the beating of a million drums

Hey, Micah. It's us. Anna.

It's been a while since we've talked. Several years, in fact. That day when we were bleeding out on the checkerboard floor and you stepped into the Stargate to fuck knows where. We've tried hunting you down after everything got settled, but it doesn't seem like you want to be found which makes sense. You gained your peace with the chaos, saw that escape route, and went for it. If the roles were reversed, we would've done the same. And it wasn't like either one of us knew how it all was going to go.

Even if we found you, you wouldn't know it was us anyway. We don't look the same or sound the same. Odds are neither do you. You do have our spermdonor's blood and just because you were born on Earth doesn't mean anything. Sometimes, we wonder if Lisa kicking us out of Wrestle Heaven kick started our regeneration gene. We don't know.

A lot of things have happened, ya know? Underground X is dead. eWo is dead. The worlds have moved on from the days of murderous puppets and ultimate survival. Shit, we're pretty sure Simon Kalis is finally dead. None of us thought he ever would die. Norton, too. But he always did look like a STD-riddled melted wax figure. And don't even get us started on the Carny Pro stuff. We can go on rants all day about Nirvana's shit. We've won a metric asston of shiny titles. The biggest and best thing is that we got married.

…

No, seriously. We realize this is an imaginary phone call, but we can hear you laughing. It's not funny! We think you would like Jacky though. You liked Lochlan Marta, for fuck's sake, and that man was an absolute space case. Jacky's a bit more grounded, a bit confused at the moment on who he is. But he's got the spirit and we love him and

We're moving on because we're not about to get all mushy on a pretend call.

We don't think about you as often as we should, given you're our brother and all. Many people would think we're an asshole for that, think that we should obsess over the ending of our story. But you wouldn't want that, anyway. You'd roll your eyes and tell me to get the fuck over it as you blare whatever hipster music you had a hard-on for that day. Besides obsessing over the could'ves and should'ves doesn't mean anything. The time we had is the time we had.

We can only imagine the things people would say about you now, Micah. Probably the same shit they said back then. Prick. Know-it-all. Most likely you'd rip them a new asshole verbally with enough snark, venom, and quotes from the books you were reading to melt steel beams.

Perhaps it's not such a bad thing being the way we are, you know? People throw around words like “aloof” and “distant” and “uncaring” like they're bad things when the truth is there's worse things to be. They didn't get it then, they don't got it now, and that's okay. Those people won't hear our song and they won't see you holding us. Stuff like that has to be earned. It's meaningless otherwise. If only we figured that out before saving the world. Then we would have more to give.

But again, coulda woulda shoulda.

We guess that the point is for now, in this moment? We kinda miss you, shitlord.

…

Ah well. We're off to listen to a man sing Frozen.

Have fun doing whatever you do.