Colossus comes to an end.
The curtain of this era is closed.
The PRIMEates had their fun.
Long after everybody else has left, the Multitudes still sit inside the Garden. The lights dim but never fully go out. The merch stand is empty. The bidding has ceased. We, however, check none of this. We listen to the silence and replay the noise in our ears. We said fuck Colossus. And we very much still mean it. All of this, everything, all those moments that embed themselves into your soul for as long as it takes a hot pocket to cook…are meaningless. All that matters is now and what’s next.
“That crazy bitch stole our belt throne gimmick.”
Firebug, apparently, did not get this memo. She leans against a wall and lights up a cigarette, pointing right square at the picture of Lindsay Troy. She takes a drag, watching as the Prime doesn’t move. The legs of the vessel don’t budge from their propped up position on the table. When she finally does speak, it is with a shrug.
“So what. We stole it from Lisa.”
Ah, yes. The ever-unconquerable Lisa Seldon. A (former?) friend and (former?) tag team partner, capable of crushing skulls with no fucks and having the ability of being seen a serious threat regardless of anything she did. ‘Bug nods in fairness. “So what now? We didn’t do what we were supposed to do. We didn’t make the big show. We didn’t win against Youngblood…”
“We didn’t lose against the bastard either.”
“And now we have all these ancient fucks pretending they can relive their golden years on the version of PRIME that we were on since day number one. If it ain’t the relics, it’s their blood. Nate Colton getting his dick sucked and pretending to be a diamond. Underwear Boy playing champion. What the fuck was that shitlord who decided to step out of his suit and put the trunks back on? Ahchoo?”
The Prime can’t help but laugh at Firebug’s deliberate mocking. But with that mocking came a nod. “We could’ve done more. We could’ve done better. But if the mentals aren’t there…”
The predecessor to Ria Nightshade flicks her ash. “Yeah, yeah. If they ain’t there, they ain’t there. It wasn’t just that though. Look at it. We made Pepperoni Nips mald and quit just by existing. Mortimer’s stuck playing second fiddle to an idiot. Mephisto beat our ass impressively and proceeded to do nothing else of merit. And Tact barely existed. Don’t you think that plays a part in that whole mentals not being there thing?”
“Possibly.” Prime admits. “Granted, it’s not their fault that they’ve been…lackluster. Everybody has their struggles. It’s this ‘verse, Bug. Now we understand why it’s considered tough. This isn’t for everybody and most people are not willing to aim.”
“So what are we do–”
“Big game hunting.” This phrase stops everyone in their tracks. The vessel smiles as the Prime speaks. “We’re doing everything else absolutely right. We’re not getting involved in everybody else’s stupid drama. We’re keeping our neutrality. We’ve made our stamp merch wise. Hell, we are the fucking PRIMEporium at this point! You saw Eddie Cross here making deals with us over Bone Dave’s shirt. The only thing we need to do is to stop living off of crumbs being dropped on the floor and start hunting.”
Firebug considers this for a moment. The nicotine fills the air. Another drag before she stamps it out with one of her Doc Martens. “Alright. So how are we doing this? Aim for the champions?”
“The only championship we have any possibility of getting right now is that Intense title. Tom knows we can beat his ass. It’s the obvious call. The problem is if we anticipate going after him and he gets sniped before we get him, that’s going to take the wind out of our sails.” The vessel’s eyes look at where Firebug is. “If we do it that way, we can’t aim for the holders. We gotta aim for the gold itself.”
“In other words, we go from Fuck Colossus to Fuck Whoever Has A Belt.”
“They’re nothing but bodies. And in the meantime–”
“In the meantime, the crosshairs are still on Brandon Youngblood.” Snark and an eyebrow raise from our wanna-be gothic elder. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
The Leader of the Multitudes motions in a sense of honesty. “Let’s be honest, ‘Bug. They’ll never stay off him for long. Not ever again.”
“So here’s another question for your little plan, Prime. Who we shooting first?”
“Whoever we can line up the easiest.” Another shrug. “This isn’t a plan. Plans fail. These are just the possibilities available to us right now. Things to consider. When another one opens up–and they will–we will consider that as well. For now…”
Prime doesn’t finish the sentence. She doesn’t need to. We already know. It’s still Daniels-cember and there is still so much work to do for the Queen of Christmas. The vessel kips up to her feet and as we walk off into the other streams of time, the Garden’s lights finally die off.