Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Author Note: Set after Never Compromise 2013 and before Pro-Wrestling Day 2014.
A QUEST, OR SOMETHING LIKE IT
So it's Scott and Shane, a car full of crap and Shane's snoring. Situation pretty normal then. Scott and Shane have been a constant in each other's lives, side by side, since they were eight years old. Shane hasn't shut up since. Scott smiles fondly and glances over at his best friend whose head is bobbling backwards, his mouth open with terrible wood-saw snores. Scott snorts with laughter and reaches for his half-full can of Pepsi. He knows he's fucked in the head because right now he's finding both the sight and sound of Shane endearing.
He can't remember a time when he didn't find Shane endearing, what with Shane's almost-permanently wide eyes, his machine-gun-fast talk, his broad shoulders and soft but athletic figure. Maybe endearing isn't the right word. All Scott knows is that he can't help smiling when he's near Shane and that he feels like something's missing whenever the two of them are apart.
And here they are now, on the crazy road to finding Archibald Peck, and some answers too hopefully. Maybe they'll actually meet up with Icarus along the way and swap stories. Shane makes a wet swallowing sound and jerks in his seat. He rearranges himself, his head now falling against Scott's shoulder. His seatbelt barely contains his bizarre posture but Scott doesn't wake him up.
They'll end up back in Canada at some point where they'll stock up on Tim Horton's and the Great White North's crisp perfect air. Shane will scream sonnets to their country's greatness and they'll probably fuck in one of Canada's superiorly decent motels. Scott likes being held down by Shane, he likes Shane's strong hands pinning his wrists and his hyperactive mouth biting possessive promises across Scott's chest. Scott's nipples often end up raw and super-sensitive for days after and Shane always takes unholy pleasure in flicking them through Scott's shirt. In retaliation, Scott usually switches Shane's coffee order to decaf.
They'll travel far to find out what really happened that night at Never Compromise, because it's an itch under Scott's skin now and it's definitely bugging Shane, not knowing what happened or why. It was their company and now all they've got left is weird broken puzzle pieces and a lot of former colleagues acting even stranger than usual and Scott says that as half of 3.0, an admittedly pretty out-there tag team.
Whatever answers they do or don't find, it'll still be him and Shane, side by side. What other way could there possibly be? The world might have gone crazy but that part's always going to stay the same. Scott goes to squeeze Shane's hand and realizes that Shane is drooling all over his shirt. So Scott changes direction and squeezes Shane's nipple instead. The sound that Shane makes is amazing. Endearing, some might say.
Icarus parks up and sighs. He's back at the Wrestle Factory. Nobody's seen Quack in weeks, maybe even months, but thank God for Hallowicked, keeping the flag flying and making sure that the students get the tutoring that they need. The future of the business needs to be built and everybody's got to start somewhere. Up-and-coming wrestlers could do a lot worse than the Wrestle Factory. Look at who it's produced before.
Enough stalling. Icarus forces himself out of the car and belatedly remembers to grab and depose of the trash that frequently piles up in his vehicle. The car smells of cheap cheese-in-a-can and mold.
The familiar scent of the Wrestle Factory is hugely welcome – the strong canvas, hard-earned sweat, Gatorade. And there's Hallowicked, babbling instructions at uncomprehending students. Thankfully, he's evolved into a determined mime over the years so he gets his meaning across. Icarus feels his own mouth draw upwards and watches. He hasn't smiled in way too long.
Hallowicked clearly knows he's there because he eventually calls for a break and then sets the students up to do rope drills afterward. Then he easily tips himself out of the ring, landing on his feet as light as anyone half his size, and makes his way over to Icarus. Hallowicked wears the same pumpkin grin as always, but the tilt of his head combined with his body language easily telegraphs his contrasting mood. He lets loose a string of babble that makes Icarus feel nostalgic. He doesn't need Hallowicked's gestures though, he can understand his former tag team partner just fine thanks to the years that he wore a mask and went by a different name. Even though he's been stripped of that mask for years, he hasn't lost the knack.
He likes being able to talk to Hallowicked, especially now.
He tells Hallowicked that he's tired, that he needs to sleep, and that he needs to do so around someone he can trust. He might be paranoid but there really are people out to get him. His nightmares are always full of Condor Security, of Archibald Peck's unexplained and sudden reappearance, of Wink's torn suit, and always there's an encroaching darkness swallowing him up. Thank fuck for Saturyne and her spaceship, otherwise God only knows where he would have ended up. Is that where Quack is now? How is Chikara going to resurrect without its founder?
