The Searchers (feat. RIA Lockhart)

“Lights? Check.”

“Camera? Check.”

"Nathan Lake, reading for the role of Ethan Edwards. Take One."

“ACTION.”

The high-pitched, adolescent voice of a young Nathan Lake ricochets off the thin, peeling walls of the Hotel Ligero in San Juan, Puerto Rico.

Lying next to him is a thick, ancient-looking book. The cover is open, pages turned to a carved out depression at its center. Sitting nestled between the extricated pages are about a dozen DV tapes — each with a label at the top in faded ink pen.

“Montevideo 125th Anniversary” “Christmas 2004 / Easter 2005” “Family Reunion 2007 / Fourth of July Parade”

His older reflection watches from the discomfort of a stiff hotel mattress that reeks of sweat... and cumin.

He had managed to lift the book from Montevideo with seemingly little resistance. Maybe it was too late for the town after all. He wasn’t sure. But whatever was in that book, and on those tapes, was the key to saving Montevideo and his mother.

"Our turnin' back don't mean nothin', not in the long run."

His face crumples in frustration.

"Nathan Lake, reading for Ethan Edwards. Take Two."

A pang of guilt, a deep and sickly nostalgia washes over him as he sits inches from the screen, sending back images of him as a child, maybe 13 or 14, sitting on a folding chair in his childhood bedroom. He’s got an unfortunate-looking bowl cut and streaks of acne lining his cheekbones.

Young Nathan grabs at a too-big cowboy hat and adjusts a denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

He tries again, deeper this time.

"Our turnin' back don't mean nothin', not in the loOOoong run."

His voice cracks. Still wrong, but closer.

A small, sad smile crosses the elder Nathan’s face watching this kid trying so hard to be someone else. Anyone else.

Young Nathan straightens up, trying to put on a stern face.

"We'll find 'em in the end, I promise you. We'll find 'em. Just as sure as the turnin' of the earth."

From off-camera, a woman cuts the monologue off. Nathan’s heart breaks at the sound of his mother’s voice.

"Nathan! Dinner's ready!"

"MooooOOOM, I'm practicing!"

"Nathaniel Thomas Lake, you get down here right now before it gets cold!"

Nathan's future self can't help but laugh, even though his heart breaks hearing his mother's voice and his frustration grows.

Why keep this video? What was his mother trying to tell him? That he was an asshole of a kid? Or a shit actor? None of that was new... so what was he missing?!

"Nathan Lake, reading for Ethan Edwards. Take Three."

The teen sits back down, adjusts the hat, and takes a breath.

"She's alive, she's safe... for a while. They'll keep her to raise her-"

Future Nathan leans forward as he remembers the lines. This recording. The moment coming together like a puzzle with half the pieces still missing. He watches as his younger self tries again, but the line comes out flat. A kid playing dress-up.

"She's alive, she's safe... for a while."

Again. Trying to find it.

"She's alive, she's safe-FUCK!”

From somewhere off screen we hear Amy Lake yelling “language!” at the top of her lungs.

Young Nathan stands, frustrated with himself, letting out a scream of anguish as he pulls at his bedroom curtain, caught in the clutches of his teenage fury.

The late-afternoon glare of a setting sun floods in and the tape stops. Nathan hits pause on the DV player as his eyes see it. Through the window, over the shoulder of his younger self off in the distance was a building. Tall. Stone. Unmistakable.

A lighthouse. Clear as day. A lighthouse in the center of Montevideo.

“What the fuck?”

He had just left Montevideo. There was no lighthouse there. Was he... was he hallucinating again? No. It was there. It had to be.

Nathan takes out his cell phone and takes a photo of the TV screen, zooming in to capture the lighthouse. With the press of a button he messages Marcus, hoping that whatever is happening he may have an answer.

He looks back to the rest of the tapes, his heart pounding. And then, off to the side, hanging over a nearby chair was his ring gear — a new look that gave him the confidence he needed to defeat Rev. Erik Black at Immortals. The white cloak, hooded and fringed in red, is illuminated by the TV glow and the lighthouse design flickering like a flame.

Nathan forces his attention back to the screen and hits play, keeping his eyes fixated on the lighthouse in the distance, waiting for it to flicker out of existence or morph into some sort of beast with sharp teeth. Meanwhile, his younger self, trying to regain composure, removes his cowboy hat and holds it to his chest.

The teen version of Nathan locks eyes with the camera, staring out towards his older self with a look of determination in his eyes as he completes the scene.

