FWA 'the Grand March' weekend || Promo Thread.

[Dubb]

The promo deadline for this show is as follows:

Sunday 2nd April, 2023 at 23:59 Pacific Time.
Monday 3rd April, 2023 at 03:00(am) Eastern.
Monday 3rd April, 2023 at 08:00(am) UK.
Monday 3rd April, 2023 at 11:00(am) Turkey.
Monday 3rd April, 2023 at 19:00 Melbourne.​

 

[Bobby Barrows]

The Monsters Within and Without Us

What does one think they'd find lurking behind the panes of glass that encompass a mirror? That which it reflects back; though this statement is factual, it doesn't quite grasp the underlying truth that belies the depths of that which a mere reflection can offer. Indeed, he who looks upon his examination will see their true self. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but behind the eyes of the viewer, lies the soul.

They say that a lot can be learned by self-reflection. The wise can look upon the self as a form of therapy, to find what troubles them and expel these worries through whatever practice they seek to perform. Buddhists meditate, Abrahamic followers pray, and the godless dream. They dream of better things, a better world, and a better place for themselves. They do not dream of seeing their reflections. Many find looking upon their person unpleasant. Flaws are our motivators and our detractors. They allow us to conquer in our own way and suffer failures, unlike anyone. Some, however, when they find themselves peering into their selves, find the monsters within. They see the mirror that reflects back to them the ugly truth.

A set of feminine fingers gently presses itself upon the glass, soft to the touch, and goosebumps run down the length of the arm connected. Red and blue-tinged hair wade softly among a cold, chilly breeze from some drafty corner of the blackened, quiet room. Brown yet dilated pupils peer closely into the reflection looking back. Her lips quiver a little, observing every little detail of the observable and self-determined flaw on the face that is hers. Aka Yurei, the ghost in red, looks upon herself and wonders if the monster is looking back.

Perchance this is but a dream, some odd surreal scene of streaming solemnity. Her mind flurries between thinking of months away from the roar of an audience, lying still in a hospital bed with little company, and still wondering if this moment is not reality; a figment of her mind's imagination. Maybe she was still in her hospital bed, or perhaps finally at home where life goes on away from it all. But alas, no matter how hard she shakes herself to awaken from whatever fantastical hallucination she is believing to be in... All she can find is this mirror and the brown eyes that stare back.

Aka's fingers run down the mirror, and the cold sheen of the glass only leaves a feeling of emptiness and doubt. What even led her to this place, to this position? Yet as she looks into her own eyes, she comes to know why she is here, she's always known but never wanted to accept it. This wasn't even her room; it was that who she thought she would never see again, let alone be with once more.

???: "Anata ni aitakatta... [I missed you...]"

A girlish voice calls from behind Aka Yurei, who refuses to turn her head from the mirror. The voice causes her to stiffen up, rigid as a board, and with a sense of dread running through her like a hot knife to butter. The darkness behind Aka only allows for shadows and silhouettes, vague outlines of things that were and are. One such shadow is eerily visible just behind her, in the shape of a humanoid. Aka focuses her eyes on the shadow behind her in the mirror; her silence is almost deafening as if saying anything could do her harm.

???: "Watashi wa anata o mitsukemashita... Dārin. [I found you at last... Darling.]"

The shadow speaks again, their tone with contradictions of emotion and feeling. A shiver runs down Aka Yurei's spine as a pair of hands rub up, around and rest atop her shoulders. Her goosebumps are out of control, and this pounding in her heart just won't stop. The word "darling" is spoken with such... love and yet so much hatred. So much warmth, and so much coldness. Spoken as if to a close confidante, but also to a total stranger. Those brown eyes that were looking up at that shadow mere moments ago have shifted back to herself. Aka thinks to herself how powerless she feels at this moment, against the person that caused her the most pain in her life. More than her father's abuses, her brother's death, more than her mother's neglect. This person that Aka once thought of as a friend, maybe more... Here she is, to haunt her again.

???: "What's wrong, A-chan...? Are you listening to me? It's been so long."

What...? Aka wonders when this person finally held a firm and fluent grasp of English, not to mention the old nickname of "A-chan" being called upon; it finally pulls a reaction from her. She slowly turns to face the person behind her. Her brown eyes come into contact with a pair of cold, shining, blue eyes. They are staring intently back at her. Any dim light peaking in gives Aka just enough to recognize her, not that she needed it... it is that girl in all her visions, from the past. It's Keiko... Keiko Hirabayashi. Aka gazes at her face, and Keiko stares back. The most notable thing is that smile, confident, cocky, cool, and in control of the situation.

Aka: "Keiko... It has, hasn't it?"

Keiko: "Too long, A-chan! To think I didn't get to watch you win your big title match months ago! I was so far away in Japan, you know, main eventing over there."

Those words came at Aka like a jab to the stomach; it was Keiko's way of rubbing salt on an old wound. After all... it was because of her that Aka Yurei had to move to America.

Aka: "You never told me why you came? Why now?"

Aka shifts back into her seat, lined with embossed crimson velvet, fitting for her. Keiko leans over her and rests her head gently around the shoulder area, so they are neck and neck together. Keiko's smile never wavers, but the eyes tell a different story... showing eagerness to control once again, and remembering how she seized the opportunity.

Keiko: "Well, you see, when I heard you got injured, I just had to check up on my best friend! I know you had your mentor and his girlfriend to keep you company... but what you really needed was your friend, and friends are always there for each other, aren't they?"

Aka: "... Funny way of showing friendship, to hover over me in that hospital. After everything that's happened?"

Keiko: "Now what has a few past mistakes got to do with anything? After all, now we're together again. As it should be."

Aka wonders to herself about being together again with this monster on her back. She remembers all the good times they had together, the victories they shared, and the bitter defeats they faced. Keiko was someone that Aka had a lot of chemistry with; it was something undeniable to many spectators, when they worked in tandem, it was something unbelievable. She wonders though, how she was convinced to partner up with this woman once more.

Keiko: "Think of it like this too, A-chan. If I didn't keep you company, you would have been left all by yourself. Your old partner never even visited you once, did he?"

Those last words sting Aka something fierce. Did he even visit her once? She can't even remember, maybe he did but, why can't he remember? She thinks about it and wonders why Reagan Cole never visited her in the hospital, not even once. Was there a specific reason for it? She wonders if it had to do with his ongoing situation, but... doubts nag at her. Keiko smirks a little and whispers into Aka's ear.

Keiko: "Plus, it's his fault you got hurt. If it wasn't for him, you'd still be champ-"

Aka: "Please don't... Don't bad mouth Reagan like that. I'm sure he had his reasons."

Keiko: "You're sure he had a good reason to not visit you once in the five months you've been gone? Tsk tsk tsk, A-chan, you're still so naive in thinking the best of people. They'll all let you down in the end, except for me."

Aka hangs her head a little, this nagging feeling in the back of her mind continues to linger as Keiko's words bounce around in her head. Like an imp seducing its master, Keiko smirks more and whispers further into Aka's ear, telling her sweet nothings.

Keiko: "You're so much better than them anyways... You have me, after all. We have each other; you're better off the way you are now, where we both can win together. He hurt you after all; he let you get hurt. He didn't even try to save you. You're better than that, you need someone who can care for you, keep you company, be there for you..."

It's been so long since words like these were spoken to her. Like roses grown from the dirt, they are beautiful. But Aka knows that every rose has a thorn, and Keiko is no different. Yet she cannot stop herself from listening; is she right? Is Aka better than that? Or perhaps it's become a habit for Aka and Keiko to continually prick their fingers upon the thorns. Has she become accustomed to the pain? Does she, dare say, enjoy it?

Aka: "Don't say such things, you'll embarrass me."

Keiko: "Aw, look at you A-chan. I knew you missed me too. Isn't that why you agreed to team up with me again? I knew it."

Aka wonders when she agreed to such a thing. She doesn't really remember; everything's been a haze the last month. Is Keiko even telling the truth? Did the monster inside of Aka speak out for a moment, searching for companionship again in a moment of weakness? Aka looks into the mirror and sees only two monsters instead. Her body twists and transforms into something wholly unrecognizable to her, like some vague outline without a well-defined shape or personality. Keiko's reflection though is just the same, but with menace, coldness, and hatred. An undeniable hint of wanting on her face, no- a need for Aka Yurei, regardless. She is a cat, playing with her prey, captured in her grasp. It's such a horrible feeling of helplessness.

It feels hazy, and Aka begins to feel uncomfortable in her own body. Like something is attempting to crawl out underneath her skin; it's a feeling of no longer being at peace with one's body, no longer finding comfort from within. Thoughts bounce around in her mind, thinking of Brian and Sarah, and Reagan. How much they worked together and all the successes they had. But the last few images that go into her mind are her attack by Jeffry Mason; the pain shooting through her bloody and crumpled body. Then the sight of Keiko looking down at her in that hospital bed.

Aka: "Why did you want to team with me again? I thought we were done years ago."

Keiko: "Because I wanted to give us another chance, A-chan. You and I, the best of friends~ We're better together than apart, and after all... I need you."

Best friends, she says. Dripping words like honey into the ear of Aka Yurei. A finger runs down the length of Aka's jaw, resting against her chin. Keiko turns her to be able to look each other in the eye, and the two just quietly stare at one another for a few long, agonizing moments. Keiko's face softens, and a genuine smile grows on her face, full of care and compassion. Aka sees this and averts her gaze once more. Hands wrap around Aka's body, and the two share a hug for the first time in years. Aka responds meekly, and quietly.

