question.

“This is you with more sleep?” Theo questioned, returning to some paperwork as he shifted the subject slightly, “Perhaps you should consider easing your schedule. I don’t know that any one man has the kind of energy to keep up with Mark Flynn.”

“Mark Flynn does.”

His eyes shooting upwards, Theo’s half-amused glare said it all.

“Point taken, but he and Isaiah need me available. Maybe not all the time, but I can’t just let them fend for themselves,” the assertion prompted another pause from Pryce.

“Oh dear. Then they might actually have to act like adults.”

Ned sighed, rolling his eyes and throwing a hand up, “it’s not them being childish! We’re talking about some great potential and really, honestly good people who needed that trust from someone. Stripping it away from them is just asking for disaster.”

“I respect how you’re trying to hold yourself as a leader, however I think you’re wanting too much from them, Ned,” Theo filed another piece of paperwork away, awarding himself with a sip.

“Am I? Isn’t it the bare minimum to want them to be held to higher standards and give them an opportunity to be better?”

“Yes, it is, but is that really what you’re doing? At what point have you decided that everyone’s failures are yours to solve? How are they going to become better people if every time they have an opportunity to, here comes Ned Kaye sliding in to make sure no one has to fuck up too hard? I’m glad you’re taking initiative, but you can barely even show up for this, a meeting you wanted to have, awake. You can only give them so much before they have to foot a bill of their own.”

“And when is that, Theo?” Ned pondered, his tone a tad pointed.

“Eventually,” he answered, not bothering to look up from his next form to fill. Suddenly, Ned felt a jolt in his pocket, noticing an uneasy text from Darcy. It wasn’t much, but it was clear that he needed to call immediately. The ringing felt like it took an eternity, but… finally she answered.

“Hey,” She spoke in an almost somber tone.

“Hey,” Ned’s voice was slightly panicked, his mind racing at the many things it could be, his mind catastrophizing until Darce’s voice broke his thoughts up easily.

“Look, it’s not bad. I know you’re doing that whole “out-of-hand” thinking thing, but it’s just… a lot right now,” she took a deep breath, trying to decide exactly how to say what came next.

“Ned… I think I’m pregnant.”

His hand shook somewhat, his face turning pale at her words as tears filled his eyes slightly, the mixture of joy and anxiety swirling as he tried to get any coherent thought together. But none came. On an eventful morning, he could have come up with something to say. Something witty or inspiring or clever or… anything.

But today didn’t feel like an eventful morning. So he merely smiled and wept.

---

---

---

“They say Hell is other people. But for Chris? Hell is other people looking away.”

“I want to tell you a story. One day, when I was still working the indies, I was working with an older vet who had a foot out the door at this point, but he went out there and he wrestled his heart out. Keep in mind, we weren't being paid more than maybe a hundred and fifty bucks, but he emptied his tank and barely got a win over someone closer to my age. Now, the guy didn't have much in the way of fans and the man he beat was considerably more popular and was a local on top of that, so this tired elder statesman is just being showered in boos and trash from the crowd. Nasty scene; a bottle ends up bruising his already hurt leg, so he's barely capable of even walking. And as he's hobbling backstage, clearly in no position to wrestle on this day or any other day, he passes me by, gives this wide smirk despite being in immense pain, points back to the curtain and says a single sentence that has stuck with me ever since.”

“One day, they'll stop showing up, but I won't.”

“I wish I could tell you that man's name. That I etched it down in stone so I could never forget the man who made clear the passion of those I have the privilege of calling peers hold. That I knew whether or not he was still kicking. I don’t. But I remember his message more clearly than I do most faces: that we don’t do this just to hear the roar of approval. We do this because of something deep in the depths of our being. We do it for us. I can say that about everyone I have ever stood across from except for Chris Page.”

“See, for as much as he thinks I’m some pandering, foolish kid, the fact is that I’ll be wrestling long after my fans are done with me. Wrestling is as natural as breathing for me. Chris, despite his talent and accolades, has no such love for this business. He walked into the XWF to face me, won a close match, lost and retreated to his island so that he could resume worshiping at the altar of his own hubris. And when he finally comes back so I can get my hands on him? He goes on this spiel about how he doesn’t hide behind masks for long, as if that was surprising.”

