East Hill and The Never Wanted

The first Culture Shock of the ReVival. Relics rarely resurrect smoothly. Thirty-two winnowed to two. The Universal Championship was within reach.

Brandon's mind wasn’t on the culmination, but rather, the shaking, sweat soaked thing before him that chewed through his nails. Hayes Hanlon, prattling on about how a loss for the 5 Star Championship is a living nightmare. Hyperventilating.

“You don’t understand, man! Guys like you were my heroes growing up…”

The Diamond tries to get through. Nothing stops the death spiral. Straighten up. Close your eyes, kid.

The slap leaves with it a thunderclap.

Hanlon reached out, grabbing his shoulder. Panting. Pupils dilated. Flush.

A symbol of good luck. What it was, instead, was a taste from an unknowing enabler. This was the good stuff. In the months after, he'd rattle his tin, fiending for that next bump from the nostalgia corps. Attached to Vega like a hound. scratching the tract marks he'd hidden while The Powers That Be handed him the world.

Does he thresh hooves because having to stand on his own two feet sickens him? Another Culture Shock, and The Tower is tasked with the propping like he did at The Nightmare? He'd already blamed the world, gone Glue. The luster had long since started to melt away.

He'd taken the ride thinking he was truly superior.

Time to pay for the ticket.

Melissa O’Malley watched her son make snowmen in Boyd Park with the other kids from their neighborhood, and for the first time since returning home, felt at peace. She’d grown up in Eau Claire, leaving after graduation. The west appealed, its hooks lacquered with glittering hope. A Midwestern girl singing her song in a sea filled with so many others with the very same resonance. Tables waited and auditions and ‘don’t call us, we’ll call you’ the familiar refrain. Sandy beaches.

Brandon.

The click in her jaw he’d given her would never go away. In the cold, it would ache. In the basement of her family home, the nights were often cold. She'd coming back, groveling for a place to stay, child in tow. Her parents welcomed her, cracks of disappointment marking their charity. Their daughter went against their wishes. Obligation was why they took her back.

Cody was different. He was accepted with open arms. Grandma and Grandpa took good care of him while she climbed from the basement. It took over three years, two of them spent sleeping only a handful of hours a day thanks to night shifts at Lippert Components while studying Radiography at Chippewa Valley Technical College. Alimony and child support helped.

Shame was her chief motivator.

Just over a year at Sacred Heart Hospital. Radiology meant long hours, but within a year of graduating, she was able to buy a house in East Hill. Seeing their daughter so driven changed how her parents treated her. In the years subsequent, they’d whitewash the lean times.

Melissa, with a smile and nod, would never forget.

Such a weapon would end up being her curse.

Cody was past three years old, and when she looked at him, she saw his father’s eye and nose. Dirty blonde peeked underneath his tuque, hanging to his ears. His father hadn't always been bald. Cody asked questions but never about dad. He wasn’t in the picture. He’d never be in the picture. Nursing a mug of hot chocolate, she watched her son waddle, his snowsuit making him a marshmallow of bright blues. He was rolling a snowball as though it were a boulder. Growing. He wasn’t alone. A little girl followed along, helping, pink boots and coat. Her skin was pale. She kept grabbing at his ungloved hands, stopping him every few seconds, and when she did, she tried to give him her mittens.

He slapped them away.

“Chloe is just trying to keep his hands from freezing. She’s such a worrywart.”

Melissa looked over her shoulder. The voice approaching carried a deep familiarity born from those long nights not far removed. “Warren?”

“I thought I recognized you.” The bristle of his mustache bounced as he chuckled. Dark inviting eyes of almond, a buttoned pea-coat, hand in hand with his wife. “Becca, this is Melissa. I used to manage her on nights.”

Rebecca's smile was warm, her freckles stark against the pallor of her cheeks. Her auburn locks were held in a bun with bobby pins. “It’s nice to meet you. Welcome to the neighborhood. Been meaning to give you a housewarming gift–”

Melissa was sheepish, waving her off. “No worries. We’re just trying to settle in. Been unloading boxes...” she broke into a goofy smirk before continuing “and I didn’t take time off work–”

Warren interjected. “Do you need a hand? We’d be more than happy to help.” She liked him. Respected him. He worked with her schedule, tried to keep the workload even. If he hadn’t transferred to first shift, she would’ve stayed a while longer. Asking for help after the last few years? It felt wrong. “I appreciate it–”

“Oh it’s no big deal. Besides...” Rebecca gestured toward her daughter, the small girl jostling back and forth with Cody . “What are neighbors for?”