Aka: "I'll do it for old time's sake- Anything for you, Keiko."

Keiko nods, and takes Aka by the hand, pulling her from the chair. Both girls disappear into the shadows, but something feels off. The mirror gently vibrates, and peering back into it, we see... Aka Yurei's reflection is still there. She isn't present in the velvet seat though. Only behind the mirror's glass. The last thing we see is Aka crying, having lost once again to the monster inside her, no matter how hard she fights it, hides it, or denies it exists. Then the whole of her is swallowed up in the darkness, screams of pain and horror shooting out. The mirror breaks, clattering to the ground as it shakes violently. Now there is nothing left.​

 

[SupineSnake]

In a high-backed and heavily cushioned chair of deep red leather - which is the focal point of a cosy, comfortable snug - sits Uncle J.J. JAY!, who appears rather characteristically satisfied with himself. He has a crystal snifter of brandy in his left hand whilst in his right is his vape, balancing upright against the arm of his elaborate librarian’s throne. Resting upon his delicately folded legs is a large and thick tome, opened up with its secrets laid bare. COSMIC HORROR’s eyes scan over its text whilst his tentacles bristle with joy. The joy of reading, that is. A joy that I’m sure you, my dear reader, know very well, or you wouldn’t be reading this now. Unless you’re being forced to read so that you can offer judgement, which would be a cruel and unusual punishment indeed.

JAY! swirls the thick, ruby liquid around in his balloon glass, takes a sip, and then delicately turns the page of his book. A log fire roars next to him and whistles a gentle tune that underpins the scene. Behind him are mounted a series of hotchpotch shelves, covering the entirety of one wall of his study and overflowing with books. These innumerable volumes are bound in strange materials, their spines inscribed with indecipherable glyphs and markings. It’s the kind of room that one could get lost in for a whole night, or maybe several, as Uncle had indeed done on more than one occasion. It’s perfectly possible that this is exactly what J.J. JAY! would’ve done now, had he not - at this very moment - realised that he wasn’t quite alone.

“Good evening, Nephew,” he begins, as he closes his book and sets it down upon the round table next to his chair. “I didn’t see you come in. I was just reading a tale from another universe. Thrilling stuff! Captivating!”

He sucks thoughtfully on the end of his vape before setting that, along with his brandy snifter, down atop the leather-bound tome. He is dressed in a bright pink Mao suit and adjusts his lapels, continuing to speak to the lens as if he is in comfortable dialogue with an old friend.

“If you thought our FWA was an interesting place, Nephew, then your mind would be opened by the peeling back of this curtain. The big tent, as our mutual friend Dreamer likes to call it, appears throughout this infinite ring of parallel universes like a stubbornly recurring motif. Did you know, for instance, that in the sizable subset of realities in which humans neglected to evolve arm-like appendages - appendages considered by many to be essential for the art of wrestling - the FWA is still, in the majority, alive and well? Different, of course, but still existent. Competition favours the biters there. More vampiric wrestlers like Vampyra, Steve the Techno Vampire, and Trixie Bordeaux do very well for themselves.

“But even these armless universes share a great deal in common with us here: not least of all that their incarnations of the FWA motif and professional wrestling as a whole involve very real battles of athleticism, skill, intelligence, and other such abstract and positive qualities. When two wrestlers enter that squared circle, regardless of the sometimes self-indulgent pomp and circumstance that surrounds the occasion, the contest of combative skill that follows is, at least, legitimate. Arms or no arms. But there are, Nephew, other universes that exist where, would you believe it, wrestling is fake. Like ‘Breaking Bad’ or the moon landings. Unbelievable, I know, but you must remember that we are dealing with an infinite number of parallel universes here, and the mathematics of infinity throw up some rather unbelievable peculiarities.”

Here, COSMIC HORROR pauses to tap one of his short, stubby, and well-manicured fingers against the leather cover of his book.

“This tale, my friends, comes from one such parallel reality, which is otherwise identical to our own universe but for this quite important detail. So sit back and relax - but also read carefully, Nephew, to ensure all i’s and t’s have been dotted and crossed respectively so that a proper grammatical judgement can be reached - as I take you to an Earth where the fates of our heroes, our villains, and indeed our Nephews alike are constantly in the hands of a few secretive and self-interested men. Completely different to the Earth that you and I exist on, obviously.”

After carefully repositioning his vape pen and his brandy, he placed the book upon his lap again and opened it up. Rather than returning to his position halfway through the tome, though, he turned to the very first page.

“Part one…”

MICHELLE von HORROWITZ
in
VOLUME ONE HUNDRED AND SEVEN

She’d already had one cigarette since getting off the bus and intended to head straight to her locker room. Her lungs could do with a rest before the match. The sight of Anzu, however, cutting a lonely figure - leaning against the wall next to the loading bay near the talent entrance - was enough to break down that resolve. The commentator had a cigarette of her own perched between her pursed lips, both of her hands currently occupied with a cup of coffee and tonight’s copy for match introductions. Part of Anzu’s charm was her haphazard and lackadaisical approach to the colour commentary gig, but even she was diligent enough to give the producers’ notes a once-over on pay-per-view sunday.

“What are you going to say when they count the three?” Michelle asked, whilst taking up position next to Anzu and lighting her Camel. Up close, the fresh patchwork of cuts and bruises - no doubt the result of her exploits in the tournament that took place over the last two days - became more apparent on her face and arms. Michelle leant over to look at the memo she was reading. “What do our producers think the audience should learn about the resolve of our champion in this moment?”

She playfully reached for the other woman’s notes, which Anzu promptly removed from her prying grasp.

“There’s a few suggestions,” Anzu admitted, as she rolled up her wad of notes and stuffed them into her pocket. “I’ll leave the sound bites to Rod, though. I prefer to speak from the heart.”

“How will you do that?” Michelle asked, with a wistful sigh and a cocked eyebrow. “Your heart will be broken at the sorry sight of your old friend jobbing.”

“At least Cyrus is getting pinned first,” the other replied, with a shrug that was intended to be encouraging but came across closer to apathetic. Anzu had smoked her cigarette down to the filter and threw it into a nearby drain. Before she could leave Michelle and disappear into the building, though, the doors of the talent entrance swung open and two men abruptly emerged. Both women could tell that one of them was Mike Parr, even though ‘the Prodigy’ had his back turned, from the way that he was incessantly grumbling. This inference was natural because Mike Parr was invariably incessantly grumbling.

“You know how long I’ve been here, Sean?” the Prodigy asked, somewhat rhetorically, of the road agent that had followed him out of the building. “Because I can’t even remember exactly how long it is! Nine years? Ten? And those bastards have got me going on second?! Against Jackson fucking Fenix?!”

“It’s just a bridging match,” the agent replied. Anzu, being a fervent lover of backstage drama, settled in to enjoy the show. She lit another cigarette and leaned back against the wall. Michelle offered her a wave (silently so as to not blow her cover) before shuffling towards the entrance. “You’ve only just come back, and we’ve got to build audience trust again. It’s a means to an end, Mike.”

“And what is that end? The North American Championship, again,” the Prodigy replied, dismissively. “Whilst the Dutch bitch gets another main event. Man, I shouldn’t take this shit. I should get on the phone to Meltzer. Shake this place up a bit.”

Michelle winced at the crude and undignified nickname that had been assigned to her, which was only ever uttered when those using it thought her back was turned. She was also aware who it was that first coined it. Perhaps it was these origins that stirred indignation within her. She opened the door clumsily and noisily, attracting the attention of the two men who until now thought they were alone.

“Michelle,” he said, with narrowed eyes. She hadn’t forgotten his stiff pipework during her first meaningful feud in the company. He hadn’t forgotten her subsequently leapfrogging him on the card. She offered him only a curt nod in response.

“So it’s not actually at the ISS?” the unmistakable voice of Jeffry Mason asked from the end of the corridor. His question was accompanied by a slurp from an open can. Mason was one of the deathmatch guys that she assumed were brought in for the tournament, and the deathmatch guys drank a lot. It was one of their few redeeming features.

“I think they’re filming it in Delaware or something,” came the reply, in the almost-unintelligible accent of the worst country’s worst region. Cole was warming up as he conversed with Mason, which made little sense considering the Apprentice’s work this weekend was already finished. But Cole liked to stay warm. “In this big soundstage. Debuting on YouTube at the end of the month. Pretty cool, huh? Could probably get you a spot, if you’re interested.”

“Say what you want about deathmatches, kid, but that shit is killing the business,” Mason said, with a derisive snort and a shake of his head. His old rival and new friend’s disdain for the concept quickly dampened Cole’s spirits, and Michelle sensed in his eyes and his body language a desire to renege on his agreement with the promoter. “Doesn’t fit my character. No chance.”

On her way through the arena concourses, she walked past - and duly ignored - a grinning Jeremy Best. He was wheeling an unwitting Krash around, as he had been since the Wolf’s unfortunate in-ring accident, exploiting the vegetable’s memory for as long as that memory would last. The audience was quite forgetful, generally speaking. The whole affair left a bad taste in her mouth. She sensed a Most Disgusting Promotional Tactic coming their way in the not-so-distant future.