“We'll find 'em in the end, I promise you. We'll find 'em. Just as sure as the turnin' of the earth."

🚨🚨🚨

The hallway won't stop moving. Faces blur past. Voices sound underwater.

His muscles are burning, his joints aching, his face swollen and he’s got nothing to show for it except for the red marks from where Snark Darkly tried to choke the life out of him earlier, and some blood swishing around his mouth. Maybe also a loose molar. That’ll cost a pretty penny to fix. Does PRIME even have dental insurance?

Nathan’s thoughts scatter, ignoring anything and everything around him except the path that would take him back to his locker room.

On his back, the embroidered lighthouse gleamed through the grime and sweat: a beacon stitched in white and red, guiding him forward even as his body begged him to stop. An anchor. An albatross.

Someone to Nathan’s right says something. He doesn’t hear it. It was all noise. Static in the background of a single thought subsuming his attention in that moment.

He fucked up. Really fucked up.

A split-second decision to challenge his opponent for the chair had turned violent delights into violent ends just like he predicted. He failed to heed his own warning and wound up being a stepping stone. To recovery? To destruction? For some reason Nathan cared. He wanted something better for Sage.

A happy ending like he would always see up on screen.

Nathan continues to stagger toward his locker room in the distance, his feet feeling like they are traversing through quicksand until he feels a tug on the train of his cloak, a cautious, desperate tugging followed by a soft voice that snaps him back to reality.

The haze blocking Nathan’s vision clears as he looks down to see a child - all of 10 or 11 years old - fighting back tears as he tugs on the “B” of an intricately embroidered “Blaze” design on the back of his robe.

“Mr… mr…. Claymore. Can– can you help me?”

In an instant, there is a clarity. The fog clears. Blaze drops to his knees so he is eye level with the young boy. His eyes are red, snot barely kept in his nose and away from dripping all over his “Bodhisattva” shirt.

Of course he was a Sage stan.

“Hey… hey. Woah. Slowdown. What’s the matter? What’s your name?”

“Nate."

Of course he was a Nathan. Blaze places a hand on the kid's shoulders. Nate is shaking like a leaf.

"What’s the matter? Are you lost?”

The kid stutters, on the verge of tears.

"I-I-I know I'm not supposed to be down here b-b-b– I di-di- didn't know where else to go."

Blaze looks up as he hears someone approaching. Arena security. Headed for the kid.

“Now we’ve got you, you little shit.”

The two guards make their way over. Definitely arena staff. Not PRIME staff. They arrive in a huff – out of breath – as the older one with the bad combover and underbite shakes a pointed finger in their direction.

Blaze doesn't hesitate. He steps in front of the kid and motions him to get behind. Nate grabs a hold of Blaze's hand and squeezes, sinking into the safety of the Lighthouse-adorned cloak hanging over Blaze's shoulders.

“Step away sir," the older guard says. "We have business with this delinquent here.”

“We don’t want any trouble,” says the other guard, younger than this partner and clearly trying to de-escalate.

Blaze holds up his free hand in protest.

“Why don’t we all calm down. Why are you chasing this scared kid like lunatics?”

The older security staffer, cheeks red, sputters a response.

“Lu- lunatics!? This little perp stole from the merch booth and then ran like the thief he is!"

Blaze looks down at Nate’s Sage shirt.

“You mean this?”

The younger security guard nods in the affirmative as Blaze makes a time-out gesture and kneels down to look the kid in the eye.

“Is that true? That you stole that shirt?”

Nate doesn’t respond at first, but eventually looks up, eyes wide, and nods.

“My friends dared me to... but I didn't mean it! I was going to give it right back! I s-s-s-wear!"

Blaze smiles, nods, and removes his cloak, letting the weight of the fabric that had felt like a weighted blanket off of his shoulders.

“Trade?”

“Sir! Please!” the older security guard yells. "He needs to be taught a lesson, not rewarded for-"

“Back off!” Blaze yells, head snapping back, as he gestures for the kid to replace his stolen shirt with the cloak.

“See? Better right?”

“It smells,” Nate says, a grin on his face.

“Yeah. I know,” Blaze grins back. “Sorry.”

The kid reaches down and removes the shirt from over the dirty long-sleeve shirt he was wearing underneath and hands it to Blaze, who then gestures and tosses it to the guards - the younger one catching it in a look of shock.

“There. No harm. No foul.”

The older security guard’s face begins to turn red again.