The Chippewa River was perfect for blending. Nice sight line. Wave of the future my ass. Mirrorless beats DSLR on continuous shots. Fishman was a slob in all but his work, or so he believed. A trick to the focus. Follow along with the kid and the mother.

As long as the checks kept clearing, he’d have no problem continuing, no matter how monotonous it was.

This one has a good look of the kid’s face.

Perfect.

It was the last time PRIME would go to England, and inside Heathrow, Brandon Youngblood did all he could to hide, his hood drawn taut against his swollen eyes. Two fruitless nights. The last true Culture Shock. A goodbye to the Dual Halo all were unaware of.

Good riddance.

His fingers, riddled with hangnails from digging into the canvas, sifted through the ringed binder in his lap. Others seated near his gate studied him, trying to place his massive frame that dwarfed most. Eyes cast down, never up. No need to give reason for someone trying to figure out who he was.

He’d wrestled the perfect match. Had devastated Jason Snow until there was nothing left.

And yet, nothing managed to have something on that night. Taciet is a global leader in security solutions catering to interests in the Middle East and North Africa (MENA) region, with primary focuses in the Arabian Peninsula and the Levant. His eyes scanned the packet before darting over to the photos of his son, playing in the snow with other kids. Blurry. The photographs shared were always so blurry. With bureaus all across the region, contracted employees are given free rein to select operation locations as they deem fit. Skill set and experience come commensurate with matching salary packages. There was no coming back from this. Everything he’d fought for, the Jewel in the Crown, working his way back to the top after five years of toil, to once again compete for the top prize in all combat sports, only to lose. Snow should’ve been left a shambling zombie. He not only survived everything The Pariah threw at him, he’d nearly won the Halo the very next night. Brandon was too focused on failure to register that his Standard of Bastard brother wrestled without his snakeskin boots. Lack of good luck charm or no, it was he who slayed The Original Villain in his very last bout, taking hold of PRIME’s true Golden Ticket. Despite Vangelus Olsig shocking him and the world, he wasn’t going anywhere. The pathway to another Universal chance was immediate. Whether providing security solutions in hostile territories, or limited scope military and police aid, contracted employees are given best-in-class benefit packages that include generous life insurance policies. Tired, aching, brutalized exhaustion. They didn’t know he was through, and at that moment, neither did he. An Elite Championship contest with Jared Sykes, Violence Jack, and The Back Alley Brawler. He’d tear through them as a marauding suplex golem, and then, his own boots, the title belt, left behind in a private locker room. His Life was a lonely wreck filled with anxiety and liquor and bad dreams of cigarette burns and his father sexually assaulting him in the basement while his mother listened from above. She never did anything to stop him.

At least in the ring, he thought, he was fighting for something that mattered.

Greatness.

What use was it to keep fighting if the standard he sought was vapors?

He never wanted a child, had made it clear with Melissa. He tried cloaking the lack of desire as a part of professional ambition. I won’t continue the cycle of abuse. So why was he so interested? Constantly fed information, growling at the poor quality of the pictures before him? After that night and the divorce...if he was going to have a son, the best he could do was be absent.

Give him a true chance at freedom. Safety is paramount to operatives as well, and given the line of work in this field, state of the art research and investigative resources are on hand and part of compensation. Work with the knowledge that your loved ones at home are safe. The world came and went around him, and for the first time since touching down in this godforsaken place, his interest was piqued in something other than the narrow purview of wrestling. State of the art meant better quality pictures. Fishman was discreet but in just the past few months, the quality of his work was amiss.

A notion percolating. Affairs would need to be put in order. A careful accounting.

Then, Brandon could disappear.

The seasons change. Melissa’s peace grew in a prosaic life. She earned it. Welcomed it. The long shifts at Sacred Heart were slowing as she gained more seniority. Cody was in kindergarten and looking more and more like his father everyday. He smiled a lot and laughed. He was a happy boy.

East Hill was a wonderful place to raise a family. The Tarvish’s lived four houses down at the corner of Harlem and Fenwick. Rebecca was a homemaker and delighted to watch Cody when Melissa’s parents were unable. Friday nights, Cody stayed at Chloe’s.

The Tarvish household always was buzzing, teeming with life.

“How serious is all this, Warren?” Rebecca’s voice was shaky as she looked from the dining room window to the driveway. Chloe had asked Santa for a basketball hoop. Santa wasn’t sure what size ball she should get, so she got both. She liked the smaller one for shooting, but the bigger one for dribbling. Cody ran around, flying toward her, falling for her little pump fakes. And when he’d land, she’d look at him, laugh, and muscle up a shot, most of them hitting the garage door.

