Refining Fire

I

It Follows

---

The early morning following Leap of Faith

Live long enough in hotel rooms and they begin to seem like home.

It seemed as though every veteran wrestler had said something to that effect to him at least once. Even the departed Steven Cooper insisted that the distant walls of long demolished buildings felt more familiar than any apartment or home he’d ever stayed in. Their profession was one that strained connection, planting its roots deeper in you, even when all else disappeared. Wrestling had swallowed so many whole over decades and decades. How many more would it claim before the decade ended?

Ned sat up in the bed, a hand tracing down Darcy’s hair as she slept, her form entangled in the spotless sheets of the exquisit hotel. Her face sagged slightly, familiar with frowning from countless little annoyances that lingered throughout her days. But to Ned, she simply looked beautiful, at peace in the ways she could manage, her brunette hair sprawling behind her. The bright lights of the city of love beamed in through the window, lending their color to the radiance that sliced through the shadows within. He gave an empty sort of smile as he stared at Darcy. She was truly one of the only people who cared about him and yet it seemed her life was infinitely more complex with his presence. She deserved something simple. Something stable. His eyes glanced over to the bedside table to his right, noticing space where a briefcase was intended to sit. Maneuvering himself from the bed with a gentle grace, he stumbled his way over to the window, the red light that carved the room in half, illuminating his left side as he stared outward at the Eiffel Tower.

Home. It was a pleasant thought, but not much else. He placed a hand onto the window, his fingertips softly smudging the glass with the oils from his hand. It was a reminder that he had been here, one that would be swiftly erased with a steady hand and a spray of cleaner. How long would it take people to forget that he stood in this spot? How long until they wanted to?

The glass squeaked as a jolt traveled through his hand upon hearing a rumbling noise erupt from within the cleared table. Acting with haste as Darcy began to mumble and shift, he removed his phone from the inner cabinet, quickly checking the caller ID.

Theo Pryce.

They hadn’t spoken much following the dissolution of Saga, but it was difficult to cut off ties entirely after Theo worked hard to get Ned help during his lowest moment of 2023. There were many reasons to dislike Theo, but he wasn’t the diabolic mastermind Flynn wanted to believe in. He was a man defined by the honesty and sensitivity a life of cutthroat business was unable to offer. Harsh, yes, but not rotten even though he might’ve attempted to become that way several times over the years. The thing about the real you, Ned thought, was that it always escaped. Keep a hold of its neck under the waves as you try to watch the bubbles cease, bury it beneath rubble, slit its throat and decry its name. You always return.

He answered the phone, first checking to make sure Darcy was comfortably asleep.

“Hey,” Ned began, his voice adjusting to be audible whilst keeping his volume ginger, “what’s up?”

“The match you wanted is set,” Theo replied, quick to the point as always.

“Thanks,” Ned exhaled, preparing to hang up the phone as Pryce added to the conversation.

“Do you need to talk about the Leap of Faith result?” Theo asked, that rare concern bleeding through. If Ned weren’t so guarded in the moment, he’d be able to appreciate it more.

“No, no. Thank you, but I’m fine,” he insisted, his tone only barely hiding the truth of how he felt.

“If you say so,” Theo relented, responding with some trademark sarcasm, “just don’t express too much of that emotion and shove it down deep enough and you should be good to go.”

Almost chuckling, Ned more firmly ended the conversation, feeling a little lighter after Pryce’s nudge, “I’ll be fine. Promise.”

He pressed the button, feeling the now warm screen of his phone as its light faded.

“You’re an awful liar,” Darcy chimed in, groggily as she lifted herself up, body not yet acclimated to her abrupt reentrance into consciousness, “he knows that, too, especially when “I am” becomes “I’ll be” all of a sudden.”

As she stepped towards him, the sheets draped over her, providing some protection from the bitter chill of the AC unit. Her warm hands gripped his shoulders softly as she leaned forward, looking out towards the cityscape, adorned by its bevy of beacons, bringing a gentle enchantment into her eyes as they glimmered off her irises.

“You’ll be okay, Ned. You know that. There’s always going to be other moments for you,” she assured him, imitating his angsty expression to force a soft laugh from him.

“I know that!” He finished chuckling, rolling his eyes softly at her successful attempt to brighten his mood a tad.

“I swear,” she ruffled his hair, placing her chin on his shoulder to join him in gazing out at Paris more properly, “you’re the only person I know who can nearly win something while your body is basically telling you to cool it and be frustrated you didn’t tell it to shut up enough.”

“It’s about moments, right? I just need to secure mine. On my terms.”

She glanced over at him. His eyes were always the part of him that never lied and she already saw them. Planning, adapting, reassessing. Like a machine recalculating. She often wondered if he viewed himself that way when he wasn’t forcing himself to think about it. Of course, she wouldn’t press him on something like that, she was too busy having to parse her thoughts out of computer jargon half the time, so Darcy figured he’d discuss it more when he felt comfortable doing so. Still, that didn’t stop her speculation. She interrupted his focus with a small kiss to his cheek, beginning to return to bed.

“You two have a lot in common,” she assessed, falling into the infinite plushness of the mattress beneath her.

“I know,” Ned agreed, letting the lights soak into him further, like the watching eyes of countless wrestlers before him. He forced himself to turn away, as if twisting his body could prevent the hypnosis he was anxious of.

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

---

---

“What defines heroism?”

“Is it masks and martial arts? Cowls and capes? It seems like every few months, somebody hops in insisting that’s what it is. Not to bash Ruby or anything, but even she created a brand name cereal that tasted somewhere in-between cardboard and shoelace to profit off the image. And, for all the issues I have with that approach, she still did her best to exemplify the things she believed in. The only thing you two believe in is that the law shouldn’t prohibit you from punching whoever you deem fit in the face until you feel good about yourselves.”

“I’d direct comments at each of you individually, but the fact is that you two are essentially xeroxes of one another. There’s more of a difference between Demos and Charlie Nickles than between The Blue Tango and Atomic Bat. Hell, for all the fancy colors and supervillains, all you emboy is the weakest tag division the XWF has ever known. The tagmobile lost a wheel since SAGA went away and now we’ve had the “Just Us League” acting like they’re some sort of revitalization. The reason you’re called “Just Us” instead of “Just This?” is because there are no other tag teams bothering with the division. You two have the most garish costumes in the entire federation while wearing the tag belts and no one cares. And that is a goddamn shame. Heroes should inspire powerful emotions within others. The most you’ve ever done is inspire Jason Cashe to stop caring. But boy did you get a lot of inspiration from Isaiah and I.”

“Going after the yakuza only after some folks who don’t claim to be heroes did. We show bravery and initiative, you show reruns. Isaiah and I have our problems, but what we share is drive and mindset. We want competitors worth a damn and we draw them out of people. We are the forge of this sport, refining those around us as much as ourselves. The anvil, not the rod. Hell, I've got the Universal Champion barking my name because he doesn’t have the brains to understand someone else’s principles aren’t the same as his own. You two traded substance for style and have been cruising ever since and it’s done. No more gaudy branding. When I put my name on something, it’s something to try and help people. You two would endorse a gun that exclusively shot the owner’s foot if you thought it would lend you any credibility in the slightest. You are a three year old’s idea of a hero. You don’t struggle, you don’t try, you lob the lamest insults at your opponents and you eke out a victory despite making the tag division look like little more than a utility belt.”

“That ends at Warfare. No more gags, no more chain smoking enemies, just those who have bled for the things they covet and those who hide themselves from bleeding.”

"You can't run from yourself."