The 11th.

Back in ‘85.

“YEEEEWWWW!!!”

A holler, followed by a splash, sending a jolt through his spine.

A gangly teenager, forcing himself to climb. To clamber against wet rock.

Cheers and roars from leapers and on-lookers.

Step by nervous step, climbing higher and higher. Until the precipice. The ledge.

To the leap of faith.

Back in February.

Wade’s sharp blue eyes squinted with intention, flicking like a clock dial from left, to right, right, and left again. He rested one of his paws against the base of his nose, with a studious frown behind his grayed beard. Size fourteens planted firm, his other arm against his hip, Wade stood as the absolute picture of an old redneck in deep contemplation.

“So…yer tellin’ me all’ve these are a diff’rent color?”

Baiylee (yes, you read that right,) a young associate for Byanca’s Bridal (you read that right, too), could barely believe what she was hearing. Or seeing, for that matter, as Wade’s rugged frame stood in stark contrast among the dozens of wedding gowns, balloon archways, and an endless display of napkin, silverware, and centerpiece options.

“Ohmygosh, yes,” she insisted, whirling to showcase the tablecloth choices resting on five round tables in front of him. “These are extremely unique colorways, curated by Byanca herself!”

They were beige. All of them were beige.

“Fer fuck’s sake,” he mumbled, pushing a paw through his hair. “An’ how much?”

“To rent? $200 per night.”

“Hmm, well that ain’t too bad…”

“Each.”

Wade jolted like somebody pinched him in the ass, and he gave Baiylee a double take.

“Jesus!” he pushed, nearly choking. “Tell me yer pullin’ my damn leg!”

“Um, no. Absolutely not,” she replied with sarcastic sincerity, pushing straight, platinum blonde strands over her shoulder. “This is Byanca we’re talking about.”

“I’m in the wrong damn business,” he grumbled, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Sorry fer wastin’ yer time, but this shit’s makin’ my damn head spin. Have a good one.”

Wade offered a nod and made a quick exit onto the street, his steel-toed boots on a b-line for his truck parked nearby, but not before Baiylee chased him out the door, calling after him.

“SIR! YOUR WEDDING NEEDS THESE TABLECLOTHS! THIS IS BYANCA’S!!”

Wade pivoted on the sidewalk, and threw his hands up.

“WHO THE HELL IS BYANCA!”

Wade slammed the door to his truck, and let the back of his skull fall against the headrest. He wasn’t cut out for this shit.

While the ‘Bama Bruiser had managed to overcome his fear of flying to propose to his Queen in Barcelona, he had opted to stay behind while PRIME traveled to Australia and Japan. Baby steps. He didn’t have the palate for Japanese cuisine anyway.

No, better for Wade Elliott. The Bad Dog. The Son of a Bitch himself, to stay behind on land.

And plan a wedding.

What a brilliant idea that turned out to be.

But it had to be perfect. She deserved absolutely nothing less. The food, the band, the bar, the guests, even the god damn tablecloths. Everything had to be nothing short of spectacular. Lindsay had been through an annulment long ago, and a divorce with Tyler Rayne. Wade would be her third husband. He couldn’t do anything about that.

But he would damn sure be her last.

And that just had to start with an unbelievable wedding. It was a pressure he couldn’t shake. The Bold Move at Colossus in 2022 had set this phase of their relationship in motion. The flight to Barcelona last year put his hopes and dreams on full display. The wedding, the sharing of rings and vows, would be the follow-through.

And there had to be follow-through.

The old man took a deep breath in through his nose and pushed it out slowly, his head tilting to look out the window. Excited as he was to marry Lindsay Troy, there was a guilt; some sort of imposter syndrome that always leered nearby. Their friendship had been on full public display for six years during PRIME’s ReVolution era. The ups, and very much in particular, the downs. So many mistakes. So many awful things said.

Why a woman like Lindsay Troy would marry the poster child for learning the hard way, he may never truly understand. But the clock was ticking. And there had to be follow-through.

He pulled his phone from his pocket and clicked her name on the phone. He wanted to hear her voice.

One ring.

Two.

“Shit.”

He hung up.

“Gotta be three or four in the mornin’ over there.”

He sat and thought a moment, trying to bounce the anxiety through his knee, before turning back to the phone. A text would have to do.

these wedding shops are fuckin scams

gonna try some other ones tomorrow

He pressed “send,” and that was enough. Wasn't it?

No, you fuckin’ moron.

hope your getting some good sleep

the dog misses ya

How about that?

Smarten up, dumbass.

Wade pinched his lips, silently reprimanding himself as he tapped into the phone screen.

i miss ya

get home soon

That’ll do, right?

Sure.

Dumbass.

“What’a’bout September? Anythin’ there?”

Wade hunched over the coffee table, phone tucked between his ear and shoulder. Pen in hand, Wade scribbled and scratched at a notebook, the handwriting of which had worsened gradually, not that it was all that great in the first place.

