New Year, New Chances (all that good jazz)

People always ask if he was bothered by how small the Dark Order was now a days.

Back when they had twelve to twenty people and growing applications—still growing last time he checked his inbox—becoming the biggest group was the goal that hung up on their walls and notes. 'Oh yeah, for sure,' he would have said with certainty, 'we want to expand our group to bigger things.' They didn't have the slightest clue what the years were going to be in store.

People left, with and without fanfare. Twelve to twenty became eight to five and then three waiting on their fourth. There were still moments where words weren't enough to cover the stings in the memories that still walk around. Some of their old twelve came back to make amends and all of them had their own path now outside of the Order, whether Uno understood it or not.

He thinks of Anna and Alan, Preston and Stu—the ones that still gives him hell for multiple reasons. He thinks of the one that was nothing like the person he invited in, and that he didn't know if they would ever see eye to eye ever again. Uno doesn't even let himself believe they would have choose The Order: he found out that answer twice through bloody hands and a knot in the back of his head from the chair that was slammed forward. He was warned that they burned everything they touched, and still Uno stubbornly refuse to believe them completely when he see them hugging on friends that had once abandoned them.

That made the idea of just the three of them come a lot easier. Just Uno, Alex and John.

They made Ring of Honor more of their stomping grounds, starting climbing back up and getting right back into people's focus. The chants and cheers never left, it just took a minute for them to grow again. It still surprised them all every time. Uno, Alex and John were the new Dark Order people talked about but they still have their goal in their back pockets. They just had more resources, more time.

Uno had more time, time for gaming and talking about said games and promoting the hell of new titles that showed up in his view. He was grateful, but that itch for wrestling was still in his system. Both of the boys were becoming restless.

Uno, despite having his hands on more things, was getting restless. So he got his head down into papers, locations around him, trainees that already trusted him enough to go with his plans.

Mystery wrestling came from that energy and along with it came the twelve to twenty and growing that was missing. They didn't have the title, but to him it counted. 26 shows underneath his belt, each one finding himself with more ideas to throw at people and online, even more ideas thrown and written at him. He would be exhausted at the end of each show but satisfied with how it came out.

Today, he was flat against a ring, his head spinning with more things to do, to see after, to think about in the bonds of time. He looks around at the area he was at now, the tumbling and planning surrounding him, another one of his students coming to him with an idea he was not prepared for in the slightest.

Gear is something that should be treated with the utmost respect.

It shouldn't be torn off in a rush of defeat or anger. It should not be used to muffle sound. And above all else, it definitely shouldn't be stretched out to wipe away tears, even if the elastic makes it possible. It can fall onto it though, like sweat that was already made its presence known.

They were always soaked by the end of matches. It was something to be proud of because it was work that was worth the sweat pouring through the one that wasn't covered in the gear. The worse would be through their hair, which held it as well as the half bottle of water they would pour on top by the end, that they would shake out hard enough to splash on others.

It would always get on him, and a couple of times Speedball would get it right back when they least expected it. Both times end up stinging from the product he used and more water ended up being poured much to their partner's quiet, as he tried to be, laughter.

The gear can also shine bright enough to reflect onto anyone that passes by. They remember the way red and blue would show against their skin, on his jacket and shades. When they moved in flips and tumbles, the colors blur into a wonderful blend of patterns that the camera could only capture.

Shirts are different. Most are cotton, soft to the skin and soaks up anything that it touches. It's not perfect: the cotton still makes everything that wets it cling onto the skin, whatever presence that touched it leaving its moist prints through the shirt.

The lower part of their shirt was still near their eyes, wiping away tears that were still quickly falling. The words still rings in their ears, even as the night air tries to cover it with random creaking.

'Speedball should have seen this coming,' a common thought they see floating around in places they shouldn't be lurking around in at midnight and yet, when sleep fails to come, it was easier to go online and look around. It was easier to see repeating words of knowledge people freely yell out on the internet.

'I don't need your love,' their heart echoed painfully hours after. 

Gear is something that should be treated with the utmost respect.

It shouldn't be torn off in a rush of defeat or anger. It should not be used to muffle sound. And above all else, it definitely shouldn't be stretched out to wipe away tears, even if the elastic makes it possible. It can fall onto it though, like sweat that was already made its presence known.

They were always soaked by the end of matches. It was something to be proud of because it was work that was worth the sweat pouring through the one that wasn't covered in the gear. The worse would be through their hair, which held it as well as the half bottle of water they would pour on top by the end, that they would shake out hard enough to splash on others.

It would always get on him, and a couple of times Speedball would get it right back when they least expected it. Both times end up stinging from the product he used and more water ended up being poured much to their partner's quiet, as he tried to be, laughter.

The gear can also shine bright enough to reflect onto anyone that passes by. They remember the way red and blue would show against their skin, on his jacket and shades. When they moved in flips and tumbles, the colors blur into a wonderful blend of patterns that the camera could only capture.

Shirts are different. Most are cotton, soft to the skin and soaks up anything that it touches. It's not perfect: the cotton still makes everything that wets it cling onto the skin, whatever presence that touched it leaving its moist prints through the shirt.

The lower part of their shirt was still near their eyes, wiping away tears that were still quickly falling. The words still rings in their ears, even as the night air tries to cover it with random creaking.

'Speedball should have seen this coming,' a common thought they see floating around in places they shouldn't be lurking around in at midnight and yet, when sleep fails to come, it was easier to go online and look around. It was easier to see repeating words of knowledge people freely yell out on the internet.

'I don't need your love,' their heart echoed painfully hours after.