“You’ve gotta keep yourself looking strong, kid,” Summers was saying to one of the young guys they had working heel down in nGw. It looked like he’d accosted the poor rookie near the entrance to catering and was now dispensing free but unwanted lessons. The walking, talking, blond-haired lawsuit had his arm around the young talent, prompting the other to place a spare hand atop his fedora to keep it in place. “Everyone around this place, they’re always looking to steal your heat. That’s why I always kick out just after three, brother. Gotta keep yourself looking strong.”

She shuffled past this uncomfortably one-sided conversation - inwardly wondering, as she frequently did, how a man like Shawn Summers had managed to escape the #SpeakingOut movement when it came for Dan Maskell - and did her best to ignore his unwanted but incessant gaze.

“But it’s a different world nowadays, kid,” he went on, loudly enough for her to hear as she walked by. The sneer in his voice suggested he wasn’t particularly pleased about putting her over the week prior. “Got the broads doing more than bikini contests and lingerie matches, for one. An honest man like you or me’s gotta do what he can to keep looking strong.”

Inside catering, Alyster Black was complaining to whoever would listen about the artificial maple syrup provided by the company’s kitchens. Most of his audience was less than interested, though the LuPones nodded their heads approvingly and muttered about it being about time someone said something. The masked man only stopped in his foul-mouthed tirade when the company’s world champion walked in, flanked by one of its executives, on-screen authority figures, and play-by-play commentators. All the same person. Alyster offered Peacock a cursory nod before leaving. They’d been forced into a tag team a few weeks before, ostensibly so the champion could feed off Alyster’s heat in the company’s latest plot to endear him to the fans. They’d tried the same trick with a number of other guys before and with limited results. The disco dancer was too obtuse to realise that his partner was getting less out of their relationship than he was, regardless of who held the gold. This fact hadn’t escaped Alyster, though.

As the minutes ticked away towards her early meeting, she collected a tray’s worth of the meagre vegan offerings the company provided and sat down to attempt to enjoy it. By coincidence, she was positioned near a pair of new signings who'd been brought in following the FWA's change in broadcast partners. They'd both previously worked for the other promotion that ran semi-regular shows on their new network, and it had quickly become apparent that they’d agreed to stick together. The old guard wasn’t best pleased about the change, and were only begrudgingly grateful for a new and unfamiliar home following the capsizing of their old one.

“Haven’t seen her all day,” the young, pretty, confident girl who played the young, pretty, anxious girl mused, whilst spooning up the remnants of her macaroni and cheese. Another wrestler once told her eating carbs before a match was a good thing and she listened to the advice of other wrestlers. She listened to the advice of other wrestlers because another wrestler had told her to do so. “Wasn’t at television last week, either.”

“Don’t think we’ll see her for a while,” the other replied. He looked slightly ridiculous in his full ring gear (the spooky, dark archetype), eating french fries and ketchup from a paper plate on a plastic tray. He also - given what he was about to say - had terrible table manners, as most wrestlers do. “If someone took a dump in my gym bag, I’d probably want a few weeks off too.”

Michelle afforded herself a direct glance at the dialogue. The young girl, aghast, pushed her lunch away from her. She’d suddenly lost her appetite.

“What kind of place have we come to?” she asked, despondently.

“People are saying it was Summers,” the other added, with a shrug. “The shoe fits, but I’m not sure.”

“Someone should tell Truth about it,” the girl surmised. Michelle sensed a certain amount of reverence and respect being placed on the veteran’s name. She was used to it around here, but it was somewhat strange to hear it from the mouth of a relative newcomer. “Truth would do something.”

“Like another one of his crooked wrestler’s courts?” he replied, with a scoff. “Maybe he’ll force Summers to buy some of the vets a few beers. We’re on our own here, Trix. Don’t expect the old man to have our backs.”

She traversed the final corridor between catering and Russnow’s office, where she was due at twelve thirty for the meeting she’d requested after the previous week’s television. She hadn’t been happy with her role in Fallout’s main event. She and Truth had been tasked with walking to the ring and staring at Chris Peacock for a few empty moments as curtain jerkers brawled around them and the show went off the air. Hardly seemed worth the bus fare to Detroit. She’d demanded to meet with Russnow after the show but had been fobbed off until now, and over time the heat and weight of her arguments had devolved into nothing through internalised repetition. But still, she’d give it a go. Why should this week be any different?

Inside his office, Jon Russnow was throwing darts at the board that he had his underlings put up in whatever room he was stationed in that week. He was privy to a running joke amongst the boys that he booked his shows using this technique of randomly selecting ideas and, in typical fashion, decided to lean into it. Michelle noticed that he was getting rather good. All three of his arrows were nibbling the border of bull’s eye.

“Michelle, you’re early!” Russnow said, as he removed his darts and took a seat behind his desk. He gestured for his employee to do the same.

“I’m right on time,” she replied. She looked at her wrist but then remembered that she didn’t own a watch.

“Yes, which is early for you,” Russnow answered. “How can I help you?”

“I’m here about the end of last week’s Fallout,” she started, attempting to summon some of the passion and fire that had accompanied the actual moment. “And ultimately I want to talk about tonight. About the main event and the finish.”

“You want to go over?” he asked, with a faint and knowing smile. He had a lot of meetings with talent and, ultimately, they all regarded that talent wanting to go over.

“I guess, in a nutshell, that is what I want,” Michelle replied. “But it’s nothing less than I deserve. Nobody gets as much heat as I do out there. The Nephews are nuclear right now.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Russnow said. “But I do question whether it’s the right kind of heat, Michelle. We’ve had this discussion before. It’s not like the company isn’t behind you. Seven-and-oh for the year is nothing to be ashamed of. We’ve been on your side since you got here. You’ve been champion twice already; it’s time someone else had a turn.”

“I’m not sure my last run even counts,” Michelle began. She didn’t go any further than that. She didn’t want to hear Russnow’s monologue about the disappointing advance buys for Carnal Contendership 2022, plummeting merchandise sales, and the network’s cold feet. Not again. There was a new network, now, and this one was pressing the opposite agenda. Stability and familiarity. All well and good, but she felt this stability should be based around familiarity with her. “Even if the disco man has to go over, this whole programme has just been a mess. I assumed that Truth was being added to the match to take the fall, but then this nonsense about a three-way dance? You’re taking my legs out from underneath me.”

“Cyrus Truth is good for ratings,” Russnow said. A simple statement of fact.

“I, for one, could do without a twenty minute monologue to start Fallout every week,” she replied, whilst rolling her eyes.

“Well, our audience disagrees,” he answered, again matter-of-factly. Something about his tone suggested the meeting was coming to an end. “It’s going to be a very busy day, Michelle. I’ve got to meet with Nate Savage and explain why he isn’t on the card, and the injury reports from the deathmatch tournament aren’t good. I’ll see you at the rundown meeting?”

Michelle nodded, and left the office. She was unsurprised at how quickly she had acquiesced.

For once, in an attempt to show some of that dedication that so many of her bosses were fond of telling her she lacked, Michelle arrived early to the rundown meeting. Thomas West wasn't scheduled to appear on the show, and explained after taking a seat next to Michelle that he wouldn't be staying long. Something about meeting Uncle at the stadium's helipad. She could only assume he was here to keep her company, a duty that her actual tag team partner was currently neglecting. It was no secret that Grayson and Truth, owing to their impeccable punctuality and unerring professionalism respectively, were usually amongst the first to arrive for any backstage meetings. She was surprised, though, by how casually and comfortably they conversed.

"Why are they so friendly?" she queried. The podcast host drew his eyes away from Allen Price, who was engaged in hurried pleas for advice ahead of his tag team match on the kick-off show. Not many were particularly responsive owing to his associations with the unpopular champion. Thomas West glanced over at GiGi and the Exile, and displeased Dreamer further by greeting their dialogue with a warm smile.

"Cyrus was, like, his favourite wrestler or something," the podcast host explained. "It's nice that they're friends."

"He should show a little loyalty," Michelle said. "Why isn't he here with us?"

"So the pair of you can bicker?" Thomas quipped. He was back to scanning the room and showed an interest in PONI-BOI. They appeared somewhat proud to be on pay-per-view and profoundly out of place as a result. "I, for one, am grateful for the quiet. Well, was grateful."

Michelle took the hint and fell silent. Her gaze drifted upon Jackson Fenix, who was growing in confidence thanks to his minor win streak and the positive crowd reactions he'd been receiving as of late. He'd bought himself a new suit and a gold watch in an attempt to look the part of an upper midcarder, and was busy attempting to impress Natalie Rosenberg and Katie Baxter with these purchases. Michelle caught the ring announcer's eye and the pair shared a knowing, amused glance.

"You want to talk about tonight?" Thomas asked, bringing her back into her immediate surroundings. "I assume Peacock is going over. Have you heard anything?"

"That's the way of it," Michelle said, with a sigh. The room was filling up with more bodies. Bryan Baxter walked in with both the North American Championship and Bill Scorpane in tow. Their pockets were bulging with what Michelle assumed were stolen condiment sachets from catering. "I'm not sure how much more of this I can take, Thomas. The disco man's taking home what should be mine. I need it more than Cyrus, and I've earned it more than Peacock."

"Earning it is a funny concept," Thomas mused. "When everything is predetermined."

