All His Engines

Chapter 1: The Shadow Of A Dream

You know the accusation.

Always the same, rarely any deviance. Sometimes the scorn is light-hearted, and sometimes it's as smugly malicious as the best preening, self-satisfied critic can muster. But it's those same words, every time.

Don't you know it's all fake?

I wonder what they would say, if they came into this world. If they saw just how…malleable the concept of reality is. How little their insult encompasses our truth.

This is not an easy world. An easy road. It has no mercy and less kindness. It will gladly devour you whole, spit out the bones, and grind them under its heel, like it has done for countless hundreds and will do to legions more. If the people who set out on it knew this, I suspect our numbers, and the tragedies to go with it, would be considerably fewer.

Yet we do. Sometimes, we even reach our dreams.

I have not. Not yet. But I've made it further than most ever had. The fact that that puts me in the position of a nameless extra in a silly skit is irrelevant. I'm at Wrestlemania, the grandest stage of them all. It may as well be a universe away from the small gyms I started in, a mere five years ago.

It might be the closest I ever get. A WWE development contract means little. In this company, you can damn yourself before you even get started. Any sane person would seek out a more stable life, a less perilous road. Most don't because they don't understand the larger aspects until it's too late.

I always was thought to be too smart for my own good.

My name is Astyanax Bleak. I'm currently backstage in the Allstate Arena in Chicago, this April 2nd. At least, as fitting as it was on that particular date, I don't feel as much as a fool as I did yesterday when I drove through Indiana with two very gassy co-workers to get here on the vague possibility we could get used. Not in matches, of course. As background detail. It's Wrestlemania (22, to be specific), and the spectacle (and the tiny roles needed in some parts of it) must be high. Triple H is getting dressed up as a damn barbarian king, for crisssakes (I really hope he doesn't carry his ever-present water bottle out with him when he makes his entrance with that, it's little details like that that can turn something from different to absurd), and I saw Rey Mysterio walking around in some giant bird headdress earlier. I think he's supposed to represent some kind of Aztec god, but he comes off as more of a giant chicken from the wrong angles. He should have stuck with the superhero theme he used in years past, if I may offer my own private opinion…

Oh, wait, you say. You question my name? You probably are thinking 'All right, then, you gave us your ring name, now please give us your real name'. Heh.

That is my real name. I had it legally changed. It's on my driver's license.

So perhaps you ask…why, oh why, Astyanax, would you take such a ridiculous name?

Well…

This business, this stage…it's all about the story. We all have one. And you, it seem, will be privy to mine.

I will warn you, it could take some time to tell. That's not what concerns me though.

My concern is whether anyone would pay money for it.

Like I said before.

This world is more real than most could ever grasp.

And its reality…is often all of your world.

Wrestlemania 22. April 2nd. The Allstate Arena, Chicago, Illinois.

"It's amazing." CM Punk said, staring at the monitor backstage as the match played out on it. "He's wrestling a sixty year old man, and he's making it entertaining."

"He's Shawn Michaels, Punk. I don't think he can have a bad match." Astyanax said, playing with his shirt collar. A small part of him regretted having cut his black hair short, but Astyanax had been picked to be a part of the main event (in a sense) where some of his fellows had not. Some had driven further than him to try for it. Any complaints the young man had about the haircut that had come with the selection were minimal, and being kept to himself.

"You should stop screwing with that. You'll piss someone off, and it's not like anyone came to this event to see you." CM Punk said.

"I suppose you're right…" Astyanax said, abandoning his efforts. Picking up a nearby towel, he dabbed at his forehead, hoping the relatively low amounts of sweat he'd emitted would be the trend. "So…we're supposed to be Prohibition-era gangsters."

"Yep."

"To contrast warrior-king Triple H."

"Yep."

"…Is Cena going to be wearing a zoot suit too?"

"Considering he's being fitted over there, doesn't look like it." CM Punk said, gesturing with his head. Astyanax followed the motion, his eyes settling on the WWE's heir apparent down the hallway. As it turned out, he was wearing his usual jean-short and T-Shirt combination; apparently he was going to wear a long coat over it along with a hat. And, based on what he was currently hefting, part of his entrance included a tommy gun.

"Oh no, he's armed and he's going to shoot everyone who booed him!" Astyanax said with quiet, light sarcasm. CM Punk smirked briefly and went back to watching the in-ring match.

"You clean up nice, Punk." Astyanax commented, briefly looking at his fellow wrestler's be-suited form.

"Don't tell the ladies."

"Like that would change much of anything." Astyanax said, before turning back to the mirror. Despite his best efforts, the thought that the shirt wouldn't provide the coverage of his neck he wanted ate at him. Maybe too much; his dark, semi-boyish, semi-rakish were starting to become pinched from the stress.

