The Heirs to the Throne in the Unforgettable, Gummytastic, DontSayThatWordBall, Very Great Day

High above the swarm of activity just outside and below, the 18th floor suite in the Conrad Indianapolis was a quiet respite before the soon-to-be hectic atmosphere surrounding Ascension. The floor-to-ceiling windows, which illuminate the space with sunlight during the day, offered a panoramic view of downtown and the surrounding area. Inside, the open-concept layout featured polished concrete floors, matte black fixtures, and a minimalist kitchen with quartz countertops and smart appliances. A private balcony doubled as a front-row seat to the city buzz around the museum district, and the rooftop infinity pool just outside made it feel more like a boutique hotel. Skywalks stretched out in multiple directions, connecting the complex to the amenities downtown. “So wait, Aunt Lindsay is basically totally in charge, but she’s not the Universal Champion??” Cecilia looked at her cousin, incredulous. She was seated cross-legged on the bed, hugging a pillow against her chest. Kaz, seated across from her in an ergonomic desk chair, shook his head no. Cece’s eyes went wide in shock, and she took a hand and made a ‘mind blown’ gesture. “Unbelievable.” “Not everyone in a position of power wants to put themselves right in the center of a company’s main story,” Kaz shrugged; not being a self-indulgent cuntwaffle was a dying art. “Nor do they want to compete for titles. Something about a conflict of interest, I dunno.” Cecilia chuckled lightly. “I know. Good thing, too. I don’t want anything handed to us. It’ll always be hard enough to make our way in the business without having the dreaded ‘nepo baby’ tag thrown our way. It’s just nice to be competing where they make you earn your stripes, no matter what your name is or who you are.”

“Making a name for ourselves overseas first helped.”

“Yeah. Anyway,” she said, shaking it off. “Ami will be there, too. I’m glad.”

Kaz checked his watch and frowned. “She’s supposed to be meeting us here. She’s not usually late.”

“Well, you know what happens when you get a boyfriend.” Cecilia winked suggestively. “Sometimes you wind up losing all track of time.”

“Please never hint at that again where my sister is concerned.” The Heir Apparent casted his disapproval toward his younger cousin. “Unless you want to end up in a dumpster like Fontaine.”

Cece wrinkled her nose. “Uh, no, and thank you.”

A knock interrupted the banter, and Kaz walked over to answer it. He looked through the peephole, and had barely cracked the handle when it was pushed open forcefully.

“ALL RIGHT YOU LAZY LAYABOUT LAZY ASSES, LISTEN UP!”

Ami marched - literally marched - into the hotel room, ignoring her brother that she just squished behind the door. She entered the spacious quarters, her combat boots making dull thuds against the carpet. Once she came into view, Cecilia burst out laughing.

“Oh my God,” the Murder Daughter spluttered between giggles, “what the hell are you wearing?”

Kaz peeled himself away from the beige wall and followed behind his sister. He returned to the office chair and curiously lifted an eyebrow. “Why do you have a riding crop?”

Ami suppressed a laugh as she stopped in front of Kaz and Cecilia. In addition to her combat boots, she wore taupe shorts and an army green boyfriend tank. On her head, a two-size-too-big bicycle helmet had been spray-painted dark green, and the “A” from the Avengers logo was slapped on the front of it. The aforementioned riding crop was tucked in the crook of her arm.

Her brown eyes considered them, keenly. Then, she snapped out of it.

“Oh, wait! I forgot something!”

Ami reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone and a picture of the American flag. She then turned around and stuck Old Glory on the mirror behind her.

“Okay,” Ami took a deep breath and resettled herself. After unlocking her phone and quickly pulling up a pre-saved YouTube video, a trumpet ( … a trumpet … ) line began playing.

Ami saluted.

Kaz snorted.

“Be seated,” the Merry Mischief Maker commanded.

“We are seated,” Cece snickered into a pillow.