"You know what I mean," she answered. "The time put into developing and perfecting your craft, the creativity it takes to spark a reaction with the fans, the sheer force it requires to be heard over this barrage of noise. This is how I've earned it. But I know the argument. I am aware of what the puppeteers say about me behind closed doors. What happened last time…"

She paused. She didn't really want to broach the subject of what happened last time, especially with the man sitting beside her right now. The decision to pivot towards Toner versus West at last year's Back in Business had been explained to her a hundred times but she still didn't fully understand it. They wanted to continue the successful and popular Tonerville-Nephews feud but not with her, despite the facts that she was just as much Nephew as Thomas West and had far more of a history with the handsome man. They told her she was earmarked for a showdown with Kennedy in what was expected to be his final match. Breaking the streak should’ve felt like a career-making achievement, but the humiliating nature of the twelve-second defeat that preluded it suggested punishment for her failed second reign.

All of this was too much for her, here and now and with him. She fell silent, the thought unfinished. She glanced across the room and caught a familiar pair of eyes, twinkling like the last star in the sky, the man’s newly-won FWA X Championship upon his shoulder.

"You know," West began. "There is more than one universe running parallel to ours where the FWA exists as you wish it to. With results decided in the ring by the skill and temperament of the athletes."

"It's a cruelty that I'm stuck in this one," Michelle replied. This brought a chuckle from her counterpart.

"Maybe we'll take you to one of them, some day," he said.

“... Nova’s going to get the pin,” Russnow went on, with his eyes firmly studying his notes. Michelle always thought this a cowardly tactic. He at least owed the wrestlers he was condemning a little eye contact. “Joe’s eating it. Twelve minutes. Once again, people: be tight with your timings tonight. Then we’ve got a backstage interview with Truth. Four and a half minutes. See Jean-Luc for bullet points. Same goes for everyone with promo time…”

Looking around the room at the rundown meeting, Michelle was immediately struck by how empty it was for a pay-per-view, and how few of those that were there she really recognised. She put the sparsely populated room down to half the roster mutilating each other (and themselves) with light tubes and barbed wire at the King of the Deathmatch. Most of the tournament’s competitors had the night off tonight but some came along, anyway. Showing that they’re dedicated, no doubt. The office liked dedication, she’d been told. So why, then, had it not worked out that way for her? By any definition of the word, nobody was more dedicated than she was. Nobody had more matches or overall ring time under their belt in 2021 or 2022, and 2023 was off to a blistering pace, too. The crowd told her that she had the quality to back up the quantity. So why was she being thrown to the disco man to fluff his heat and feed his ego?

“... that’s a submission finish after ten minutes. You got a minute or two room there if the crowd’s into it, but don’t waste that with crotch chops, Jackson. We’re expecting a lot of families tonight. Then after Rod and Jean-Luc shill the blender we’re going straight into the North American Championship match. We’re fortunate enough to have Ryan Hall here as Bryan’s mystery opponent tonight and it’s great for us to be in the presence of such a legend. Here’s hoping we can finally tell the story that needed to be told. Baxter’s going over by pinfall after sixteen minutes…”

Peacock was standing next to Jean-Luc and Russnow at the head of the meeting. He didn’t wear disco flares or vibrant prints anymore. His suits and ties were generally muted colours, as befitting the face of the company, and tonight he’d gone for a navy blue pinstriped number. He wore his championship belt on his shoulder as he usually did, even behind closed doors at rundown meetings and other similar events. He was a jackass. There was no more plain way to put it. Initially, she’d watched from afar as he’d etched out a living in the midcard, dancing around like the obnoxious but generally inoffensive comedy act that he was. At the start, he’d relied on this juvenile retro act as a substitute for a character, before moving onto the employment of trope heel tactics as a substitute for a character. Now, his ambition had nestled him into prime position adjacent to the office, meaning he’d never have to develop a proper character at all.

“... the Eternal segment cannot overrun again. Can’t stress that enough. Three minutes is all you’ve got, and then Chris has got five to sell the main event. We might want to use Michelle at the end of that, but we’re not sure. We’ll decide later on in the day. Then it’s back into the arena for the Television Championship. We’re running a D.Q. finish there after Summers clocks Tommy with the belt. Bit of colour for Tommy wouldn’t be a bad thing, if you’re feeling it tonight…”

It appeared as though Truth had aimed to pick a position within the room that was diametrically opposed to that of Chris Peacock. Whilst the champion was standing next to the executives upon the patch of ground designated as the room’s invisible stage, the Exile sat quietly in a corner at the back. It had taken Michelle quite a while to locate him, but that wasn’t unusual. Truth enjoyed lurking in the shadows, much as his character did when the cameras were rolling. A lot of the other wrestlers would say that he was old school and she understood that this was something they thought worthy of respect. He rarely appeared in public and never out of character. Whilst Peacock maintained the presence of what he thought was a champion, which amounted to proudly holding his shiny new belt at every possible opportunity, Cyrus would preserve the mystique of his character even amongst his peers.

Peers. She smiled at this thought. She’d worked with Truth for long enough to know that the Exile regarded himself as a man without peers. Perhaps he had them once but had outlasted them. Either way, his aloof and sullen aura presented itself as subtle condescension.

“... we’ve got Chris’ big entrance. An evolution of disco, followed by an evolution from disco. They’re gonna go nuts. First elimination at thirteen minutes, with Chris pinning Michelle…”

She sat upright a little too suddenly, this small act drawing a number of eyes onto her. In the moment, this didn’t mean very much to her. She barely noticed the stares of those quietly lusting for her downfall. She was to be eliminated first? What was the point of the F1 Climaxxx? To give her an easy and empty honour, without any real meaning or any real consequences? To satisfy her with a big trophy and a pat on the back and an atta girl? They might as well have given Truth the win and let her play with light tubes with the rest of the unbooked. She sat in silence and seethed.

She didn’t listen to the rest of the meeting. She wasn’t interested in how long Peacock and Truth would be given before the disco man inevitably got the win. She only knew it was over when the people around her began to disperse. Russnow organised his notes and then prepared to leave, but - stirred into action by the moment slipping away - Michelle cut him off before he reached the exit.

“Eliminated first?” she asked.

“That’s the play,” he answered, simply. She said nothing. No formal promises had been made to her, but still this felt like something of a betrayal. “We want the Nephews involved. Failed run-ins, or something like that.”

“If I have to lose, then at least don’t neuter my stable in the same moment,” she returned. She wasn’t happy with this bargaining position. Prefacing her arguments with if I have to lose was a long way from where she wanted to be. “Ban them from ringside or something. Don’t have them hanging out there like limp and useless appendages. Why was I even put in this match if I’m just cannon fodder?”

“Cyrus needs to stay strong going into the C.C.,” Russnow reasoned, with a disheartened and slightly exasperated sigh. He seemed fatigued by constant confrontations with his talent, which amounted to only slight variations on the same self-centred theme. “You and Gerald have got the straps. You can take a loss or two in singles matches without losing too much steam in the tag division. If you want to do it clean, do it clean. That much creative freedom is yours. But the important thing is that you do it.”

Russnow left her to squirm in the unwelcome collective gaze of those assembled around her. Some of them, like Summers, took enjoyment from her public scolding, whilst others, like her Gerald, looked upon her with sympathetic eyes. The second of these was the most painful. Truth, who was still lingering in the manner that he’d become renowned for, had a more inscrutable expression upon his face. His sneer hadn’t disappeared, and he wore the same snide superiority that regularly adorned his furrowed brow. It was now accompanied by a knowing glint in his eye that suggested satisfaction at being proved right. She didn’t enjoy the weight of his glare and was relieved when he finally left.

Before they would be given the opportunity to get in the ring and work through their spots for the evening, the talent was tasked with filming short, individual vignettes for one of the company's YouTube channels. Michelle assumed that it was something to do with the release of the upcoming video game, which had dominated their media obligations for the past two months. She was under the impression that the game was meant to have been released already, but repeated delays owing to a lawsuit regarding its use of the 'Under Attack' subtitle meant the press trawl droned on.

Some of the other talent was nearby, including Ratin and Steve. Michelle usually did her best to ignore their exploits but this wasn't always an easy task. As the months went on and their television time inexplicably increased, they became bolder, louder, and more obnoxious. It was impossible not to absorb at least a little of their shtick, even from afar and when one has a mind to. But Russnow liked to remind her that this was a variety show, and that comedy does well with the younger audience. She had never felt so out of touch.

Most of the wrestlers were waiting to be interviewed alone, but some - those who couldn't be thought of but for in connection with another - were in pairs. Steve and Ratin was one such example. Another was her and Gerald. They were, after all, the FWA World Tag Team Champions. They had rendezvoused shortly before their time slot and Michelle was disappointed to see her partner arrive with the disco man. They were talking freely and amicably until Gerald noticed Dreamer watching them, at which point they said a brief goodbye before going their separate ways. The world champion cut to the head of the line and was ushered towards the green screen to record his vignette.

"Making new friends?" Michelle asked, as the Daredevil approached. Between his conversation with Peacock now and the cosy dialogue with Truth earlier, Dreamer couldn't shake the thought that she was being somehow surrounded. "If you're going to cavort with the enemy, you at least might not rub my nose in it."

Gerald couldn't help but chuckle at the turn of phrase.