"Told you you shouldn't drink so much caffeine. It's got you all skittish." CM Punk said, though he didn't look away from the monitor.

"If you start on another straight-edge spiel, I will again remind you you have the Pepsi logo tattooed on your arm."

"Again, touché, and get some new material." CM Punk said.

"Maybe later." Astyanax said, checking his watch. "How much time you think the Triple Threat will go?"

"Dunno. Might cut some stuff due to the intros planned for the main."

"You know, if you get hired here proper, you're gonna have to stop doing the Pepsi Plunge."

"Good. I need my knees."

"Can this small talk get any more banal?"

"Knowing you? Probably. You love to ramble Annie. And I have had my fill." CM Punk said, getting up and rolling one of his shoulders. "Gonna head over near where we were told to meet up, wait there. See you."

"Later." Astyanax said, continuing to stare at the mirror. His reflection held no answers. A faint sound of music filled his ears; Michaels had apparently won his match. No real surprise there.

"…Ad astra per aspera." Astyanax said.

"A rough road leads to the stars." Another voice said. Astyanax recognized the voice, and he swallowed slightly, turning around to address the speaker. Despite being roughly the same height, Astyanax felt overwhelmed by the presence of the man. Even battered and still smelling faint of smoke, Mick Foley's 'aura', for lack of a better term, was not dimmed in the slightest.

"…yeah." Astyanax said. "You speak Latin, Mr. Foley." The lack of a question was purposeful; Mick Foley may have been one of the nicer people to hang around, from the little Astyanax knew, but he was still a twenty-year veteran who people had paid to see, while Astyanax was some random punk the hardcore legend had deemed to speak to after overhearing him say something he'd memorized from a calendar. As far as Astyanax was concerned, Mick Foley could speak every language in the world. That was the way it went, and Astyanax knew that.

"A snippet or two." Mick said. "You in the business, kid?"

"…yeah."

"Good words to know. Keep them in mind." Mick Foley said. A voice called from him from down the hall, and the legendary wrestler gave the young one a brief nod before moving on. Astyanax didn't know whether to give himself a private cheer or hide somewhere. In a business where you were repeatedly dropped on your head week in and week out, it was weird what could cause nervous stress.

"…well, I guess that phrase a day calendar wasn't a complete waste of three dollars after all." Astyanax said, and went looking for the nearest bathroom. He wanted to rinse his face before the chance was lost to him.

It didn't help his nerves. The whole period of time that followed, meeting up with his fellow 'gangsters', given a prop tommy gun of his own, and instructions on what to do for the entrance, passed in a blur. When Astyanax was in the 1930's car, Triple H's music thundering through the arena, it remained, a coiling twisting cold, right in the center of his being.

Until the entrance started. Until the metal ramp way rose, allowing the car to drive out. Until the doors opened, and the 'gangsters' within stepped out, performing their small piece of gathering around the ring, like they were scouting and providing support for Cena.

The man's music started. The audience reacted. Cena emerged in his weird hybrid outfit, firing his gun before heading down to the ring. The cameras had stopped paying attention to Astyanax and his fellows then, focusing on the proper, actual main event.

In the view of the public…the knot untangled. In the moments he had, Astyanax took in the sea of faces. The pinnacle of the spectacle that was professional wrestling entertainment.

He had but one lone thought, as he headed backstage. It followed him all the way back to his cheap motel, and all the way down to his sleep. He hadn't really had the feeling when he signed his developmental deal. There was a 50/50 chance that such a thing would be just a piece of paper in the end, and that provided little motivation.

But being out there, in his small role…was all that was needed.

Three little words.

I want this.

You are here now. Will you deem to listen?

This is my story. In the shadow of a dream. A dream shared by many, and achieved by so few. The odds don't favor me being among them. No matter my talents. No matter my desires.

That may be its history…but I know my own lessons of history. The history of this business, and history overall.

Whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad with power.

The mills of God grind slowly, but they grind exceedingly small.

The bee fertilizes the flower it robs.

…When it is dark enough…

You can see the stars.

Writer's Note: This is a story I've pondered a long time, and have finally decided to try and write. To do so, I will have to take wrestling history as we know it, and sometimes make alterations, large and small. I will attempt to keep within the realm of realism with these changes, or as real as pro wrestling gets. Also, I will utilize both the characters of the wrestlers, and my best approximation (which might be utterly wretched, but I am only human, with limited information) of what the men and women behind the roles are like. Sometimes in that regard, I will sometimes be idealistic, and sometimes cynical. If you have any suggestions or information sources, I'll be glad to hear them.

Here we go. I do hope you enjoy the ride.