“Are you gonna let me do this or not?” Ami pointed at Cecilia with her riding crop and tried to look angry. Kinda hard to do when you can’t keep a straight face.

“Now,” Ami continued, “I want you to remember that no bastard ever won a war by dying for his country. He won it by making the other poor dumb bastard die for his country!”

“Have you been carrying this around with you from Seattle to St. Paul to here?” Kaz reached forward and flicked the side of the headgear. “And where did it come from? Did you steal it from Kerry?”

Ami swatted his hand away. Pretty soon, the siblings were engaged in a hotly contested hand-slapping contest, which then turned into a Kaz-heaving-his-sister-onto-the-bed contest.

“What’s with the Patton cosplay anyway?” Cecilia asked. “You aren't gonna start taking weird gym selfies where you do squats then go running while wearing a weighted camo vest, and post a picture of yourself posing with an AR-15 in your childhood home, and then your grandma yells at you in the background that you better not leave your hot pocket plate in the sink because she’s not cleaning up after you this time, are you?” Kaz frowned. “That seems weirdly specific.” Ami pointed at Cecilia. “Also, no. And, ew. And, I thought you both could use a laugh!” The Pint-Sized Purple Powerhouse takes the helmet off her head, places it on the dresser, then shakes away the helmet hair.

“Look, the Flynn Cup was ass. Between what Ned and the Green Vale Gang did to Mom and Henry, and then what happened with you guys and Glue and then you guys and the Ronin, it was a shitty weekend all around.”

At Ami’s mention of the Rain City Ronin, Kaz’s fist tightened and his expression grew dark. He remembered his heated altercation with Zach Daymon, where more than a few lines got crossed and things got very personal, very fast.

It wasn’t something the Heir Apparent would soon forget. Or forgive.

“Now, you’ve got the Bandits,” Ami continued. She snapped her fingers in front of Kaz’s face, breaking him from his trance. “And I know you’re gonna be thinking about the Flynn, and Dane Bixby getting in your face about him and Antonio losing the Bang! With Your Partner titles to you, and you’re gonna carry that into the fight. And that’s fine and good, use that as motivation, but don’t let that lead to mistakes.”

“She’s right,” Kaz said. “We can’t afford mistakes against veterans. Doesn’t matter what our pedigrees are or who we trained with or what we’ve done in a short amount of time.” Cecilia leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees. “Every single time we get in the ring, we get better. Even the disappointments are leading us to better versions of ourselves. I really believe that. I believe in what we can be. Ami’s right. We keep our wits about us, get in the ring, and apply what we’ve learned. I know we can do this.”

“Not only can you, but you’re gonna!” Ami threw her fist in the air, index finger extended. “You’re gonna hit Hessian until he dies, and you’re gonna throw Gamble like a javelin. And I will stop any premeditated or spur-of-the-moment Banditry!”

“We are gonna have to be on the lookout for Banditry,” Kaz echoed to Cecilia.

Cecilia nods in reply as she looks in Ami’s direction. “I have faith in you. You keep an eye out, and we’ll take care of winning the match. I have a feeling we’re opening some eyes with this match. This is our best chance to make an impression.”

Ami grinned. “That’s the spirit! Now, what do you say we watch some tape and go over strategy!”

Silence.

“What?” Ami exclaimed.

“Or we could….do something different,” Kaz suggested.

Cecilia spoke up.

“I could go for a steak.”

They looked at each other.