"Cavort with the enemy?" he repeated, with more than a hint of mockery in his tone. He looked around himself at the other wrestlers assembled near the recording booth. His eyes lingered for a moment on Ryan Hall, who was trying to recall some distant anecdote from the mostly-forgotten annals of ancient FWA history. "These are your colleagues, Michelle. You're not at war. You know I've got a lot of respect for Cyrus after all he's achieved. And Peacock's not such a bad guy either, despite what everyone says."

"I wish you weren't so agreeable, Gerald," Michelle replied. She noticed that Hall was stumbling in his orating, struggling to recall the thread of events in his tale. "What were they talking about?"

"Who?" Gerald asked, playfully. Ryan, meanwhile, gave up on his endeavour. He moved onto the next person and the next story.

"You know who," Michelle said, deadpan and with narrowed eyes.

"Chris was just asking me for advice, actually," he answered. Gerald seemed rather proud of this fact.

"Advice on dealing with me?" she asked, perhaps a little sharply.

"No," he responded. "Well, yes, sort of. He wanted some guidance on his venture into the tag team division. Guess he wants to make sure he gets off on the right foot with Alyster."

"Likely," Michelle said, with a derisive snort.

"You're not convinced?" Gerald asked. He was slightly distracted by Joe Burr entering the holding area in typically bombastic and attention-seeking fashion. He proceeded to complain to the others waiting around about the pitiful ninety seconds he'd been given for his entrance tonight. Gerald went on, somewhat absently, whilst listening to Burr lamenting his extravagant and now ruined plans to Ratin and Steve. "Wouldn't surprise me if it was them we drop our belts to. Most of their shared identity so far is based around our downfall."

"I doubt Alyster will last long with him," she replied, with a dismissive shrug. "The others haven't. Seems to me that theirs is a one-sided relationship. I can see what Chris is getting out of it, but Alyster?"

"Well, maybe that's why he was asking me for advice," Gerald said, opaquely. She could read his meaning. Back when they were forced together a couple of years ago, people were saying the same thing about their relationship.

"That's different," she answered. It was all she had. She didn't explain why it was different because she didn't know why it was different. She decided to change the subject instead. "Do you know what this thing is even about?"

"They're giving us our ratings in the new game," Gerald explained. "Filming our reactions."

Just then, one of the assistants ushered the tag team champions from the holding area to the green screen in a separate room. As they passed one another, the disco man gave her a smile that she thought too warm for their cooling relationship. After they had approached the green screen, Nova Diamond positioned himself between the pair.

"This is what you're doing now?" Michelle asked.

"There are worse ways to pay the bills," the former world champion said. The director, using the term very loosely, counted them down from behind the camera. "I'm standing by with the FWA World Tag Team Champions, and I'm sure at least one of them is dying to know their ratings in FWA 2k23, on shelves April 1st. So, who wants to go first?"

"Ladies first," Gerald replied. She despised his awkward chivalry.

"Very well," the host went on. "Michelle, last year, you were a whopping ninety-three on 2k22, and this year… you've dropped two points, to a still very respectable ninety-one. Any thoughts?"

"Is there anyone higher?" Michelle asked. It felt a natural thing to query.

"A few of the ‘Legends’," Nova explained. "Kennedy, Rondo, WOLF…"

"And on the active roster?" she went on with the interrogation. Diamond seemed reluctant to answer.

"Just… Truth and Peacock," he said, finally. Michelle let out a sigh and narrowed her eyes in the direction of the host. "Moving on to the Daredevil, who last year was rated eighty five on the game. In 2k23, Gerald Grayson gains a point to eighty six… as well as a four point tag team bonus! If The Connection are used in unison, GiGi's rating is boosted all the way to ninety! What do you think about that, Gerald?"

It was the Daredevil's turn to glare accusingly at Nova.

"I think we'll leave it there."

“Can you imagine the heat, though?” Summers asked Bedlam, as the two lingered around Gorilla position and worked through some spots. “They lost their shit when I just shoved her… if I gave her a Midsommar? The fucking marks would be rioting!”

Michelle allowed herself a glance in Tommy’s direction as she passed by. He didn’t seem overly into the idea. She wasn’t sure if Summers was aware that Randi was shoot-pregnant, but she imagined he probably was. The pair were at Gorilla because they were waiting for their turn to get inside the ring, which is also why Michelle was there. As part of the main event, she was afforded that opportunity first. She passed through the curtain and into the arena for the first time in the day. Usually, upon being surrounded by thousands upon thousands of unoccupied seats, all pointed expectantly at a wrestling ring in the centre of this grand theatre, she would be overwhelmed by a sense of awe. The knowledge that they were here to see her was rarely lost on Michelle. Tonight, though, she felt this burden all too acutely. The fact that they would all be here to see her lose made her feel nauseous.

Truth and Peacock were already in the ring. The disco man was showing a new escape he’d been working on for a side headlock, which consisted of a cartwheel followed by a Brooklyn Shuffle. The Exile watched the champion’s gyrating hips with a look of obvious and utter distaste. Michelle snickered at the non-verbal (but expressive none-the-less) interaction, drawing the attention of the men in the ring as she climbed into it.

“You boys working out your finish?” she asked. The question was pitched somewhere between playfulness and cynicism.

“You got anything you want to do?” Truth said, as he broke away from his conversation with the champion and turned towards Dreamer. The disco man retrieved his water from beneath one of the bottom turnbuckles. Michelle noticed that he’d positioned it next to his belt, which was gleaming beneath the arena lights. He must polish it well, she thought.

“Not really,” she answered. She took a seat against the corner with her head resting on the second turnbuckle. She knew that the Exile hated this assumed posture, and antagonising Cyrus Truth was one of her favourite things to do. “I guess I’m the cowardly heel tonight. I should spend a lot of the early stretches on the outside.”

Truth offered her a smirk. Perhaps more of a sneer. He concluded that she was angling for an easy night. But, surprisingly, he gave into her demands rather readily. Maybe he hoped it would stop her from rocking the apple-cart when the bell rang later in the night and it was time for her to do the job.

“Fine,” he said. “How do you want to come back into it?”

“Maybe Disco Baby over there is shaping up for his finish,” she mused, as Peacock listened closely and hydrated. “I pull him out of the ring by his legs and hurl him into the steps. That frees us up to go for a few minutes.”

“You want to break it down into singles matches like that?” he asked.

“Sure,” she answered, with a shrug. “Whatever’s easiest.”

“You want to do the Journey’s End spot on the outside?” Cyrus continued, whilst standing in a central position within the ring with his hands on his hips. “From New Orleans?”

“It was New York,” she corrected. “I’m not sure how that would work with Disco Baby out there, too. But if it goes that way I’m fine with it. We’ll call it out here.”

Cyrus nodded but offered no more words. He was a pro, and she had no doubts that he’d know what to do when it was their time. Chris, on the other hand…

“How do you want to do the first fall?” he asked. He was doing his best to sound somewhat assertive, even when asking her advice, but it was hollow. She could see what he was underneath and it wasn’t very much. He added, as if to suggest his position in the conversational hierarchy: “I’m supposed to pin you.”

“And how do you expect you’ll do that, tulip?” she enquired. Peacock spent a moment in silent thought, a vacant look upon his face.

“Well,” he said, slowly and carefully. “My finisher’s the Strut.”

“Okay, very good,” Michelle offered as encouragement. “I’ll take off a turnbuckle cover and drop toe hold Cyrus onto it. Then a schoolboy for two. I’ll go to the top for a 450, but you knock me off. Use that ridiculous cane thing, if you insist on trying to get it over. Then you can Strut me and we’ll finish it there.”

Peacock visualised the exchange in his head and, after processing this information, nodded affirmatively. Content that the negotiations were at a conclusion, Michelle pulled herself up to her feet and climbed out of the ring. It was only as she walked back up the ramp that she realised that they were in a different arena to last year. She didn’t know if this was a good omen.

Michelle laced up her boots in her locker room, under the watchful and silent gaze of Quiet. The masked man leant back on his bench and folded his arms. He wore the pink tracksuit that was, by now, regarded as the uniform of the Nephews, except for the mask itself, which was as black as space. Michelle sensed the man’s gaze upon her but found him impossible to read by his body language alone.

“What are you thinking?” she asked, plainly. “You think I shouldn’t do it?”

“. …. ….’. .. .. …,” he answered.

“I know it’s up to me,” Michelle snapped. She tucked the ends of her laces into her left boot and then began work on the right. “But I’m asking for your opinion. I could just get up and leave. I have enough money saved to last me a lifetime or three. I don’t need any of this shit.”

“....’. …. … ……?” he asked, with a laboured exhalation of breath. Michelle wished he’d try to sound more enthused. “. …., …. .. .. ...... …..?”

“I guess, at its heart, it’s about trust,” she started. Her words were slow, owing to the dawdling pace with which they first occurred to her as thoughts. “My first reign was okay, I guess. I got to defend it, even if nobody really liked who I defended it against. The way it ended, though… it all seemed incomplete, back then. Like this responsibility was taken off my shoulders, just as I was getting used to its weight. And then the second reign…”

Michelle paused. Shook her head, mournfully. Turned a paler shade of white. The memories of those twenty seven days were painful. Each day seemed to bring with it a new hurdle: a new perceived shortcoming that was thrown up as a roadblock to her success. When it ended, in a handful of humiliating seconds, she half-wondered if it had all been a dream. Two months later, she was defeating Chris Kennedy at Back in Business. From punchline to conqueror. The puppeteers worked in strange ways, and she had long since given up attempting to decipher their mind.

