Direct Reply to the Wrong Person (Prisms)

There’s no need for me to be over here anymore, is there? … No, no. This meditation on what it means to be a young man in the Age of Renewed Glue has served its purpose. … The necks Collected, the mlementum that finds new terminal velocities all the time before crashing to a halt head first… this age of Discovery has uncovered much, much about you, and us… much you desire, much to be desired. … I have walked you through prisms. Bending you, splitting you, revealing every buried color within you, without you, brilliant radiance that tears you apart as each distinct aspect of your heart plays center stage; the cold-blooded lizard, the warm-hearted jolfer; the loner who spends untold hours alone in Drippin’ Rooms, the tag team champion alongside someone you never expected to become your best friend; one of the scariest men to enter compete in combat sports, one of the weirdest art collectors who spends Saturdays staring at pictures of birds in a silk robe with a cheap rosè; Farthington’s friend, Farthington’s successor; Rose’s first life raft in PRIME, and the man who has no choice remaining but to sink her not just to the deep waters, for she knows them well (even as she’s nearly drowned there at every turn), but even lower and lower, to the depths, where no light can pass to be bent and transformed by any other prism, where the pressure is so overwhelming it will crush anything ill-made ill-founded ill-minded ill-intended like it was built by OceanGate; without warning and without hope of escape. … You and I, FLAMBERGE, have come to this conclusion together, in complete sync as if we were one mind. And I agree.

We are.

So let’s stay over here,

for good.

…

—--

Strange thoughts started to occur to him; which, ok, fair, that’s not a new or helpful statement in and of itself. Context is key for why these strange thoughts are notable.

There were so many times over the past year-plus where Julien Lavigne felt separated from his body entirely; as if he were an observer, watching the FLAMBERGE show play out from afar, someone else behind the wheel. Someone else fighting PRIME’s finest week in and week out.

Over time, this happened more and more. What once may have been a brief flash of watching himself brush his own teeth in his own bathroom before bwomming back into himself, or a second or two where he was above his very tall hair watching himself walk to his own front door to pick up his own Uber Eats delivery before being very active in the smashburger smashing process, became longer and longer, further and further. He would be outside of his own bedroom window, “able” to see his outside walls (and himself, in bed), separated from what seemed to be a tumultuous experience from his angle.

He’d soon been in other places entirely, without eyes on himself; it would be an awesome dream if it were under control in any way, but control was something he ceded a good long while ago. Over a year, at least.

The first cession came when they destroyed Phil Atken.

The second cession came when he learned about his half sister.

He wasn’t sure what the third was, or if there had even been one.

(Do you actually “cede” anything if it’s just straight up taken from you?)

(In many ways it doesn’t matter, the giving versus the taking, because what’s gone is gone, though it very much matters in one very specific way; a way, which Julien has not determined, and possibly has not examined.)

What he did know is that something had changed. Something under his skin.

It was almost like his two eyes showed him two screens; one within the head of FLAMBERGE, one separated and external. It’s been taking some time getting used to.

Which led to the strange thoughts:

Thoughts related to this whole mess he’s found himself in - with Rose, with his role in the Glueminati, and with the biggest question of them all - what is he?

Not “who” is he - “what”, as “what” is how we ask about items. About weapons.

The flamberge sword, with its waves reflecting the sways of both good and evil making its slashing wounds all the more brutal to behold…

He’s made to annihilate.

Almost custom-built for the craft, if partially by accident;

Ebbing and flowing and twisting, but with a steel heart that would break before it could ever bend.

The back and forth of it all,

the ebb and the flow,

finds itself at its ultimate unifying moment,

picture in picture,

at a place he really first found his cold core’s twin in another…

Where he first met the knife-grinder inside Joe Fontaine’s mind…

Church.

…’s Chicken.

…..

Is this where a visitor should probably go for the very best Southern fried chicken in Atlanta? No, probably not.

But on that Saturday, a couple weeks before Colossus, when he was already overwhelmed by the number of signings and meets & greets and interviews he’d been booked for, he needed something fast, fried, and familiar-ish.

(This would only be his second visit, after all)

(and last time, Sid was there)

(with his smoulder)

(God, that smoulder)

(Julien misses his smell.)

He looked to the menu. Ah, a large meal - he was hungry, this could do the trick.

“Un grande meal,” he said, emphasizing the “e” in grande as a Frenchman might rather than an American who assumes it’s an “ay” sound. A couple pieces of chicken, he figured, and a drink - maybe it would even have a side.

Minutes later, he was presented with the actual contents of a “grande meal” from Church’s Chicken, which is 16 pieces of legs and thighs, three enormous sides, and 6 biscuits. Enough to feed the entire Glueminati, or one Bobby Dean.

His eyes grew wide at the bounty before him, because it was a presented to him on a “for here” tray, rather than in “to go” boxes. In cold embarrassment, he realized there was no way he could just plop this thing in front of him in a booth and not draw attention.

