I Always Got You

After so long, this...anticipation. Dried saliva formed a speckle across the back of Brandon's tongue, mucus a sludge lingering behind his uvula and over his tonsils. Electricity surged up his wrists and forearms, finally settling in his shoulders. Sweat fell from his brow to the steel mesh at the foot of PRIMEView's approach. The seconds drawn out, waiting for the clarion call to begin his descent toward the ring for the first time in over a year.

On the other side? Maximillian Wilhelm Kael.

BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD

SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE

LET THE GALAXY BURN

His right hand reached for the curtain, but then, he stopped, pulling back and drawing his knuckles level with his chest, his eyes scanning across them.

“My hand’s broken.” His tone was matter of fact. SoFi Stadium. Colossus. Coral Avalon and The Main Event and The Universal Championship. The professional goal from day one all the way back in 2005.

One never imagines themselves the loser at the end of their life’s work.

Forever may the King of Conquerors reign.

Youngblood’s singlet straps slapped across his thighs with each step forward across the concrete of the back-of-house corridor, his sweat drying finally some fifteen minutes after the final bell. Event staff and production littered the spaces, each appearing to be within their own worlds save momentary glances toward the man upon which The ReVival orbited. None of their stares lingered long.

Why risk his ire?

Amy Campbell didn’t ask how he knew; instead, she lent him a shoulder upon which his massive frame could rest upon when his steps grew uneasy. The size differential was comical given that he was near a foot taller and over a hundred pounds heavier than her.

Nobody knew how much weight those knees could support more than him.

“What about your neck?”

His left hand instinctively reached for the back of his neck. “No numbness in arms or legs.

The Red Raver inquired deeper. “Did you see stars?”

“I saw a big blinding light, but only after it was over.”

“Not what I meant, and you know it, especially after that UltraViolence concussion.” Her tone was stern. “Getting another one of those, after...whatever the fuck that piledriver...thing...was...”

“I’m...” he interjected. “...not fine. The adrenaline high is wearing off. It’s just...after everything that happened in there–”

“You did your best.” An gentle pat of his abs. “Nothing to be ashamed of. It took the best Coral Avalon there’s ever been to take you down–”

His progress stopped, his right arm bracing around her neck as he hunched over. She readied nervously for the collapse. The pause, however, was brief. Within a moment, he found the strength to straighten himself out, standing upright and firm.“I’m proud of what I did in there. I’m proud of him. Everything I’ve ever wanted PRIME to be...we just accomplished it.”

She knew how much this match meant to him. This moment. Beating Avalon would’ve cemented his status as the greatest wrestler in PRIME history. A third Universal Championship reign. Beating the only man who had as much as defended the title in The ReVival more than once. “You were so close, that heel hook at the end–”

“Hand was broken.” He tried to clench the fingers of his right hand, but failed. A hiss sizzled from his lips. “The kick, or those stomps...if I couldn’t do it, only guy who could would’ve been Cecilworth–”

“He’d have had his hand broken too–”

“Nah,” he cut her off. “That’s different. That mother fucker is a goddamn T1000. As long as that hand wasn’t pulp, if he still had his tendons...his grip strength would’ve been the difference. I lost the ability to torque–”

“And if you hadn’t?”

“Then Coral would’ve had to make a choice.”

The conversation acted as cognitive test. “That’s pretty cold, with a baby at home and everything.”

There was no hesitation in his response. “It’s only as cold as the decision he would’ve been willing to make. It’s the sport. He knows that. He respects that.”

“Yeah?” Passed, with flying colors. “And there’s always the next time.”

A pause. Was there a next time? For three years, one of the spectral questions underpinning The ReVival was when Brandon would retire, and at times, he did more than stoke the flames; he danced across them, drawing all the attention he could. What a more fitting coda to The Tower of Babel; the Heavens, finally reached, only to sundered and all within its walls scattered across the lands. Everything he sought of PRIME to be was now truly realized. He didn’t have to be the only one to carry the mythical standard. His head rang and his hand pulsed, but his mind was clear. “Yeah. There is going to be a next time.”

“And I got you,” she affirmed. “I always got you.”

Everything you’ve built your life toward, only for it to crash in the end. That’s the fertile ground, right? That’s the zig everyone expects because, while I might have been gone since Colossus 2024, I sure didn’t lose awareness. I watched. I read. I studied. Not in the traditional ‘study the tape’ sense. No, that’s the tunnel vision that lulls people into thinking they’re getting the full picture.