Cecilia started rummaging through her pockets. “I think I have about eighty-five dollars here…”

~~~~~~ The chill of the refrigerator’s interior clung to my shell, a familiar embrace. I sat, perfectly poised in my custom-fit blue plastic carton, my Lone Ranger mask a stark, defiant slash across my smooth, featureless surface, a reminder of when television shows actually showed what mattered: good vs. evil, egg vs. crumb, Dharma vs. Greg. The mask, a beacon of justice and unparalleled coolness, concealed nothing, for I had no eyes to hide, no mouth to betray a smirk. Yet, the world knew. The world felt my smirk. Beyond the translucent plastic of my carton, the refrigerator hummed its monotonous lullaby, a dull thrum against the vibrant symphony of my thoughts. Other containers, lesser beings, huddled on their shelves: the milk, a milky white blank slate of mediocrity; the sad, wilting lettuce, an insult to all things crisp; the jar of pickles, their briny stench an affront to my refined sensibilities. None possessed my gravitas, my inherent, unyielding perfection. They were merely ingredients, destined for consumption, and not the kind that killed Doc Holliday; we’re talking full-on devouring and digesting, their existence fleeting and utterly unmemorable. I, on the other hand, was a legend. My shell, a bastion of hardened protein, shimmered under the faint glow of the fridge light, a testament to my superior genetic makeup. Not just any egg, mind you. A hard-boiled egg. The ultimate form. A soft-boiled egg? Pathetic. A runny yolk, a weak constitution, easily shattered. A raw egg? A squishy, formless blob, utterly devoid of purpose beyond an omelet or a batter, a mere precursor to greatness. I transcended such mundane fates. I was complete, self-contained, a monument to structural integrity. My very existence was a masterclass in self-sufficiency, a testament to what a superior being could achieve. The roar of the crowd echoed through my core every time the glorious refrain reached my nonexistent yet fully functional ears. They chanted my name, a rhythmic thunder that shook the very foundations of their pathetic human world. EGG BANDIT! EGG BANDIT! EGG BANDIT! They adored me, of course. How could they not? The way I moved around the ring, rolling to and fro, like an elevated dish in an egg-based brunch restaurant who only wrestled on Saturdays and Sundays between 9am and 1pm. Like a beanbag chair in Bobby Dean's media room, I crushed their spirit under my unyielding mass. It was poetry in motion. And my puns. AHH!! My puns!! ‘You’re walking on eggshells now, pal!” I’d bellow into the microphone, another classic Egg Bandit line. This was gold-standard type stuff here. The crowd would erupt, a wave of laughter and cheers washing over me. ‘Looks like you’re about to get scrambled!’ Another roar. My wit, as sharp as my shell, was a weapon in itself. No one could beat me. Not in the ring, not in a battle of wits. I was simply too cracking good. Good vs. evil, they call it. A simplistic narrative for the simple-minded masses. I was good, naturally. Good at being the best. Good at dominating. Good at making them cheer, or boo, either way made no difference. My opponents? Mere obstacles, necessary foils to highlight my brilliance. Their ‘evil’ was their inadequacy, their sheer lack of egg-cellence. A tremor ran through the refrigerator. The door creaked open, spilling a wave of blinding light into my serene domain. A giant hand, a fleshy, pink monstrosity, reaching in. My shell hardened, not in fear, but in anticipation. Was it time? Was I to be summoned for another glorious performance? The hand, surprisingly, passed by my carton. It reached for the jar of pickles, its fingers fumbling. A low growl, a guttural hum, escaped my non-existent mouth. The audacity! To ignore the supreme being, the Egg Bandit, for pickles! The very thought was an insult of eggsaggerated proportions. The hand withdrew, the pickle jar clinking against the shelf. The light receded, and the door thudded shut, plunging the refrigerator back into its dim, familiar twilight. The hum resumed, a monotonous drone. I sat, unmoving, my mask a silent sentinel. The world was full of lesser beings, of course. It was my burden, my destiny, to remind them of their place. To remind them who truly ruled the roost. They could have their pickles, their wilted lettuce, their bland milk. I had my legacy. I had the roar of the crowd, the shine of the spotlight, the unshakeable knowledge of my own unyielding superiority. I was eternal, my legend uncrackable. I was… The refrigerator shuddered to life once more. Another chance to fulfill my promise? It was the hand again, this time coming straight for me. This was it. It was time. I felt myself rising through the chilled air, the world outside bursting into my vision, which again came through non-existent eyes, because I was an egg. A voice that I somehow realized came from the other end of this hand boomed above me. ‘HELEN, WOULD YOU LIKE A SNACK?!?!’