“The second reign was a disaster. There’s no other way of looking at it. It’s taken me nearly a year to recover. Despite everything that they’ve given me since, from the tag team titles to the streak to the F1, I’m still - to most of them - the girl that lost in twelve seconds to one of her own goons. And now my lot is to stand by and watch on like the ghost at the feast as Chris Peacock is handed the reign that should’ve been mine. And with Cyrus here, too? I’m relegated to a footnote. Obscurity, Quiet.”

“......... …..’. ….. .. …,” Quiet mused.

“Speak for yourself,” Michelle replied.

Quiet, however, didn’t have a chance to speak for himself, because a moment later a loud and assertive knock on the door brought about a premature end to their dialogue. Unlike most similar interruptions in a professional wrestling locker room, the interloper waited patiently and politely for a response. Dreamer opened the door and found Cyrus Truth, a typically severe look on his face, standing on the other side of the threshold.

"Ready for tonight?" he asked. It didn't escape her that they'd spoken less than an hour before. And yet he'd saved the small-talk for now. Perhaps, she surmised, he was waiting to be out of the champion's presence.

As if in response to his question, Michelle stared down at her wrestling boots. The right one was still only half laced up.

"I'm in the process," she answered. Cyrus lingered in the doorway. “Are you here for any reason in particular?”

The Exile peered past her and into the locker room to check that they were alone. Quiet was sitting quietly behind the open door, hidden from view, which emboldened Truth to go on uninhibited. He looked at Michelle with a dour and solemn countenance. He had the emotional range of a watercolour painting.

“Do you know how Joseph Stalin’s son died?” he asked, finally. Michelle blinked at him. Of all the reasons that Cyrus Truth could have appeared at her door two hours before their opening bell, this one seemed the most random and the least relevant.

“Excuse me?” she replied, answering a question with another. Cyrus didn’t repeat or elaborate. He was confident that she had understood. When it became apparent that he wasn’t going to give her anything more than this simple but unexpected question, she picked up the conversational slack. “No. I don’t know how Joseph Stalin’s son died.”

“He died in a German prisoner of war camp,” Cyrus declared. Michelle thought about pointing out that this was where he died rather than how he died, but before she could the Exile continued. “He was placed in a cell with a group of British officers, as the Germans thought appropriate for his station. The Russian disagreed. By all accounts, it appears that Stalin’s son thought himself above cleaning the latrine after using it. Eventually, it got to the point where the British officers complained about the Russian to their German captors. A committee was set up amongst the prison guards to settle this dispute, and of course found Stalin’s son to be proud and indignant. You see, you have to remember that this man was brought up and told, by everyone he surrounded himself with, that his father was God himself. Growing up believing that you are the son of God can do strange things to a boy's mind, it seems. And, more relevantly to this story, it can leave one with the impression that they are above cleaning up their own shit, even when their peers are expected to do the very same thing.”

He paused here, and Michelle sensed that it was for effect. There was no denying that he was an expert monologuer. Right now he was only circling his point from afar. Dreamer wished he’d begin approaching it. She'd heard enough of his lengthy diatribes on weekly television.

“Now, whether or not you agree with the son of Stalin’s stance on these men and their claim to be his peers is another question for another time, and probably not one for me to answer. What’s important are the facts: the German guards sided with the British officers and ruled that being the son of God didn’t absolve you from cleaning the latrine. Stalin’s son couldn’t reconcile these two facts: how could someone who emerged from divine loins, sent down from the Heavens themselves, be forced to confront something as debasing, shameful, and - unfortunately - inherently human as his own shit? Rather than face this great contradiction, he threw himself into an electrified fence at the camp’s perimeter.”

He stared into her eyes and into her soul in a way that only the Wayward Warrior could. He’d been doing this for a very long time, and even if he wasn’t held in the same regard by management as he once was there was still a lot of reverence for him amongst the boys in the back. Incidentally, nobody held Cyrus Truth in higher regard and with more respect than Cyrus Truth himself. She thought she understood some of what he was saying. It was a fancy way of telling her to eat her shit sandwich, masqueraded in a metaphor about cleaning it up. It was clear to her that the Exile had seen at least one of her meetings with Russnow and drawn the correct conclusions regarding her motives. She shuffled uncomfortably beneath the weight of his gaze.

“Politicking is a dangerous game, Dreamer,” he went on, eventually. “And perception is important. Be careful with your chase. I don’t want to see you in the defendant's box in my courtroom again.”

After one more hard, long, and searching look, the Exile turned away and walked up the corridor. As Michelle closed the door and turned back around to face Quiet, she knocked the masked man's bag from an adjacent bench with an errant arm. It was open, and as it fell to the floor a quilt of brown, fur-like material cascaded from it. The bag landed on the floor with a dull thud.

“.....,” said Quiet, as he lifted a gloved forefinger to his lips.

She arrived at Gorilla position to predictably find both of her opponents already there. The disco man was pacing this way and that by the curtain, the muffled sounds of the Cowboy’s hideous entrance song along with the crowd noise permeating their sanctuary. The Exile sat in a corner with his head bowed. He wouldn’t speak to anyone this close to the bell. Part of the aura, she supposed.

Whilst Truth was as abstracted and inscrutable as ever, Peacock wore his anxieties plainly. He was a bundle of nerves, as clearly displayed by his pacing, his fidgeting with his gear and with his belt, and the general nervous energy that poured from him. She’d only really worked with him once before, when they’d teamed together and she’d seen this pre-match self-torment even more openly. It was no secret that the champion suffered from frequent panic attacks, and she supposed it worthy of some respect that he was still here. A fighter in that regard, at least. Still, this modicum of respect didn’t stop her from poking at his insecurities.

“I’ve got something new I want to try out there, Peacock,” she declared, suddenly. Michelle enjoyed watching the disco man squirm. She didn’t, of course, have anything new to offer the crowd or her opponents tonight at all. She’d been doing the same shit for ten years now, really. But there was amusement to be found in his rigid limitations and his lack of versatility.

“I think we should just do what we spoke about earlier,” he replied, in a strained voice, the burdens of his anxieties dragging his posture towards the ground.

“As you wish, champ,” she said, offering him a sly wink. Just then, the Cowboy appeared through the curtain with Randi underneath his arm, helping him to stumble past. His face was the proverbial crimson mask, beneath which he wore an angered scowl. Randi, for her part, looked petrified, as if she’d seen a monster out there. Given the Cowboy’s opponent, this didn’t really seem like much of an exaggeration.

“Wait until I see that fucker!” the Cowboy seethed, as he struggled to support his own weight. “I told him not to put a hand on Randi! That bastard’s trying to fuck on me!”

Michelle smiled to herself at the impending drama. It was only a shame that Anzu wasn’t here to enjoy it with her. Russnow scurried over to try and temper the flames. The champion, though, was staring at the curtain. It had opened momentarily as Bedlam emerged, affording him a glimpse of the expectant audience on the other side.

“You got any advice?” he asked, as he finally turned away from the curtain and towards Michelle. She was surprised by his question. Even Truth lifted his head to regard and ponder the champion.

“After tonight, you’ve as many successful defences with that thing as I do in both my reigns,” she said. “You’re in uncharted territory. No advice I can give you any more. Better ask the other guy.”

She offered an illustrative nod towards the Exile, who had returned his eyes to the ground.

“Still,” Peacock countered, after turning back to face the curtain again. “They say you’re the best.”

Michelle smiled. Her eyes were drawn onto the championship belt gleaming on the disco man’s shoulder. She couldn’t escape the fact that, whilst she didn’t hold it, those words were hollow. But now it appeared more true than ever that possessing a belt did not make Chris Peacock a champion, either.

“They say I’m the best,” she repeated, whilst struggling with this contradiction.

Summers appeared through the curtain clutching his belt and she was surprised to find that he was bleeding, too. Something about the wide gash on his forehead and the enraged fire in his eyes suggested he’d gotten his colour the hard way, but fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on your perspective) Russnow had already managed to escort the Cowboy away from Gorilla. Der Basterd scanned the room, scowled at Michelle, and then stormed off towards his locker room.

Spoiler: IN DREAMS || ROY ORBISON

The trogs were booing as she walked through the curtain and into the arena. The abuse that they were hurling at her was drowned into unintelligible static by the roaring thoughts that chaotically cascaded within her mind. Amongst them, always, was the disastrous second reign that had plagued her, nagged at her confidence, for close to a year now. But this failure, abject and staggering though it was, was not only hers to bear. The puppeteers had to take their share of it, too. She was positioned differently, now. Less sympathetic and conflicted. The shades of grey were still there but they were darker.

The old her.

But a reign of terror was being denied to her in favour of propping up an old man and a dancing suit. The differences between them were staggering: whilst Truth possessed the weight and gravity of a supermassive blackhole, Peacock was so light she worried he might blow away in the wind. She feared that ten pounds of gold wasn’t enough to anchor him down. The pair were united, though, in the trust and elevated position afforded to them by their silent masters along with the trogs who currently rained down upon her in a storm of derision.