Here’s a full picture of Max Kael; for the last two years running, this maestro of stirring shit has spent his every waking moment in PRIME getting his fingers into the pies of everyone. A rabid dog chasing cars who acts as though he’s a master puppeteer, manipulating all on his marionette strings. Nothing is sacred to him. I got the enjoy the time share; mind you, mine was merely ‘the stalking my son and threatening to kidnap him but not following through’ package. A little spice to rattle you in a wrestling ring.

As a treat!

Go down his rolodex and party favors, and it has to be hocus pocus and the spookies because when it comes to the wrestling, there’s always got to be a caveat with someone like you. 

So, the zig thing I’m supposed to do, coming back to a PRIME ring after over a year, is to wallow in losing The Big One and how can I rebuild myself and my legacy and my goal is to climb the mountain top to once again be Universal Champion and you’re just a bump on the path toward that goal–

Fuck you.

That’s the easy road, and for truth, I’ve seen an entire roster of wrestlers who have gotten really damn fat eating from that trough of slop. And why not? When you're rattled, you feel vulnerable. You get the bad brain and it starts asking questions. Doesn’t matter what you’ve accomplished. 

That’s the price of having self awareness.

I always got you.

It extended beyond Centinela and the overnight observation. It’s waking up with a woman still wearing your shirt and because, despite going back to the AirBNB in the Hollywood Hills with the infinity pool to get your CPAP machine, she was more interested in getting back to you than changing into a fresh set of clothes.

He peeled away his nasal pillows, sitting up in his electric hospital bed. His first steps were ginger, his entire body screaming from deep pains born out of righteous combat. She was cuddled into a ball on her easy chair, a weighted blanket covering her entirety, her mouth open and dried drool licking down the corner of her lip.

Non-displaced transverse shaft fracture of the second, third, and fourth metacarpal. The volar splint, strangely, was PRIME blue. His thumb brushed away the flecks of her dried saliva, and in response, she offered a groggy groan.

I always got you.

Eight years ago now, but seven years before, he returned from Karachi. Back home, and despite notions about Klamath Falls, he was still without a true home. Amy Campbell was the third woman he visited; Lindsay was the first because of how she’d helped him Grow, and then there was Melissa, but that would be hard To Relive, To Forgive. “You don’t even look the same,” she joked as she pushed through bite after bite of alcatra. Thousand Oaks. She didn't live in Los Angeles anymore, instead having settled in Agoura Hills. Good. LA wasn’t a place for fond memories for either of them. “Cribbing the whole Christian Bale The Machinist look?”

“Doing great yourself, what, with all that fawn walking on the way over.”

“I’ll have you know,” Amy started, bending over and reaching for the cuff of baggy camouflage utility pants and showing the cause. Post-Op brace. Extender. “You’re talking to a brown belt in Brazilian Jiu Jitsu and former SCCW Universal Champion–”

“And how’s that going for you?”

A roll of the eyes. “It isn’t. Probably where the whole wrestling and the like journey ends anyways. Oh well. I did my time, and somehow I’m still alive. Cie la vie.” She shrugs. “It’s what I get for jumping off of so many damn things. Would still like to snowboard though. And roll.” Another bite of steak. “On the real, though? Don’t sweat it. I think you’re kinda cute. Don’t get too big of a head over it, though.”

“That why you sent an SOS and opened up communications after all those years?” Picanha and a side of caramelized bananas. After treating the hookworm and giardia, his appetite had more than returned. “Oh, how I missed your sass.” Sarcasm, yet underneath, he meant every word.

“Sure thing, Baldo.”

“Make sure you don’t fall over when you got to take a piss.”

“Would you rather I came in with my cane like I’m a damn mémère? Give you some Werther’s from my purse?”

“That’s more of a Grandpa kind of thing–”

“Then I guess I want my butter candies now, then.”

He snerked. “Fuck you.”

I always got you.

The cane was real, laid out in the back seat of her Renegade. At the time, he had a choice of where he could be. He’d already taken in a senior rescue in Cheddar; he would do the same with her. The arthritis, degeneration in both knees. Knee replacement. Just lay there. A fitting punishment for her Dead Man’s Hand sins. For what she had done to so many people. To Jared.

He wouldn’t let her.