Icarus doesn't realize he's closed his eyes until he opens them again. Hallowicked places a hand, heavy and firm, at the nape of Icarus' neck. Icarus leans into the taller wrestler, they haven't really connected for years. Icarus has always been busy with F.I.S.T and frankly, he turned his back on the technicos a long time ago. But his bond with Hallowicked goes back to before the Wrestle Factory, and that's not so easily destroyed, even though they've faced each other multiple times in the ring since and have beaten the shit out of each. That's wrestling.
When it matters, Hallowicked is there. He squeezes Icarus's neck and nods towards the locker room. Icarus nods his thanks in return and trudges over there to shower for the first time in days. Now that he's alone again, he feels the full weight of tiredness dropping onto his shoulders, plus the responsibility, the pain and grief of Chikara imploding. There's so much information dancing around inside his head, he needs to pull it together somehow.
He rubs a hand across the bridge of his nose and ventures back into the Wrestle Factory's teaching area. The students have gone now – just how long did he take to shower anyway? Hallowicked doesn't drag Icarus off to whatever ruin he and the rest of Spectral Envoy are currently calling home. Instead he leads the way to the abandoned offices; apparently Quack really hasn't been here at all. Fuck.
A desk is shoved up against a wall and sleeping bags litter the floor. Icarus keeps his phone and car-keys to hand and lies down without hesitation. Even after all this time and after all the given and taken bruises, if he trusts anybody, it's Hallowicked. So Icarus sleeps. His dreams are pretty fucked up – there's Tim Donst and his bizarre new antiquing career, his behavior doesn't make any sense considering who he is and what he's done. But then, the same could be said of Icarus. Has someone been doping Donst? Hypnotizing him? There's Gavin, being worked on by a medic as the arena gets destroyed from the inside out. Saturyne had reassured Icarus that Gavin was being taken care of. There's the fans who've followed his call online and the few Chikara wrestlers who've listened too. The ants have been seen trying to find Soldier Ant, and Fire Ant is talking now? Speaking of which, there's some kind of fire at Icarus's elbow and it's starting to burn his skin…
He wakes up with a start. There's a furnace of warmth at his back, it's familiar and helps slow his rapid heartbeat. One of Hallowicked's hands is spread across Icarus's chest. They're huddled together amid a nest of sleeping bags and Icarus can relax. He doesn't know if Hallowicked sleeps or if not, but he knows that the second anything happens, Hallowicked will be sharply aware of it. He always did sense things that other people didn't.
There's a hand at Icarus' neck again and quiet nonsense in his ear that makes absolute sense to him. It always has. Icarus presses his fingers briefly to the hand resting over his heart and drifts back into fractured, protected, sleep.
UltraMantis Black is not hiding; he's merely gathering his thoughts. Chikara was always his extra-ripe fruit to crush; it was his kingdom to control, not to save. Icarus' petty words mean nothing to him, nothing at all. Besides, he has reading to do.
Frightmare babbles out his disbelief and pointedly shoves the book that UltraMantis is reading off the table. UltraMantis looks at him, affronted.
"A little respect for such masterful words, please, Frightmare!"
Frightmare snickers out something markedly disrespectful and UltraMantis seriously considers sending the imp out for some decent green tea as punishment – Frightmare is not a fan of herbal teas, despite their many wonderful qualities. Instead UltraMantis smacks the smaller wrestler over the head with a volume of Hindi verse.
"If you read more, your vocabulary would be vastly more impressive."
Frightmare snorts and spews out more disrespect before scuttling out of reach. UltraMantis doesn't throw a book after him, though he's sorely tempted. He checks his phone, Crossbones hasn't replied to his messages yet and neither has Blind Rage. Not that UltraMantis is gathering the troops per say, it's merely important to stay in touch with those he considers brothers. Also he's warning them about Icarus' surprising and irritating new determination to be Chikara's savior.
What does Icarus know? He can't even choose a reputable tattooist.
But UltraMantis's thumb stays pressed to his phone's keypad. There's a message from Hallowicked, describing Icarus' latest visit, his exhaustion and hidden despair. There's a trilling tone from the stacks that means Frightmare has received the same message. He'll want to visit their compatriot, to compare scars and stories and to feel the indescribable feeling of comradeship that the Spectral Envoy only ever find in each other's company.
Yes, UltraMantis has missed that feeling. And of course he won't be letting Frightmare travel alone. His staff, resting against a shelf of dictionaries, is glowering at him, or at least the skull on top is. UltraMantis glowers back, with great respect of course because he has no desire to be without every inch of the powers granted to him and the gods do not take rudeness well.
Frightmare sing-songs from the poetry section – he's booking a flight out for them both. UltraMantis picks up his staff and pockets his phone. He will visit Hallowicked, to reforge their Envoy bonds, but he will not talk to Icarus, no matter how much his staff glowers at him. There's a hum under his fingers and he does his best to ignore it.
Anyway, if anyone is going to reform Chikara and claim the power found at the top of that mountain, it's going to be him.
-the end