He was lucky, though - in a flash, he realized what he had to do.

He had to accuse the teenager behind the register that they fucked something up.

“Uh, alors - excuse me? I asked for this to go,” Julien mustered in his bassiest Big Deal Pro Athlete voice.

“Oh - I’m so sorry! My bad! Give me one minute,” said the poor kid behind the counter, having not done anything wrong.

This is when it happened.

This is when the ultimate unifying moment occurred for FLAMBERGE. Of all fucking times.

Like two pieces of a fitted furniture joint that you’ve been fighting to put together for as long as you can remember, they finally found the perfect angle and the perfect amount of force and the perfect conditions to sliiiiiiide together, seamlessly joining - maybe forever, maybe even more powerfully than if it were glued.

The voice out of Julien Lavigne’s mouth matched the intruding voice in his head in a way he had never quite experienced in such a lucid way:

“Just fix it.”

A demand. A controlling demand, from a place of wrong, from a place of concealed embarrassment.

Julien’s picture-in-picture flashed the same image on both screens:

An image of Rose.

…

—--

Rose, you beautiful asshole.

This wasn’t how we were supposed to be.

You were supposed to be my mentee.

I offered you that first olive branch in Strasbourg - Strasbourg, mon maison for heaven’s sake, you impossible woman - because I saw someone with untold potential and a complicated relationship with their father who was looking for answers. Two guesses why that would have really resonated with someone like me, non?

And so I opened literal doors for you. I gave you truth, I gave you insight…I gave you a chance that I have never given anyone before, and am disinclined to ever give someone again because of you - I gave you a chance to find answers from the wisest person I know, my mother, Julia. Answers to your pathetic spooky cemetery questions.

The moment I discovered how nonsensical your questions were - this should have been my first clue that you were not to be trusted, because who can trust an absolute loon?

I digress. Ish. Actually, no - I am going to get back to this later, because for fuck’s sake, Rose.

…

You asked me a question with very dire consequences, Rose. You asked me, if Julia was attacked the way Dusk was attacked, what would I have done?

The dire consequences, it is not out of the answer itself. Anyone with an unclogged brain could have expected my answer, which was the punchies and the kickies.

It is from how wildly, violently, catastrophically wrong you were in understanding the world around you.

Your father is a beloved wrestling legend that I hope is able to rest in peace, despite you. Your father did everything there is that can be done in a professional wrestling ring. And for the record, I would absolutely disagree with this next statement, but there are those out there for whom the conversation of “Is Dusk The Greatest Ever?” is a realistic question.

What a man he was, I assume; after all, the one that chose to punch down at me in our one interaction, THAT man was an old has-been who had no business pretending to understand me, as so many grey-headed white men find themselves. But the man who was, the man you and so many of his fans hold onto - that man meant something not only in this industry, but to his family and to his friends.

How blessed you have been, Rose, to have a father like this that you can elevate so powerfully. Do I need to remind you what it is like to have a father who is the polar opposite? A father who believes that breaking your legs will only make them grow back stronger, that hammering down on your sense of self will make you a stronger follower?

I beat the man who did that to me with my fists. I changed him forever. But unfortunately for me, he is still here, this homunculus, this torrential beast. You and I, Rose, we would share the silent prayer that perhaps Dusk and Henri Lavigne could swap places in the grave, but here we are. Cursed with this, instead.

Your father, the great man that he may have been, was once a professional wrestler who was attacked in a professional wrestling ring by professional wrestlers. And you asked me, having met my mother, having stepped foot in my childhood home, to relate to this absurd sob story by imagining my already overburdened mother who has never even seen one of my matches in person, to be attacked.

Dusk competed after that attack, Rose. Dusk carried on.

And as far as I am concerned, all this malarky pointed at Cecilworth Farthington, all this bullshit and undeserved harm you have caused me, and Hayes Hanlon, and Joe Fontaine, this has all been you directly replying to the wrong fucking person.

Sure, Phil Atken is retired, and largely wheelchair bound - maybe I can understand why you would not take your issues of these Dusk-related assaults up with him. He is not in the best state to fight back.

Hank’s the one who decided Dusk’s head was a basketball ready for bouncing. Not Cecilworth. Not even me.

…

You returned my favors to you with absolute treachery.

Never forget, Rose, that you were the one who started allllllll of this.

You replied to the long-forgotten attack on Dusk to the wrong person when you told me to my face that, despite everything I had done for you, despite being the one beacon in the dark offering friendship without ulterior motive in PRIME, that you only “tolerated” me sticking together with my Glue friends, and would only “tolerate” me doing so for so long.

As if I owed you a goddamned thing.

As if you held any power over me.

As if you deserved to talk down to me.

You didn’t just directly reply to a wrong person.

You talked down to the wrong fucking guy.

Because the fact is, even right now, you have no understanding of the person who will stand across from you at Colossus.

You tried to compliment me on the last show. You called me a “future legend,”

When I am already the youngest legend alive.