Paper plates, napkins, and Capri Suns. Stuffed crust pizza, and it was getting cold. “Every few years, they talk about moving all operations to Indiana.”

Another pump fake. Cody didn’t bite this time. Chloe was trapped. With a strong slap, he got the ball free, and when he grabbed hold of it, dribbled it by slamming the heels of his hands against it. She was able to poke it free with ease. “And what if it isn’t?”

What could he say? “You want to call the kids in or should I?”

“Mister Youngblood–”

“It’s Brandon.”

Andrés Guerrera snorted, his mustache flaring. He was less than impressed. Hanging behind his desk was the flag of the United States Marine Corps. ‘Obama Abandoned Iraq, Romney/Ryan 2012’ yard signs were strewn about a leather couch set by a nearby wall. “Are you sure about this? Your recruitment profile has you pegged for more of a...brand ambassador role.”

Whiskey had kept the nightmares away, taken away the stench of his own burning skin. The fogginess, though, was unacceptable in the final throes of arrangements made. Lindsay Troy had asked him to come to Chicago for PRIME’s final show. What a wonderful place to say goodbye. A vacation from the liquor, then. He’d never realized how bloated his features were until he suffered its absence. “Didn’t know private military did that sort of thing.”

Guerrera was younger than him by a good decade, but his eyes were far more hardened. “We’re security, not private military.”

“I didn’t want to do this to play babysitter for celebs high rolling in Qatar or the Emirates.” Brandon brushed his drawn hands. He’d dressed reasonably for the affair. Crisp polo shirt. Khakis. Nice and tight. Leave an impression of put-togetherness. “I’ve worked on my marksmanship and fall under the top percentile. I excel in close quarters combat.”

Thumbing through the profile before him, Guerrera’s eyes scanned over the measurables. “You aren’t oh-three-eleven or oh-three-seventeen.”

“I didn’t serve–”

“You want to go to Syria?”

“There’s an Arab Spring after all–”

There was no hesitation from Guerrera. “Are you fucking stupid? Nobody is going to Syria. Christ, you seen what’s going on in Aleppo?”

“They’re shelling civilians–”

“They’re. Shelling. Fucking. Civilians.” Revulsion dripped from every word. “It’s a fucking warzone. We don’t send people to warzones–”

“People there need help. Figured maybe FSA paid–”

“So you want to work with fucking al-Qaeda? Like fucking really?” He rose from his seat. “What do you know about the region?”

Youngblood sneered. “Not much.”

“Stop wasting my time–”

A growl. “Stop wasting mine.” He rose to meet Guerrera, towering near six inches above. “I know Taciet doesn’t work Syria. Not anymore. But we do work Pakistan. Karachi and Quetta, specifically. Some in the tribal belt. I don’t give a fuck where, but that’s where I want to be.”

Looking up to the Pariah, Guerrera scowled. “You know the area?”

“No.”

“The language or the customs?”

“Don’t want to know.”

He couldn’t help but laugh. “Got a death wish or something? Don’t want to pay out a life insurance policy for your suicide.”

Youngblood merely nodded in riposte. “Sign off on it if you want. Like I give a shit. I don’t need your money.”

And so we send off the Revolution, and with it, PRIME as well. A coin to mark the occasion, rested in velvet. The company’s logo was minted upon it, as was its slogan; Number One By Definition. On the back, an offering of peace to the hallowed ground taken far too for granted. Being on your stage means the world to me. Brandon Youngblood The will and the trust fund were set up. Automatic payments set up through bank accounts so all alimony and child support payments would be delivered on the dot. His business was neat and tidy. Affairs in order.

All that was left, now, was to die.

Time passes. So does Fishman. Complications from Type 2 Diabetes. The Youngblood job had stopped over a year before. He’d lost his foot within the weeks after.

No evidence left. It made for a beautiful bonfire.

“And in developing news, Lippert Components says, while downsizing operations at their Eau Claire plant was within the company’s budgetary plans, they are dedicated to remaining in the Chippewa Valley. CEO Jason Lippert, in a statement—” Cody doesn’t bite on the pump fakes anymore. Chloe had to get separation off the dribble. Steph Curry, thankfully, showed the way .

“I’m just shocked, guys. Half the workforce, just laid off?” Melissa handed a cup of tea to Rebecca. Travis was in the kitchen, washing dishes from dinner. No more long shifts. She fiddled with the onyx stone of her engagement ring. A date just upon the horizon. “That’s hundreds of jobs.”