“But- but- He still stole! That’s a crime.”

Blaze raises his eyebrows.

“So is your skincare routine. What moisturizer do you use? Acetone? ”

The younger guard covers his face, holding back laughter as Blaze smirks and looks down at the kid with a wink before waving the pair off.

“You got your damned shirt back, leave the kid alone.”

The older guard begins to sputter like a malfunctioning car.

“B-bu-bu-but!”

Blaze puts his hand on the kid’s back, his fingers resting on the intricate beads of sequin and duck feather fringe. He lets out a sigh of a laugh as he turns away from the flustered guards and leads the kid away.

“What do you say, Nate? Ready to get back to your seat?”

He nods, pulling the lighthouse-emblazoned fabric around his shoulders.

Sometimes the thing that protects you isn't pretty or comfortable, Blaze thinks to himself. Sometimes it just needs to stand firm when the storm hits.

“Good. I’ll lead the way. Follow me.”

🔍🔍🔍

There’s an old, unspoken Hollywood rule when it comes to cowboy films, which I’m sure you’re likely aware of, even if you’ve never quite placed it.

Dating back to one of the first Westerns ever put to film, 1903’s “The Great Train Robbery” by Edwin Porter, there is an iconic image of a man in a kerchief and mustache holding a gun pointed directly at the screen. And on top of his head is a wide-brimmed, black Stetson hat.

For decades after, though not always, you could always tell a character’s motivation by the hat he wore… and there was no one that wore a white hat like John fuckin' Wayne. From “Stagecoach” to “The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance” you could always count on the truest of the true blue cowboys to wear a white hat.

Except in some of his most famous roles, in True Grit and The Searchers, he didn't. He wore a black hat.

I've been giving a lot of thought these past few weeks about the dualities we box ourselves into. Good and bad. Right or wrong. White or black… but it takes a real icon, someone with real confidence, to understand that he can be both and that doesn't make them weaker; it makes them stronger.

And I could sit here and tell you a lot of things, Daytona, but we both know what I’m up against. Your record – and the bodies you’ve left lying in your wake speak for themselves.

You’re not some slow, lumbering monster I can circle long enough hoping for a mistake.

You explode. You rush. You turn brute strength into momentum and momentum into inevitability.

The match is always somehow on your schedule and as soon as you think it isn’t, you don’t wait for the bell or the ref to catch up.

I know that there aren’t a lot of people out there right now, especially after how my 2025 ended and how my 2026 is beginning, who have a lot of faith in Blaze Claymore – or Nathan Lake for that matter. A lot of times I don’t have much faith in myself to be honest; but I do have faith that, as the Duke once said "courage is being scared to death and saddling up anyway."

I’m not walking into our match expecting grace. I know it's going to hurt; and I know that it's the kind of pain that I've earned. And as much as I want to avoid facing that pain, I also know exactly where I need to be.

In this match. With you. 

We're all ultimately searchers, Daytona; looking for that one thing that will make everything click.

So all I’m going to say is this: At ReVival 81 I promise you will be getting the best version of Blaze Claymore.

And then, win or lose, my next opponent will get a better version. And then the next and so on down the line.

I will never stop searching for the best version of myself.

However long that journey may take.

🍴🧇🍴

It had been almost a year since Blaze had found himself in Las Vegas, watching the strip fade away into the distance outside the back of a paddy wagon with his hands and ankles securely fastened together in cuffs.

The guards, the judge, therapist, and hell, even his lawyers said it was a bad idea to let him back inside a wrestling ring after everything he did in SHOOT: Project…

And they were right.

But, he had hoped that if anyone was willing to listen to his pleas for clemency, to continue where he’d left off — it was going to be Lindsay Troy…

And he was right.

It was a second chance he didn’t deserve and more than that, it was one that he didn’t appreciate as much as he should have.

Except that none of those thoughts are present in Blaze's consciousness as he stands inches from the front door of Dina's Diner – a sore thumb of an eating establishment that, like Blaze, was isolated. A lighthouse in the desert sea.

He pushed the door open, a cheerful bell ringing as he steps onto the checkered tile floor, breathing in the familiar smells of burnt coffee, cigarettes, and maple syrup from home.

“Dude. You concussed or something?”

Blaze completes his scan of the diner to lock eyes with the purpose for his otherwise ill-advised return to Las Vegas.

RIA Lockhart.