“Not one damn weekend? How ‘bout October?”

He stood, rubbing the back of his neck, pacing around the living room.

“That ain’t gonna work. Shit.”

Koji yawned from the corner of the couch, resting his furry head against the armrest with a heavy puppy-sigh. The kind that only an unemployed canine living in a relatively lavish home can make. Wade rolled his eyes.

“No, that’s alright. Thanks fer yer time.”

The Bad Dog ended the call and tossed his phone to the cushions, sitting back down heavily. He dragged his rough hands over his face. He felt stuck. And tired. And wished he’d had just toughened up and got on the goddamn plane. But someone had to keep the dog company.

The buzz of the phone, as always, provided a short interruption.

He grabbed it reluctantly with a gravelly groan, and squinted his eyes as a message from his wife-to-be popped up on the screen.

let henry in

Confused, Wade sat up, turning his broad frame toward the front door, where the Sky Captain himself stood peeking through a window, waggling his fingers.

“WAAAAADE! IT’S ME, HENRYYYYYY!”, he whisper-yelled through the glass.

“Sonnuva bitch…” Wade mumbled to himself, caught off guard. He stood, gathering composure, and took steps toward the door.

“I see ya, I see ya. Ain't like yer tough to t’miss.”

And indeed, this man was a lot to take in.

Henry Keyes, aka Lindsay Troy’s Bestie, aka Co-Consul of Vae Victis, aka The Kraken, fka The Airship Pirate, was a rare man to run toe-to-toe with Wade Elliott in terms of size, strength, musculature, and also graying Zaddyism. There were some stark differences, the most obvious being their fashion sense. The Blue Collar Brawler wouldn’t be caught dead with the ostentatiously formal steampunk-adjacent pink winter coat covering what had to be the tightest and deepest v-neck pale blue shirt J.Crew sells. Nor would the Bad Dog trim his facial hair so precisely - well, not until about a week before the wedding. He’d have to tidy up, at least a little bit: prove to his bride that just because he doesn’t often want to, her groom can wear the hell out of a suit.

Wade opened the door, and after one of Henry’s famous Squeeze The Life Out Of You bear hugs and the execution of an elaborate secret handshake (one where Henry clearly led the way, with Wade’s hand just along for the ride), Keyes sighed, and beamed widely.

“Wade, my friend, I heard the great news from Ms. Troy, and I’m here to help!”

Wade pulled his hand back and shook his head, still unable to take in the absurd spectacle of a man that was Henry Keyes.

“Fer fuck’s sake, Henry, what news?”

“She told me you picked a date! July 11th, I love a Friday wedding - really weeds out the people you wouldn’t have wanted to show up in the first place.”

Color drained from Wade’s face.

July 11th.

What Henry probably didn’t know was what that date meant to Lindsay and Wade. It was the mark of the very beginning of their relationship. July 11th, 2006. Where Lindsay Troy and Wade Elliott tagged up to defeat Devin Shakur and Nitz Donnelly at ReVolution 133 in Los Angeles, after a long drive following a fateful missed flight.

Days on the road, where a long friendship would spark.

Days on the road, where he fell in love. Whether he knew it then or not.

And of course, Wade had thought of that date, but he figured it wouldn’t be enough time. She deserved it all. Lord knows she didn’t get her dream wedding either of the first two times. And five months? It just wasn’t enough. Couldn’t possibly be enough time.

He shook his mind free, the words were now pouring out of Henry like water from a burst pipe, and he certainly had missed more than a few.

“- so Caterer Plague Doctor can definitely work with whatever menu options you prefer, and I know you’ll love this part - we have an ‘in’ with the best butcher shop in San Francisco. He gets so much business from us on account of Helen, and he really takes care of us. Now, there’s plenty of places we can land her, but we can’t land her everywhere, that will have to come into consideration.”

“Caterer Plague Doctor? Land her? Who th’hell is ‘her?’ Th’hell’re you carryin’ on about?”

It was Henry’s turn to look surprised.

“Oh Wade, I thought she told you - I’m here to plan your wedding in the Airship!”

If there was any color to remain, the rest of it faded quickly from the Bad Dog’s face.

“C’mon, now! Nut up and jump!”

A gangly teenager, standing, and shaking, at the edge. Blue eyes scanning. For reprieve. For escape.

River rushing, twenty feet below.

Knobby knees on the verge of a quiver. Breath quickening. Toes clinging to slick rock.

Spectators nearby, hooting and hollering. Egging him on.

“Jump, you fuckin’ pussy!”

Jump.

“GO ON!”

Jump.

“DO IT!!!”

JUMP.

“We can’t git married in yer…airship, Henry.”

The two silver fox zaddies had made way into the kitchen, bourbons in hand. Henry lifted surprised eyebrows behind a sip from his glass.