“It wasn’t such a shock,” Rebecca’s bitterness spread before her first sip. “And with what we’re hearing–”

Warren was always one to stay the course. “Look, it’s about flexibility. It’s temporary. Times are a bit lean in the RV industry, but the deal is, we need a new plant–”

His wife was having none of it. “The other directors talking like that?”

“You should get your resume sorted. Just in case, you know?”

The kids didn’t laugh much anymore. Friends competed hard against each other. Cody was already a few inches taller than Chloe. If he took after his father, his temperament…

Thankfully, her growing boy wasn’t a sore loser.

“I’m fine,” Warren waved them off. “It’s all going to be fine.”

Fishman wasn’t state of the art. ‘Ariel’ was. That was what Brandon knew her by. And her communications always got through, regardless of whether he was in Peshawar or Lahore or Karachi. The years had not been kind, bleeding together in blood alcohol and sweat pits where he fought because, maybe, just maybe, the person across from him would get lucky and snuff him out for good and all.

Years of heat. Of learning how to stitch his own wounds through needlepoint from a stove burner. In the last six months, he’d lost near forty pounds. His issued dress was starting to hang from his frame. The only salve strong enough came from the bottom shelf. Such needs had blunted his palette.

‘Ariel’ provided another of her encrypted reports. Fresh photos of his growing son, the ex-wife thrown in for good measure. Unlike Fishman, ‘Ariel’ was thorough. Her voice was gruff. One of the few things she shared was her love of unfiltered cigarettes from her time in reconnaissance during the War On Terror. She never said where she served. “Kid was almost bit by a dog the other day. His friend got him out of it. Told him to play dead. Your son is lucky.”

He’d learned about the Tarvishs only through happenstance.

“Appreciate it.” he winced, pressing an ice pack against his bruised ribcage, ‘Ariel’s’ crinkling audio filling his apartment in Halar Garden West. It was night and the fans ran on low. Not three days before, his arms were outstretched and welcoming because he was sure he’d found what he sought. A Kalashnikov and a group of merchants dealing with insurgents in Balochistan. They fired and hit him square, dropping him to a road of stone and rubble. And when he realized he was still breathing, despite the pain, he heard them laughing. He’d refused to learning the language. Their broken English made due. “No piss!” Like a chant in a Pentecostal church. Even the merchants couldn’t help themselves, pointing to his crotch in wonder. A badge of honor.

“Know it’s not your business, but your kid? His friend?”

“What about her?”

“He might need to start making new friends.”

Something primal wrenched him sober through the miasma of ache and stupor. Something...parental. “What do you mean?”

“The mom is out of the picture. Maybe for good, hard to say.”

Beads of condensation rolled down his ribcage. “And?”

“The utilities are past due. The mortgage is three months behind. And the kid? She’s staying with her father.”

He couldn’t help his mouth from growing dry.

“No lights. No heat. It’s Wisconsin and it’s the fall. Put two and two together.”

For a long while, he sat there. He’d never wanted children. His surveillance was rooted in knowledge, nothing more. Why did any of this matter?

Why, then, did he find himself caring?

It was the first time in forever that PRIME came to England, and inside Heathrow, there was nowhere for Brandon Youngblood to hide. Invigorated, he strode through the terminal with purpose, head held high, flash bulbs popping as the throngs of media tried to grab their soundbites, just as they had done with others as they descended for into London before moving on to Cardiff for Culture Shock. The reporters and paparazzi rifled through their questions in rapidfire succession, indistinguishable from each other.

Prominent was the shirt the Tower of Babel wore. In the past, Brandon made a habit of using merchandise as a way to make a statement. The year previous, it was ‘Freshly Squeezed Inhuman Being’, a play on Matt Ward and his The Orange motif. This one wasn’t as overt. Simple black, with a photograph spread across the chest; Hayes Hanlon in a neatly pressed dress shirt and rolled sleeves, arms folded across his chest, his countenance peeking toward the horizon. Was he standing within Cecilworth Farthington’s hedge maze? The shrubbery was dangerously close to licking The Event Horizon. In the top left corner, ‘The PRIME Tribune’. Midway down? “My Next Chapter”, his name emblazoned underneath with the moniker ‘The Third Wheel Kid’. His signature was spot on. If one looked close enough, they’d see his tie was dotted with multiple Elmer the Bulls.

Hayes Hanlon claimed himself above all.

Fine then.

In Kansas City, The Diamond killed a dream to achieve his own.

In the United Kingdom, he would spread the ashes to impart the same lesson Snow had taught him fourteen years prior.

Such was the measure and burden when you are the true standard.