Wait! What’s this! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!

CRRRRRRRUUUUUUUUNNNNNNNCCCCCHHHHHHH!!!!!!! I just got eaten by a goddamn tiger. Fuck. ~~~~~~ You’ve heard people say they owe everything they are to their parents, or their upbringing, or some combination of the two. When people say things like that, they usually mean it in the best possible sense. It’s meant to be inspirational, but sometimes it’s more complicated. Every life has its ups and downs, the peaks and valleys, the highs and lows. Even now, you feel the need to say it in as many ways as you can, as though people wouldn’t understand. That’s the other thing, we’re so much harder on ourselves than we need to be. We screw up. People screw up. As hard as it can be to forgive someone, sometimes we struggle the most with forgiving ourselves. Family relationships can be complicated. Family doesn’t mean every day is perfect. It doesn’t mean that every member of the family is perfect, or that everything will go exactly as planned. Life doesn’t work that way. It doesn’t line itself up in pretty little rows for you to admire. If you have any wisdom at all, you must plan for every outcome. You have to plan and work, and have an answer for every question before it’s asked. It takes time to figure that out, but we are quick learners. We’ve learned many lessons the hard way and others through circumstance. The best of families rally around each other when one of them hurts or falls, even when it’s self-inflicted. Sometimes tough love is necessary, and sometimes you need a break. But ultimately, the invisible bonds that hold you together remain stronger than the struggle. You can come out the other side stronger than you were before. It brings you back to where you were always meant to be in the first place. It isn’t something you can outrun, no matter how much the struggle makes you want to. It’s good to face down serious obstacles and face the worst parts of you. That’s what you say to yourself. That’s how you soothe the hurt when you’re in the deepest, darkest throws of self-flagellation. ‘What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger’ and other lines of bullshit we tell children to make them feel better. What we so often forget or choose not to tell children is that you can’t become stronger until you acknowledge the mistakes you made to get you into that valley in the first place. Only then does it have the potential to become good. Only then do you see the light at the other end of the tunnel. It doesn’t matter what anyone else did. You can never control another human being, no matter how much you convince yourself otherwise. You can trust in good intentions if you like, but good intentions and a penny will get you a piece of gum in 1972, and neither of these things will do you any good in the here and now. But that’s one of the best things about families. When you do the work and emerge on the other side, you discover the anchors that make it possible to rebuild and grow. That’s when you find out how much better you can be, how much stronger and more you than you ever could have been if you had never hurt to begin with. You can see the difference between a real family and groups of people who pretend to be a family. Smart-assed remarks and egg jokes. A leader that fucks off to God knows where when things go bad. What was it again about self-inflicted trauma? Sorry, s’pose that’s a little judgmental. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. We are in no position to judge. But you have to wonder what your family gave you. If your family leaves you out on a ledge by yourself, scrounging around for scraps and trying to figure out how to keep your head above water, what kind of family is it? Does it make you stronger? Or are you a bunch of birds way too old to still be in the nest, their beaks stretched toward the sky, waiting for mommy to drop another worm? Abandonment isn’t tough love. It’s cowardice. The parallels are intentional. We stand at a crossroads now. We can either bank on the considerable capital in our family names and coast through life, or we can choose to leap from the nest to fly. We choose to fly. We will fly or we will die trying. There’s a lot to be said about knowing who you are and knowing that you can count on the people fighting alongside you to follow you into war if the need arises. There are no cowards in this family, of that you can be entirely assured. This feels like the perfect time for us, time to make an entrance on the big stage. When people look back on this moment, they’ll remember it as the moment we stepped from the shadows against the self-proclaimed best tag team in PRIME and staked our claim to a legacy of our own making, embracing the power we were born into and free from the shackles of a misplaced desire to give even the slightest fuck what you think about it. We are the Heirs to the Throne. This is our moment. This is our Ascension.

ODERINT DVM METVANT