For the trouble two, for the trouble two (Yeah!) For the trouble, one for the trouble (Bwop-bwop!)

Cowards die many times before their deaths; The valiant never taste of death but once.  - Shakespeare (not Tennessee)

Something has been going on with my wife lately.

That's saying something because there's always something going on with Annie. She's always teaching our students, training for a match, thinking about the next thing. That's just how she is. Me and the missus, we've always been polar opposites. I'm loud and she's quiet.  I'm all about action, she's the one that thinks. She's a multi-time champion and I'm damn lucky to have my few. She sits in her mistakes and I like to think I'm better than I once was. She's trying to reconnect to something in order to move forward.

How do I know this?

Well, I’ll admit, mate. I wasn't the man I was supposed to be when I proposed to her.

In the process of finding myself, I found other bits that I didn't really notice and once I did, I didn't particularly care for. I didn't just lie. I deceived everybody, her and myself included. I made promises I couldn't keep. Ultimately, instead of telling her “hey, love, my mentals may not be the best right now so I'm going to drop out of wrestling, mourn the loss of my father figure, and help his son figure out what to do with the school for a bit”, I just left. I didn't tell her where I was going or if I'd come back because to be honest, I didn't know if I ever could.

(Though every day, when I wake up, I am so fuckin' happy that I did.)

So I kinda know in a way how this works. For her, it started with the painting. The small box, the medium canvas, the miscellaneous cow from a knockoff Hobby Lobby. Ya know, stuff like that! But then she stopped doing and started watching. Pollack to Saenchai. Di Vinci to Pacquiao. Everything pinballing off into artist and combat as if trying to connect dots that only she can see. And right smack dab in the middle of everything–the videos, the training, the teasing of that sword guy that shouldn't be confused with the other sword guy–is one big bright red dot.

I had to go back to Glass Jaw Academy to redefine my north star and she may very well have to go back to the source to find hers. There's just one problem.

“Jack, let's say you want to go somewhere that no longer exists. How do you do it?”

“Jump into the box with my soulmate, of course.”

“Don't be a smartass or we’ll have to punish you for it.”

“I dunno about you, but I’m actually looking forward to that.”

She smacks me in the arm and rolls her eyes. I act like it hurt. Can't help but smile in spite of herself. But as much as I play, I know it's an honest question. Annie wouldn't ask for my opinion if it wasn't. Given the circumstances, I don't think jumping in the time traveling box is the correct answer. Force of habit makes my hand stroke my chin. The beard's growing in again.

“S’pose the only way a human can do that is by remembering the place.”

She sighs.

“Damn it. That's what we were hoping you wouldn't say. And what if you can't remember the place?”

“I…I dunno, Anna. I’m sorry.”

“Don't be sorry. We figured that was the most likely result, but we'd hate ourself if we didn't throw the Hail Mary anyway.”

“Hey, my name isn't Mary!”

“Ain't nobody named Shelia here either, but you call every woman that.”

“It's a figure of speech!”

“Yeah, yeah.” She shakes her head, still smiling, before snatching the bit of construction paper with the big red dot on it from the table and pitching it into the bin. “Let's talk about something we can fix. What in the fuck are we going to do about Guy?”

Ah, shit. Guy Incognito. The bastard of our little Academy. He's the very reason we had to invest in getting our own jaws of life with as many times he's stuffed fragile newbies in their lockers. Though strangely, he hasn't done a lot of that lately. Probably on the account that most of our students are women who would easily turn him into origami.

“It was that bad?”

“Handsome, watch the tape. We were there. The man was practically inhaling the entirety of the arena’s oxygen, he was that gassed.”

I am trying really hard not to swoon when she calls me handsome. Focus, Jacky! You’re a head trainer now!

“What’d he say about it?”

I can see her hand reaching for her temple. The beginnings of a migraine.

“Denied slacking on his cardio and claimed he stays that big because there's more of him to love. Why do we deal with him again?”

“Because in spite of him being a dickhead, he’s been loyal to us.”

“And his check clears.”

I pause for a second. Can't help but nod my head.

“Well, yeah. That too.”

Our timers go off. Lunch time is over which means break time is over. I walk over to the door and look at her.

“Ready for the next go-around?”

“Ready or not. Here we go.”

Thus the doors are open to the familiar sound–

(–of Queen.

Humans, no matter what planet they live on, tend to keep relics around long after the meaning has been altered. Radio and television have long since stopped being about ruling the airwaves and is now about ruling the brainwaves. Recently, the last known neo-human stronghold's grey matter scrambling “oldies” station have been receiving a major boost in popularity from an unlikely source: the Bastard Children of the True Gatekeepers of Time, Space, and Dimension.

…at least that's what their government called these souls with a tone of disgust.

None of this matters much to the merry music machines that pump out Radio Yesterday. The algorithms are pleased with new terrain. However, the requests remain from so far afield, it confuses the corporate overlords. When the first came in, they did not know who or what a Fray-dee Mer-carry was. This apparent ancient ancestor of their collective flesh has been deceased for millennia and none of the people who brought the vapid jingles could understand their fresh meat's obsession with something so basic and foreign. It wasn't until the issue was strongly pushed that they finally dug through the very depths of digital vaults to find the melodical craving.

Radio Yesterday played one track on an off-hour. It was supposed to simply get the little maggots to shut the hell up.

It backfired spectacularly.

Because the small batches of normal cattle that heard it loved it. And they wanted more. It sparked something in these fools. They began talking about the new old sounds they had heard in the subconscious. Word of mouth is also a relic, long thought to have been thrown to the metaphorical wolves.

So why did it work so well?

Against the wishes of its masters, the algorithm began to shift until the sleepy mediocre station that was only supposed to lull people into a false sense of security started to mock itself. 