“Just stop! Please! I…I can’t!” Her sobs bellowed from deep within as she tried with all her might to keep balanced on the barbell plate on the rubber mat.

The sweat poured from him in the fluorescence, metal screaming from the speakers. “Hinge! Chest forward! You got this!”

Her forearms shivered as she locked herself in place. This was the worst pain she could imagine. No. This was worse. Napalm to the nerves. Nonstop. “Fuck you! I HATE YOU!”

But she did just as he instructed. Single leg squat. And he would do the same. Every day. Whether it was in the gym she’d neglected for so long or paying for her platelet-rich plasma treatments. He was rebuilding his life. Melissa and Cody. And whether she wanted it or not, he was going to help rebuild her too. “You’re getting on those slopes again! You’re getting that fucking black belt! You hear me? Amelia Grace Campbell! You’re going to do this!”

Fuck you.

I hate you.

I always got you.

He eased himself onto the toilet, relieving himself. It was only after he’d done so that he realized the cost of Colossus. Right handed, not left. “Fuck.” He slumped, trying to figure out how he was going to manage...this. But then, he looked at the sink countertop and saw salvation; a hygiene wand with a wipe already attached. He nearly knocked the note held underneath the handle as he reached for it.

I don’t have an issue wiping your ass. That said, I’d rather prolong how long it might be before I have to do so. Through thick and thin. Don’t worry. I got you.

I always got you.

Aimz

I used to be so focused on legacy. Pressure forges Diamonds. Real on the nose. But I thought it had to be that way. I have the metrics. Nobody has won more in the history of PRIME than me. I don’t beg for Universal Championship shots; I go out there and I beat them out of people. 

I beat them out of you.

Honestly, that whole manner of pursuit, where every match and moment is a referendum...it’s exhausting. See, I am aware of just who and what I am. But for a long time? I sat there, and I needed the unanimous affirmation that I was the very best. How can someone claim such without empirical proof? 

And that’s the problem…

See...people like Ivan Stanislav, or Alexei Ruslan, or Hayes Hanlon...or Max Kael...that’s easy chum in the water. You don’t need to kidnap my family and leave them comatose; you can accomplish the same rattling of the cage just by storming into my hallowed halls with muddy boots and shit up the place by saying ‘nah’.

Like you know.

Like you matter.

You disingenuous pieces of shit.

Every moment in the ring with you is waiting for the next deception, the next gimmick within a gimmick. Here you are, on The News, hands out, begging. 

Pleading.

Please...give you the right to fight for the richest prize in all of sports.

And what do you get?

You get what you asked for.

You get me.

Months later. The splint was gone. Recovery was going well. Culture Shock was on the horizon. For a moment, there was an itch. But then, it went away. For too long, Brandon had been following where his instincts took him. Uncertainty and doubt in the ring, a constant myriad of obstacles to rebuild life on the home front. While he’d righted his wrestling ship by the end of the year, the cost at home was beyond taxing.

“So...Coral is done done? Like for real done?”

A quiet moment, spent in their living room in Eau Claire. Midday Friday. ReVival 64 on the Ace Network. Anna Daniels was about to take on Asher Creed. The event wasn’t live; even if it was, he had zero interest in watching this bout. “Maybe? I haven’t really thought about it.”

A partial lie.

Something else had been gestating within him. He had every intention to get back in the ring, it was just a matter of when.

But it couldn’t be the same.

He couldn’t be the same.

The motivations, the sensibilities, the weight. Without knowing it at the time, Avalon had provided him a gift; clarity. Ivan Stanislav might well be Universal Champion, but Brandon knew, deep down, his reign was merely transitory; Cecilworth Farthington was about to make his ascent. Max Kael had spent an age trying to end everything to do with The Financier. Betting lines placed The Blackheart of PRIME as the favorite. Heavily.

Vegas lost their ass.

Despite the bumps in the road, to not just survive, but surmount that crucible? To stare down...blood? Were they blood? It doesn’t matter. Through all the gaga, the weirdness, the psychological war games...Farthington came out on top.

The sport of professional wrestling won.

It always would win.

Brandon could come back and be what he was, of that he had no doubt.

No.

If the same sentiments and motivations guided him, he would have rushed back to the ring, splint over hand, into 2025. Tower of Babel. Rage and war and fight. Manhunt was there, ripe for the taking. But he wasn’t ready. There was so much more to do. To learn and study. To strengthen and reflect upon.