Their silent masters. It was this aspect of the process that she found most troubling. Russnow was their mouthpiece, and Jean-Luc - a man she unfortunately knew very well from a past life, before a coincidence of fate had installed him as her boss - was the public face of the promotion’s business interests. But there were more of them besides these two that Michelle had no interaction with at all. It struck her as inherently unjust that her fate should be decided in such a manner, behind closed doors and with no avenue for recompense. She was ready. She knew she was ready. But her current destiny was being shaped by other people’s perceptions of her readiness. People who knew as little about her as she did about them.

We must all resign ourselves to certain truths. Certain facts of life that are unavoidable. In our jobs, for instance, we all make a trade of our time in exchange for improved quality of life. In our relationships, we trade a fragment of ourselves - in the form of our secrets or our ambitions or our love and care - for safety, security, and company. But then the great inevitability comes for us all and it makes fools of the trades that we made. Resignation to this final truth is the hardest and the least fulfilling. Resistance is invariably a better option, even if escape is only truly possible through a fantasy.

Michelle paused at the bottom of the ramp. A deep breath. She stared only at the floor in front of her. She didn’t want to look at the trogs. It was painful enough to know that they would be going home happy, her untimely defeat a large part of that. Only now did she realise that she’d forgotten her own championship belt. The one she was trusted with. That didn’t seem so important.

If only, Michelle thought, there was a world where her will to win was enough to overcome this meek surrender to these silent masters. If only….​

​

 

[Tommy Bedlam]

“The Devil Went Down to Texas”

The devil went down to Texas
He was looking for a soul to buy
He’d been watching FWA
And Tommy Bedlam had caught his eye
​

Things had been tense between Tommy and Randi since the ringside interaction with Shawn Summers at Fallout. Since the contract for the TV Title match had been signed, Tommy’s life had been a whirlwind. The match against The Boulder was supposed to serve as a sort of warmup, but it turned into something much different. Tommy had not only had to fight off six misfit cowboys before he could beat “Bouldy Bedrock,” but he had also endured a sneak attack with a chair from Summers.

The chair across the back was one thing, but Summers’ decision to put his hands on Randi after the match took things to another level. Tommy didn’t remember much about his decision to dive onto Summers at ringside. He was overcome with a rage that he had only experienced once in his life, the night of what became known as “The Bobby Ray Gallimore Incident.”

Tommy’s blind rage was quickly stifled when Summers leaned in to whisper something to him. Based on the things Randi had read online, the cameras hadn’t picked it up, but when Summers leaned in to Tommy’s ear and whispered that name, everything came to a screeching halt. How did he know? How could he have known? Nothing made sense, but Tommy was sure of what he heard.

Somehow, Summers had taken all the heat off himself for putting his hands on a pregnant woman. The same dirt sheets that would usually be trying to cancel that son of a bitch for doing something so vile were speculating about what he had said to Tommy instead.

“Is Shawn Summers Really the Father of Randi’s Child?” “Did Summers Say Something About Bedlam’s Father?” One moron reporter out of Lexington, Kentucky had set up a paywall and convinced people to pay for a video in which he said that he didn’t know what Summers had whispered in Tommy’s ear.

Tommy was vehement that Randi needed to see her OBGYN when the pair returned to Sweetwater. She had tried to convince him that she hadn’t fallen that hard, and that even if she had, it would take more than that to hurt the baby. Finally, she realized he was never going to shut up until she went and got checked out.

Randi’s mother had pulled a few strings to get her in that Tuesday, but they were still at Dr. Aiken’s office for at least two hours. They had taken separate cars to the appointment since Randi had planned on doing some baby shopping afterwards. Tommy was committed to being at the appointments, but there was no need for him being there for shopping.

Sure enough, everything was fine. Little Walker Bedlam was growing exactly like he should have been, and Randi was doing fine, too. There was nothing for Tommy to worry about, even though Dr. Aiken did say that he wasn’t sure that Randi should continue to be so close to a sport as violent as pro wrestling. That was a discussion for another time.

As Randi and Tommy walked out of the office on a rainy Tuesday afternoon, things seemed to be better than they had been in months. They were holding hands, and as Tommy walked her over to her car, they kissed.

“How bout I pick up some Mexican food after I’m done shopping?”

“Sounds good to me. Text me when you’re on your way, and please, go easy on my debit card.”

“I’ll keep it under $5,000,” Randi said with a smile.

“Babe, that thing will bounce like a new basketball way before you get to $5,000.”

She got in her car and drove away as Tommy started back toward his truck.

He almost missed it. He climbed into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and started to back up. For whatever reason, he looked through his windshield, and there, he saw it. He got out of the truck and pulled the envelope from under his windshield wiper. The rain had slightly smeared the red ink on the back of the envelope, but it was still very legible.

There was no return address, no stamp, and no date. “Tommy Bedlam” was written very neatly in red ink across the back of the envelope. Somebody knew who he was, what he drove, and that he was at the doctor with Randi. Was it Summers? Was it another threat to divulge something that Tommy thought was buried in the red Texas dirt?

His stomach fell to his knees as his heart started pounding so hard he could feel it in the back of his head. His hands trembled as he fumbled with the envelope which was only sealed with a thin piece of tape. The same red ink on the outside of the envelope was on the piece of paper.

“1125 W. 3rd Avenue.”

That’s all it said. An address to a location halfway across town. Fortunately, in a town as small as Sweetwater, getting to a place halfway across town only took a couple minutes. However, when you’re as paranoid as Tommy was at that moment, the five-minute drive felt like it took hours.

What was he going to find at 1125 W. 3rd Avenue? Was this some sort of setup? Obviously, Summers had a contact somewhere in Sweetwater who was eager to talk about something that had gone down months ago. Tommy was ready, or at least, he was telling himself that he was.

As he passed West 1st Avenue, he pulled a can of Skoal out of the console of his Toyota Tundra and put a huge wad in his bottom lip. As he dropped the can back into the console, he pulled out something else. The 9mm Ruger that he typically carried in his waistband was in there, as he had left it before he went into the doctor’s office. He pulled it out, and just as he pulled up to the address on the paper, he leaned up, tucking it into the back of his jeans. His long, black T-shirt would conceal it.

The building was certainly nothing remarkable. It was an old feed warehouse that had been shut down for the better part of Tommy’s life. He vaguely remembered being a little boy and coming here with Uncle Jimmy to pick up some feed, but Mr. Booth, the former owner, had shut the place down when Tommy was in middle school.

A doctor from across town had bought the space, claiming that he was going to reopen the feed store, but that never happened. Then, as family-owned and operated farms like Tommy’s family’s got bought out by national brands, the need for local feed warehouses dried up. The building had gone into foreclosure, the doctor wrote it off as a loss, and time had taken its toll on the property.


The red bricks were covered in a layer of dirt that stole their vibrance. Many of the windows were cracked, the exterior lights were gone, and a system of vines had sprouted out of the gutters, somehow simultaneously growing up and down the building. The sign on the door still read “Booth’s Feed Store: Serving Sweetwater Since 1939.” Tommy cautiously put his hand on the doorknob, using his other hand to doublecheck that his gun was still in his waistband. It was, so he stepped inside.

That’s when everything stopped making sense. The floors shined, reflecting the expensive light back up toward the ceiling. Soft music played in the background as Tommy looked around at what appeared to be some sort of lobby. An absolutely stunning redhead in a dress that hugged every perfect curve of her body stood up from behind a small reception desk.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, I don’t. I just found this note on my truck.”

Tommy reached into his back pocket as two large men in suits started to take a step towards him from either side of the desk.

“Easy there, fellas. Just trying to figure out what I’m doing here.”

He handed the note which he had tucked back into the envelope to the woman who took it, sat down, and typed something into the computer in front of her.

“Hmm. I’m not seeing your name on here. Just a moment.”

She pressed a button on the phone in front of her and a voice came out of the speaker.

“Yes, Delilah?”

“Yes, sir. I have a Tommy Bedlam here to see you? He’s not in the computer, but this note appears to be in your writing.”

“Ahh yes. Have him take a seat. I’ll be with him in a moment.”

The two men who were obviously some sort of security seemed to reluctantly accept that Tommy was not some sort of intruder, as they both returned to a more relaxed position beside the desk. Their black suits and red ties were certainly out of place in Sweetwater.

The receptionist, Delilah, handed Tommy the paper back and pointed him toward a sitting area.

As he went and sat down, he couldn’t help but notice everyone that he saw was dressed formally. Delilah’s black dress seemed to be the norm for any of the females who were scurrying around the space, and every man had on an expensive suit. He was certainly underdressed.

The questions surrounding the dress code almost distracted him from the fact that somebody had apparently spent millions of dollars revamping the inside of the old feed warehouse. The floors were marble, the furniture was mahogany, and the light fixtures looked like something straight out of a magazine. What kind of business was this? Also, why was Tommy the only client there? Everyone else in the building was dressed to impress, and clearly very busy. Tommy sat in the chair that Delilah had pointed him to, and he waited.

Another attractive young lady suddenly appeared in front of him, every bit as attractive as Delilah, carrying a silver tray. She brought the tray down to her side and handed Tommy a glass.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I ordered anything.”

“You didn’t. It’s complimentary. Lucien had me bring it out. He said he’d be with you in a moment.”

Who the hell was Lucien? Tommy was reluctant to drink whatever this mystery man had sent him, but he didn’t want to appear rude. Delilah was looking at him from behind the desk, and at least one of the henchmen were looking, too. He put the glass to his lips and took the smallest sip he could. It was obviously a very expensive scotch.