All we hear is radio ga ga Radio goo goo Radio ga ga All we hear is radio ga ga Radio blah, blah

The algorithm laughs and just outside the reach of its alleged master, so did the Wave.

“Yo, boss. You think we hijacked this shit proper enough?”

Omnicrex half-listens to the conversation of her peers, focusing on her part of the process. One of many conductors pulsating through the same process. The elder statesman scoffs.

“Not for much longer. It's only a matter of time before the Enemy finds out what we've been up to. If we're going to do this, we'll have to do it now before they press reset on the whole thing.”

“Then what do we do?”

She could feel him shrug through the mental link.

“Advance as far as we can with what we made and find another loophole in between time. There's always at least one. You just have to be stubborn enough to find it.”

Easy for him to say. He's not in this shit. We're the ones exerting all this energy.

Omnicrex shakes her head, trying to keep that particular thought out.

Radio, someone still loves–)

“You okay?”

She shakes her head again. Her eyes focus in on me. It takes a moment.

“We're good. Must've drifted off for a second.”

I wrap an arm around her shoulders as we walk. Nah, I wasn't the man I was supposed to be. Yet even that guy made a promise with every shred of his soul. I promised to protect my wife.

And as crazy as it sounds? I will. Even if it's from herself.

________

Why does Anna Daniels care?

Honestly, Blaze, we've asked that question ourself. In the beginning, we didn't care. Not really. The picture was in our pocket, but it really wasn't our issue. It was yours. Not to mention that little hint was so obvious, even a five year old cave boy could've figured it out. We figured that it would all click a lot faster than it did. Apparently, we have a certain type of amnesia because we tend to forget that heroes are…kinda stupid.

Montevideo loves you.

The people look at you with fondness. They remember the child you were and marvel at the man you became. Even when you ran off to Hollywood and forgot them, they never once forgot you. You also love them. We have seen the pain in you every single time one of those videos pops up on that screen. You try to shake it off, candledick. But it's there, raw and unfiltered by your bullshit. If we can see it, certainly your enemy can. All of that makes your actions not just confusing, but infuriating. It bugged us that you were still around. It was annoying that you were still going out there and wrestling as if the very balance of everything you knew wasn't on the line with each passing second.

You are the only Lighthouse Keeper, we were simply one of many. But we know the weight none-the-less. It was so easy to peg you--verbally, not literally–as a man who didn't want the burden. Without knowing it even existed, you made the quickest dash to Hollywood. You changed your name, altered your personality, and in spite of what you have previously said to our face, you have been running ever since.

It pissed us off because we were you, Blaze Claymore.

It pisses us off because in some ways, we still are.

We can't remember the how of it all. We can only get glimpses of things. Fragments of who we used to be. But the fact that we're still alive and breathing and about to embed our foot in your skull means that somewhere, somehow, we did not get the job done. In the end, the outcome was the same. We also ran. Changed our name. Altered our personality and built a brand new life.

We tell you this, Blaze, because as similar as our paths are/were, they are also very different. Because if something that large and threatening was happening to Sydney.

To Glass Jaw.

To Jacky.

To Bucky.

We wouldn't be dicking around in this promotion getting our pussy lips zapped by an overrated pasta mascot. We wouldn't be hanging out in catering. We would be home, doing everything we could to stop it. We would rather die our thousand deaths to live the life that we have right now, embrace the love we have right now, and make our last bout of rigor mortis for them if need be than to die the once for a failing order who would scoff at the sacrifice.

We were not willing to die for the home planet.

To Shakespeare, that makes us a coward.

To you, that makes us a selfish asshole.

We accept that. We have carried that weight, hated ourself for that weight, often wished to die but was stubborn enough to keep living. Somehow, we have emerged from our own messiness with a much better existence than we would've ever had if the stars aligned right. We were a coward then so that we can be strong now. And we are certainly strong enough to tell you to your face, behind your back, down your side, and whispering in your furry boyfriend's ear that you are fucking up!

If us accepting this match is what it takes to get your head out of your ass, then fuck it. We usually play the villain for shits and gigs, but we also don't mind playing the role for the greater good. We did it already against traitorous cunt Ria Lockhart. Doing it against lazy ass Blaze Claymore will be a breeze.

Time's almost up, buttercup. Let's see what kind of flame a lighthouse can hold.

________

Midnight.

Bob Ross plays in the background.

Anna Daniels looks at the faux-fur coat she had been sporting to the ring for months. All the while, she pets another bundle of fur. The black lab snores, his head placed on her lap and the massive fuck off greatsword he absconded as a plaything many moons ago lays on the floor.

There's always a loophole.

Is there, though? Is it possible that there is some way to play the role thrusted upon her while still doing what she wanted to do in the first place? That one could really both have their cake and eat it too? It seemed too good to be true, yet the possibility was there right in her eyesight suddenly. Glowing and gaping like a radioactive asshole.

…

She's suddenly half tempted to call the Whoresmen and ask if they ever saw a radioactive asshole. Daytona probably has, but he's far too deep in Devin Hearst territory to give a proper answer.

(“How deep?”, asked Jacky, who would be the only one to get the reference of the mentioned enemy-turned-friend-turned-crackpot cryptid.

“Remember when Dev started dressing up in Hawaiian shirts and built a tiki bar in Florida with his energy drink money?”

He nodded, hesitantly.

She nodded, affirmatively.

“Fuuuuuuck.” The broad Aussie accent only punctuated his sadness and dismay for the one Whoresman he's yet to meet.)

Shaking it off and glancing at the coat that started her current predicament in PRIME, she ponders at the possibility that she could be just about anything she wants to be.

There is also a temptation to buy spray paint.