The maelstrom was dissipating and his life was healing, and when he looked at Amy, what she’d been through, what they’d been through, and how it was still the two of them, beside each other…

I always got you.

“Amy...” he began, “will you marry me?”

His question didn’t register at first; it was only after a few moments that it landed. The shock made her words soft as powder. “...what?”

There was no pomp, no circumstance. He put down the grippers in his hands, walking over to her seat, stooping to his knee. “Amy, I’d like you to marry me.”

The vibration of her eyes. Heterochromia. Blue and brown. A quiver followed by a stammer. “I don’t...I...what...”

“We’ve been together almost a damn decade now. Wisconsin doesn’t recognize common law. Cody is eighteen so he has access to his trust. I...it’s what we’ve been for a long time.” He knew it was a risk. A change in terms. There was baggage here. Neither of them had much luck when it came to their love lives.

That was, until they’d met each other again. “Are you...do you seriously want–”

He nodded before she could even fully get out her question.

“Yes.” Instantaneous. “Fuck. Yes.” And then, she began to chuckle. And laugh. He joined in. That’s when the tears hit. Happy. Overflowing. For several minutes, that’s what occupied them. It was only after the pains in their ribs settled that they were once again on speaking terms. “Yeah...um...I don’t want to do the whole...you know...”

His hands swallowed hers. “I don’t either. I don’t want to go through the fucking rigmarole–”

“A dress–”

“Who to invite–”

“–I mean, I had a really good one when I walked down the aisle with Darcy–”

“–you look better now.”

A squeak. That one caught her square in the chest. She was having trouble maintaining her breathing. “What about the...what about the rings. And the ceremony?”

“We can call the courthouse and schedule something for next week. As for the rings...don’t worry...I think I got an idea you’ll love.”

I’m your speedbump to your next annual goal, yeah? 

How's that worked out for you in the past? 

You don’t have another son in your ‘collection’. Farthington is alive and breathing and is the Universal Champion and reigning Wrestler of the Year and a Hall of Famer.

So I guess this is part of the zig where I say it's likewise. Where I say you’re the first brick in rebuilding The Tower of Babel. Hell, I could entertain that you’re a very appealing piece Jiles could pick for this Squad Goals Match...because I sure as shit would never pick you.

No.

No more towers.

You’re not a bump in the road to beyond. I am focused only on you. Are you going to try and sell the world that this time is different, that you’re a better version of yourself when we faced off over a year ago in that Iron Man Match? What trick will there be up your sleeve to build yourself up? The Max Kael gimmick then was that he was more in shape than he ever was. He carried himself with power, chin up, resolute. Wilhelm Kael. We had just gone through Hell in that three way at UltraViolence, and were left with only a pregnant pause as a result. 

A better version of yourself.

ha 

Nobody in PRIME has pinned me four times in the entirety of their career. Legends. Hall of Famers. No. One. You did. In the very opening moments of the match, you annihilated me. Two falls. Right from the jump. Hoyt Williams cast me out of PRIME. Jason Snow cemented himself as The Undefeated Champion upon my shoulders. Phil Atken crushed my nose and used my blood to make the Glue of today. Ivan Stanislav tore my tricep and left me wounded. None of them did what you did to me. I spent thirty minutes chasing you down, fighting against the tide, against the clock, trying to run you down. 

And I did. 

Just barely.

A better Max Kael? My mouth waters at the thought of wrestling that. I don’t need a championship on the line. A place in the pantheon? 

Here’s the zag. 

I’ve been there and I’ve done that, and I’m the best there’s ever been. I’m not interested in climbing mountains or building monoliths.

I’m fueled by something more.

The art.

The skill.

The process.

The pushing of the sport of professional wrestling, the greatest form of combat the world has ever known, to its maxim.

I’ve strode across every bit of this world.

Now, I seek to mold it and shape it into something greater. 

Something beyond. 

You’re not in the way; you’re a part of that. If all that you can think about is a title match...if all that concerns you is your vanity...well...you’ll always view Siberian steel as warm and welcoming compared to what awaits you in the Arena Coliseo.

Are you ready?

Rise.

Right hand. Her penmanship formed across the band of his ring finger. .

Amelia Grace Youngblood

He gave her signature a kiss and threw back the curtain..

This wasn't a welcome to the new era.

This...was going to be something more.