“Wade. My dear friend. I am absolutely insisting.”

“No. Lissin,” said Wade, holding up a paw. “I’m tellin’ ya I can’t.”

The Bad Dog breathed through his nose while Henry tilted his head quizzically, leaning against kitchen island, waiting for Wade to elaborate.

“Sonnuva bitch,” Wade muttered, averting his eyes to the lawn through the window where Koji wandered, sniffing and surveying his property. “Henry, I’m…”

A pinch of the eyes, and one more sharp breath in the nose.

“I’m ‘friad’ve heights.”

The Kraken blinked twice. Wade’s words hung pregnant in the air between them.

A quiet, solemn silence of admission.

Until he burst out laughing.

“BAHAHAHAHA!!! Wade, you cannot be serious!”

The Southern Sparkplug threw up his hands at the bellowing Airship Pirate, doubled over. Wade swallowed his bourbon, and immediately pulled the cork for another hefty pour.

“Wade Elliott! The feared Bad Dog! Afraid of heights!!”

“Yer a real asshole, Henry.”

Henry took a moment, drying his eyes, doing his best to regain composure.

“I mean, correct, but - look, I’m sorry, truly I am. But Wade, didn’t you fly to Barcelona to pop the question?”

“Yeah I fuckin’ did, but at ‘least I was able t’drink myself stupid an’ forget the whole damn trip! An’ that ain’t gonna work fer our goddamn weddin'! On a goddamn airship! Whatever th’hell that is!”

A confusing moment for the 'Bama Bruiser. Henry and Wade had been friendly since PRIME’s return, regardless of their clashing…styles. The Life Partner and Work Partner relationships have had healthy boundaries set from the beginning, and even though Henry is so close with Lindsay in his own way, he was never any sort of “romantic threat” to Wade (we can just call it, “she’s not Henry’s type” for the time being). Still, in all the places he could have been in the hard life he’d lived, never once would he expect to find himself in a kitchen, with an eccentric so-called airship pirate, talking about planning a wedding to be hosted on said airship.

Whatever that is.

“Wade, my friend. My boon companion. You’ve cheated death, yeah? And you’ve beaten the likes of Brandon Youngblood. And maybe hardest of all, you’ve earned the hand of my Bestie, Miss Tr - ah, sorry. I know that puts people off. You’ve earned the hand of Lindsay.”

The Bad Dog calmed a bit, nodding lightly as Henry placed a hand on his shoulder.

“What’s a little air time in the face of all that? We’ll take care of you. I’ll take care of you. And you won’t even have to know we’re ‘up’ unless you really want to. Please. Let me do this for you both.”

The ‘Bama Bruiser breathed in heavily, and exhaled long before downing his glass.

“Son of a bitch.”

A gangly teenager, retreating down the rocky path. Laughs and jeers ringing in his ears.

Unable to leap.

Snorts through the nose, staving off tears. Fingers gripping the rock tight. Toes flexing and clinging.

It’s okay. You don’t have to jump just yet.

But you’ll get another chance, someday.

So don’t fuck it up.

Just jump.

“Th’hell is this match all about?”

Wade scratched Koji’s neck with one hand, his phone held in the other. He sat comfortable on the couch, feet kicked up on the coffee table as the sun dipped over the mountains through the window.

“Don’t question my bookings,” Lindsay chided, her voice coming through on speaker phone.

“C’mon, Lindsay, the guy sells sandwiches fer a livin’. What th’hell’s he even doin’ on this roster?”

“Ughh, if I hear that question one more time…”

He could hear her fall against the mattress of her hotel bed. It made him smile, imagining her curls bouncing against the pillow for what was certainly well deserved rest.

“Alright, alright,” he conceded, taking a sip from his nearby bourbon glass. “Still, don’t see why I’m th’one that needs to give ‘im a whippin’.”

“You’re exactly the one who needs to ‘give ‘im a whippin’.’ Because apparently he doesn’t think any of this is real. Who better to give him the wake up call?”

Wade grunted through a sip, and rolled his eyes.

“That, and I clearly needed to get you out of the house and distract you.”

“You coulda given me a lil’ bit more warnin’ ‘fore sendin’ Henry over,” he said.

“Not exactly his style. But I’m glad you talked. What do you think?”

“I think you need ask yerself if all yer friends are right in the head,” he snorted, crossing one ankle over the other.

“I have. Like, all the time. But, they’re still here. And Henry has an airship.”

Whatever that is.

“Yeah, let’s do it. Let’s let the crazy bastard run th’show an’ watch me shit my pants ten-thousand feet in the air.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

"On the 11th."

"The eleventh," he nodded.

They shared a short silence over the phone. He could hear her shift against the sheets.

“You know I don’t give a shit about the tablecloths, right?”

He smiled wide behind that grayed beard; magnifying the crows feet next to his eyes.

“I know…” he said.

“...it’s just gotta be perfect.”