…

You have truly busted the bolt loose from any lever that has ever held me back in my life.

I would thank you if I wasn’t so furious with you.

And I guess it’s true what they say - you can only be angry with people that you care about. I must have really cared for you to let you into my world, Rose. I must have really felt safe to be vulnerable enough with you to share secret cafes and secret feelings I’m working through.

But I know myself, Rose. I truly know myself now more than I may have ever understood myself before, because I’m finally getting a full view of all of it. The good and the bad. The popular and fun parts, and the dark and brooding parts.

I know what Colossus means - hell, I’ve done things at Colossus that only a select few people in the entire world have gotten to do, Dusk included - and to that end, I know that this is a Life-level punctuation mark on a chapter that I have long felt to be disrupted and deformed by your involvement in it.

I know myself in a way you could never know me.

You called across the ring to me, asking me to imagine what it would be like if Julia Lavigne was under attack, what I might do;

imagining that I might see your light of truth and understanding, that I may come to your side;

maybe even call this whole war off, concede, surrender, and find a way to present you your true prize on a silver platter,

Cecilworth Farthington, my friend,

and if you actually knew me,

the man you would have known is the one man I’m not prepared to allow to fall to any other wolf in this field

besides me…

You called across the ring, asking me to imagine you were right in all this,

that you have been justified this entire time,

that you deserve to break Hayes Hanlon’s ankles and steal Joe and I’s championships and cast a looming shadow on all things Glue;

but as far as I’m concerned, your sheer heartlessness,

your selfishness,

your foolish sense of misguided justice?

You deserve a direct reply of your own.

One that I tried to give to Dusk himself, once.

One that I may have been to gentle, too new, too deferential to truly convey.

Even as this shouldn’t have gone to you, even as we should have been long friends that continued to visit each others’s families, even as I should have watched you blossom into something even more glorious than the blackened Rose you are today, even as in another life you would be the wrong person to receive this message - I give you this reply.

You deserve everything that happens to you next.

Because I’m me. And you’re you.

…

—--

The flash of realization of what was happening right now in this Church’s Chicken hit FLAMBERGE like a shot.

He was quite literally emulating a person he did not want to me.

And what is the best revenge a person can truly get on someone they absolutely megaloathe?

Is it violence? Is it living well? Is it completely ignoring their existence?

No.

The best revenge is to not be like your enemies.

For nearly half a year, this unfortunate enemy has constantly burned a hole in the back FLAMBERGE’s mind - to the point where, as he once texted Joe, murder has become the one true solution.

Not that he’d actually kill kill Rose.

But.

If she’s gotta go, she’s gotta go.

All of her.

Not just her pretty face, not just her treacherous Red Army dealings, not just her popping up in Glue-related activities.

The person she chooses to be has to be gone as well.

Which means…

FLAMBERGE can’t allow the cashier to go through with all this rigamarole.

It’s gaslighting, is what it would have been.

A flamberge sword must ebb and flow above and below such things.

…

“Hey - actually, I have changed my mind. I will eat here.”

“Really?” asked the cashier.

“Ouais. It smells so good, I figure - why wait?”

To just about any outside observer who does not truly know Julien Lavigne, you’d interpret his face to be a genuine warm-hearted smile.

But everything inside Julien Lavigne’s blood runs cold.

He’s an adapter. He moves with his environment. He reads and reacts, he changes the actual flow of his heart as the world around him shifts.

Some might call it dishonest, but it’s really about as honest as FLAMBERGE is capable of mustering; he sees the threats around him, he sees weaknesses and opportunities, and he understands that sometimes, presenting even the slightest amount of humility can diffuse even the most uncomfortable of situations.

“The best revenge is to not be like your enemies.”

Rose could never.

And it is with this sense of self-assured satisfaction, this belief that he and his intrusive thoughts becoming one could be a net positive, that he took a tray of 16 pieces of chicken, 3 enormous sides, and 6 nap-inducing biscuits to a corner booth inside Church’s Chicken.

As he took a bite into a leg, both parts of him nearly escaped his purview, awash with memories of hanging out with two people he genuinely cared so much about - Joe and Sid.

“Worry” isn’t the right word, but there’s “something” there, pulling at him, wondering if the same thing that’s befallen him and Rose might befall him and his Glue friends…

But then he remembered the photoshoot.

The one with Cecilworth, at the manor.

The one after he gave so many thanks to all of his friends in Glue, including FLAMBERGE, who has honestly been giving off a constant aura of buried hostility towards the Universal Champion…

And he worried.

Maybe one day,

Cecilworth would feel about FLAMBERGE the way FLAMBERGE feels about Rose.

Julien knows what he’s prepared to do to Rose at Colossus, and can only imagine what Cecilworth could be prepared to do in the future.

…

And the two screens pressed on,

watching a trim, fit Frenchman housing more and more fried food that can’t possibly be the norm for a man with his abs,

anxious, but trying to hide it,

knowing what the end of Rose might mean

for the future of Glue.