Blaze clears his throat and makes his way over to the booth where the Psychoberry has already made herself comfortable with a full pot of coffee and what looks to be a stack of waffles featuring every kind of syrup the diner has at their disposal.

“This better be fucking worth it. I barely leave the apartment for the things I do like, much less people who are at the top of my shit list. Sit.”

Blaze does. Sliding into the booth, watching as RIA looks him over. RIA was the one person in PRIME outside of Lindsay Troy who truly knew Blaze’s past—and the damage he’d caused.

Truthfully, he had tried to avoid both Lindsay and RIA over the past year, but knew either one of them was all that stood between him and winding back up in Las Vegas and yet, still managed to find his way here anyways.

Blaze had watched RIA from a distance as she fought her battles. But he knew, he saw, and he understood the fight RIA was waging. Except, instead of a white hat or a black hat, she was embracing every color in-between.

If Blaze was going to be a figure that people could look up to and put their faith in… he needed to start putting his faith in others as well.

“Thanks for meeting me, RIA. I really appr-”

“Screw you.”

RIA cuts Blaze off and the pair sit in tense silence as their server approaches, takes one look at Blaze, and turns away muttering "goddamsonofabitch."

RIA grimaces and shoots Blaze a dirty look.

“So what the hell did you want anyway?” She snarked. He took a steadying breath before meeting her eyes. Cold. Hot pink chunks of ice. Blaze let his gaze drop. This was going to be harder than he thought. But he had to get this out.

“Look,” he began. “I know you still have hard feelings over what happened with Chad.”

"Hard feelings?!" Incredulous anger pours out of RIA. "Motherfucker, I pretty much hate your guts! Do you have any idea what it felt like? He was supposed to put me above anyone else. But any time I tried to tell him you were using him, he defended you! He stuck up for you, even when you were saying shit about me!”

Blaze squirms in his seat, eyes downcast. He knew he still had demons left to fight.

It was proving to be his most difficult role.

“It was messed up. I know that.” Deep inhale and exhale. “I understand that it won't change what happened, but I want to apologize. That's why I got a hold of you in the first place. I am sorry it took me so long.”

Lockhart crosses both her arms on her chest, and her legs. She cast her gaze on the door of the diner.

“It's not easy.” The Psychoberry's voice cracks ever so slightly. “Felt like I might have actually found love and it ended up poisoned. Like, there's a good chance things wouldn't have worked out anyway. But it was like you accelerated everything.”

“Yeah, I kinda took the Blaze name a bit too much to heart, I guess.”

RIA’s attention snaps back to Blaze.

“You think this is funny? Christ. I knew this was a mistake.”

RIA pushes herself violently out of the booth as Blaze stands up.

“Have fun getting your ass kicked by Daytona, you piece of-”

Without thinking, Blaze reaches out and grabs a hold of RIA’s wrist. If looks could kill, the Rainbow Riot would be the featured story on America’s Most Wanted.

“It’s not funny! None of this is…” Blaze says, his own voice now breaking, as he lets RIA’s hand fall to her side. "I know you're still trying to fill that void. How much that hurts. And how much I hurt you in the process."

Lockhart was silent, still refusing to look at him. The seconds feel like minutes. But soon enough, she turns back to face him.

“I heard what you did for that kid at the show,” she says. “The Blaze I knew wouldn’t have done that.”

He looks up, but doesn’t answer - his eyes avoiding hers.

“I’m not the Blaze you knew. I’m… well, I’m not trying to be, anyways.”

He extends a hand outward in a handshake gesture, but RIA shakes her head.

Blaze retracts his hand, but now it’s RIA’s turn to reach out and grab his arm. Her fingernails digging into his skin, belying her now more gentle tone.

“But let’s see what you do next. Then we can talk about forgiveness.”

RIA lets go of his arm and gestures down toward the table.

“Enjoy your waffles, Blaze. I genuinely hope you find whatever it is you're looking for.”

The Psychoberry’s face is unreadable as she steps away from the table. She makes it halfway to the diner’s door before stopping and waiting, seeming to fight every core instinct in her body as she turns back around for one last look.

“And please kick Daytona’s ass for me. Okay?”

Without another word, RIA exits, shoving the door open, causing the bells above the entryway to jingle just as Blaze feels his phone buzzing in his coat pocket.

He reaches down and snags the device and begins to read. It's a text. From Marcus.

"The lighthouse is real."

Blaze looks down at the leftover waffles and cooling coffee... and smiles. The lighthouse wasn't going anywhere - and neither was he.