“You mean to tell me that Chris Page, the man who wrestled three nights at Relentless and still managed to walk out five times on a six match card doesn’t like to hide his face very often? You mean to tell me a man who slaps his name on a dozen upcoming talents, the man who latched himself to Robert Main, one of the best to ever step into a ring, only to derail his career and make it all about himself wants to be seen in the spotlight as quickly as possible? Who are you kidding, Chris? The fact is, I’ve had you pegged for ages. You can’t stand the idea that you’re not the best. If the greatest trick the devil ever pulled was making people think he didn’t exist, the greatest trick Page ever pulled was doing the same thing a dozen times over and making others think it was new behavior. The man who tries to put his thumb down on talent he doesn’t personally see value in. The man puts his fangs on the biggest star he can find and sucks everything out of them until they can’t even find it in themselves to be the person they once were. The man who builds new ponds to be the biggest fish in. How many decades has that rung true, Chris?”

“An ego as wide as the pacific, as fragile as porcelain. Why do you think Page cheats? He doesn’t have to, he certainly has the talent, but honor is a luxury not afforded to the vain. It doesn’t matter whether you cheer or boo him, he just needs to hear you there. And deep, deep down, he thinks if he isn’t the portrait of himself that he’s painted, you won’t show up. The sad fact is Page thinks as little of me as he does his actual fans. You exist to give him legitimacy and that’s it. Show’s over. You’ll pay for your overpriced, bad seat and you’ll like it. And extends to everyone in CCPE and WGWF. If you asked him, heart-to-heart, he doesn’t think a single one of you could sell a ticket if you were working concessions, but you help put eyes on his name. It makes me fucking sick to see him take talented, fantastic, high-calibre wrestlers, announcers, and fans and use them as little more than a fleshlight for his ego. If you’re coming in here thinking this is XWF vs. WGWF, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I have no real beef with the people who give everything week after week to this sport only to have it exploited by a megalomaniac with bad people skills and a chip on his shoulder. This is all about me versus Chris. About two incompatible philosophies about what professional wrestling means.”

“If I was like Chris Page, during Isaiah’s Universal Title match, he would’ve been wearing a Ned Kaye t-shirt and I’d take up half his entrance and spend every second at ringside jawjacking at every lull in the action. Just another way to get my face and name out there, King be damned. In the eyes of Page, lifting up talent is plucking them up and looming over them like a hangover everytime the lights get a little too bright. I guided someone I saw a lot of myself in and did my best to try and give him a better option going forward. Hell, it’s an ongoing process. Mark Flynn has become a better person in my presence. No one has even become a better wrestler around Chris Page. BoB stuffed him in a locker, Robert nearly died trusting him, and Peter Vaughn went from wearing belts to warming benches. That is the legacy of when Page gets his hands on something. He finds a hot candle, slobbers on his fingers, and snuffs it out.”

“Except for me. He was convinced I was just going to go away. A flame he could smother and move on. A kid with some guts but little else. But no matter how hard he tried to press his fingertips together, I kept burning. Because I’ll keep showing up, but you won’t. I don’t do this for, to spite, or because of you. At Relentless, when we open night three with a grudge match not seen since yourself and Robert, the world will watch in awe as the man you could never derail or defeat past a single match finally defies the expectations you so desperately tried to set in stone. I’ve heard every disparaging comment you can imagine in my life. They said I couldn’t make it here, I clawed my way to this match while you sat in gorilla for a different company. They said I’d never be a star, but even with three consecutive losses under my belt, I was still a frontrunner for the Universal Championship. They say I will always live in the shadow of greater wrestlers before my time and I am about to prove every last one of them wrong! I’m going to put you through a picture perfect deathmatch for every old man or young kid who gave everything to this business while you sapped their energy, best years, and dollars from them! There will be a mark on your body for every brave person whom gave more and themself to this sport only to watch you trot over the business they love like it exists for your sake! They call you Mr. Relentless? Let them! They said no one could kick out of the Bobbybomb. It will never be said again. They put your photo up with big, bold letters every moment you step on screen? Fine by me! The logos are expensive, but the talk is cheap and they’re about to learn the only saying they’ll need after I demolish your ego, reputation, and record in the most violent match they’ll see in their lifetimes. And what will that be?”

“They say Hell is other people. Not for Chris Page.”

“For him, it’s just one.”

"You can't run from yourself."