He took another drink, a bit longer than the first one. As he took the glass from his lips, a young, sharply dressed man appeared beside his chair.

“Mr. Bedlam?”

“Uh, yea.”

“Lucien will see you now.”

Tommy started to put the glass down on the table when he stood up.

“You can bring that with you. Lucien wanted to be sure to offer you something you would like. That’s a Glen McKenna 35.”

“It’s certainly a good scotch.”

“Only the best for Lucien’s clients.”

Tommy was a client? He had never heard of Lucien, how was he a client? His mind was still racing, and the scotch was doing very little to take the edge off.

Tommy followed the young man down a hallway that felt like it went on for a mile. The marble floor was covered by a thick, vibrant, red rug. The art that hung on the walls was lost on Tommy, as he couldn’t identify a piece of art if his life depended on it. He was sure that it was expensive, as everything else in the room was.

After a lengthy walk down a hallway with no doors, Tommy and the young man finally saw one. The employee slowly turned the knob, and gently knocked.

“Lucien, I have Mr. Bedlam with me.”

“Wonderful! Mr. Bedlam, come in and have a seat.”

Tommy stepped into the room, and the opulence of the lobby and hallways paled in comparison. A massive glass conference table sat in the center of the room with six large chairs flanking each side. The floors were the whitest marble that Tommy had ever seen, the light fixtures appeared to be pure gold, and classical music played softly in the background.

Lucien, whoever he was, was seated at the far end of the conference table, back to the door. Tommy couldn’t see him, but the command that he had over the room was palpable. A cold shiver went up Tommy’s spine as he heard the door close behind him.

Lucien stood up from his end of the table and turned around. He had jet black hair, olive skin, and brown eyes. He had a pencil-thin goatee that was very cleanly shaven. His sharkskin suit glimmered a bit as the lightning flashed in the window behind him.

“Grab a seat, Mr. Bedlam. Or can I call you Tommy? Mr. Bedlam feels so formal.”

“Tommy will be fine,” Tommy said as he sat down.

“Can I get you another drink, Tommy? I have some more Glen Mckenna here.”

“No, I think I’m good. Still working on this one.”

“I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve invited you here today.”

“I mean, it’s crossed my mind. Of course, so have a few other things.”

“Feel free to ask them. I’ll answer what I can.”

“Who are you?”

“Well, that’s an interesting question. My name is Lucien Carpathia. My family is originally from Greece, but I own several businesses across the world, now.”

“Well, Mr. Carpathia…”

“Please, Call me Lucien. You know I don’t like formalities.”

“Ok, Lucien. What in the world brings you to Sweetwater. You say you own businesses, are you trying to get into ranching? Because if so, Sweetwater probably isn’t the place. Did you buy this building to try to reopen things?”

For a moment, Tommy thought that maybe this Lucien Carpathia was interested in getting into agriculture and was going to offer him some sort of endorsement deal. Tommy had gained some notoriety in the last year and a half or so, so it seemed possible. Was he stressing about nothing?

“Oh, Tommy, Tommy, Tommy. Pardon my French, but I really don’t give a damn about ranching, farming, or anything else pertaining to agriculture. Many years ago, I did some of my best work in a garden, but it’s not really where my interests lie today.”

“So, what are you doing here? There’s not much in Sweetwater.”

“You’re in Sweetwater, Tommy.”

“So, you came here for me? No offense, Lucien, but you probably could have talked to me without paying so much to remodel the old feed warehouse.”

“Money doesn’t really matter in my world, Tommy. There’s always more of it. This place is just another building that I’m operating in for now.”

“So I’ve gotten your name and that you’re here ‘for me,’ but I still feel like there’s so much that I don’t know.”

“What else do you want to know, Tommy. I’m not being secretive.”

“What do you want me for? You say that I’m in Sweetwater, and now you’re here. What’s the goal?”

“Tommy, I’m a very powerful individual, and truthfully, I’m here because I want to help you. Maybe it’s my turn to ask some questions. Would that be OK with you?”

“Go for it.”

“How’s Randi?”

Tommy bristled at the way that Lucien said her name. Initially, he wanted to know how he knew about her, but he assumed that Lucien had simply seen her on Fallout.

“She’s doing fine.”

“Good. After the interaction with Shawn Summers, I was concerned for her and the baby.”

“Thanks for the concern, but they’re both good. We went to see the doctor today.”

“I know. Remember, I left the note on your windshield in the parking lot.”

Of course. The last hour or so had been such a blur that Tommy was struggling to think straight.

“What do you know about Shawn Summers?"

“I know he’s an arrogant asshole who deserves to get his ass kicked.”

Lucien smiled; the first time Tommy had seen him do that. He picked a folder up from the table and started walking towards Tommy. Tommy took the last drink from his glass and set it down. Was this guy about to try something? Tommy tensed up.

“Relax, Tommy.”

It was almost like he could sense what Tommy was thinking.

“No one here is in any danger. Hell, I didn’t even have the guys take your gun off you when you came in.”

“How did you know I had a gun?”

“Well, there’s two possible answers. The first answer is that I’m in Texas where you people carry a gun if you go to get a can of Skoal at the gas station. The other answer is that I may be a bit more powerful than I originally indicated. In the name of total transparency, it’s not the first answer.”

Tommy was about to puke. Who the hell was this guy?! Was Lucien the person who told Summers about…the incident? Was this the person who tipped Shawn off that Tommy had a secret that could derail his career, his life, and the lives of Randi and their unborn child? No, it couldn’t be. How the hell would Lucien know about that? Tommy had never even heard of him until a few minutes ago.

Tommy started to push his chair back from the table so he could get up before Lucien got any closer, but before he could, Lucien was standing over him. He didn’t respond forcefully. Instead, he calmly and softly put a hand on Tommy’s shoulder.

“You’re not in any danger Tommy. Just because I knew you had a gun doesn’t mean that I’m going to hurt you. In fact, the exact opposite is true. This meeting today could be the safest, smartest thing you’ve ever done.”

“Do you work for Summers? Is that what this is?”

Lucien let out a loud, raucous laugh that echoed in the boardroom.

“I don’t work for Shawn Summers, Tommy. No. In fact, I don’t work for anyone. Me ‘working for someone’ would imply that someone has power over me. That’s not how I operate.”

This man spoke in riddles. Tommy was trying to put together what all of this meant, but it wasn’t easy.

“Tommy, before we go on, I need to ask you for something.”

“What’s that?”

“Complete confidentiality. This meeting never happened. I was never here. You haven’t been in this building since you were in middle school and your Uncle Jimmy brought you here to buy feed.”

How did he know that?!

“You know what, sure. Total confidentiality.”

“You do know that if you fail to hold up your end of the deal, there will be serious repercussions. With that in mind, I’ll need you to sign a nondisclosure agreement.”

Lucien reached into the manilla folder in his hand and slid a piece of paper onto the table in front of Tommy. His signature was already on it.

“Yes, I’ve already signed it. I keep some of those on hand. Please take note of Section 6, Article 6 on Page 6. If either party violates the terms of this NDA, the other party is no longer bound by the agreement.”

Tommy took note of that part and signed his name on the bottom of the last page. He typically had Rocco review anything that he signed, but that didn’t seem to be an option. As Lucien looked at the signed document, a sinister smile came across his face.

“Now, we can be honest with one another. After all, this contract is binding.”

“Honest about what?”

“Everything, Tommy. Let’s start with the night that you murdered Bobby Ray Gallimore. How much longer do you think you can get away with that?”

Tommy froze. To his knowledge, the investigation had been closed within the matter of a few days. Everybody knew that Bobby Ray was a meth-head. The explosion was believable.

“Don’t feel bad. You probably did the world a favor. He was a piece of shit, if I can be frank. Besides, after the way that he assaulted the lovely Randi, he had it coming.”

“Alright, how the fuck do you know about all of that?!”

“I saw it all. I was there when he attacked her. I was there when you ran to her rescue, and I saw you and Scott take care of the issue.”

“How long have you been watching me? Hell, I don’t even know why you’re watching me.”

“Tommy, let’s back up a bit. Now that you have verbally acknowledged your role in the death of Bobby Ray Gallimore, I don’t have to be quite as tightlipped as I was when you first got here. Let’s start with my real name.”

“So, you’re not Lucien Carpathia?”

“Yes. And no. The answer is both.”

“I really don’t think it is. You’re either Lucien Carpathia or you’re not.”

“Things aren’t quite as black and white as you’d like them to be, Tommy. If they were, wouldn’t you be a terrible person for taking another human life? Wouldn’t Randi be branded with a scarlet letter for jumping into bed with you the night of Jimmy’s funeral? While many people want to assume that life operates in either light or dark, black or white, good or evil, that’s not always the case. There’s a lot of grey area that needs to be considered.”

“Grey area?”

“Yes, grey area. My business cards say Lucien Carpathia. If you Google me when you leave here, you will find a website for Carpathia Holdings LLC. That business owns multiple other businesses, some of them in media, some in real estate, some in oil. My influence is seen in music, movies, and government. Oh, my influence is especially seen in government.”

“In the same way that people know you as Tommy Bedlam but your real name is Thomas Bennett. The world may know me as Lucien Carpathia, but that’s not who I really am.”

By now, Lucien was looking out the window as the storm outside picked up in intensity.

“Then who are you really?”

“You’ve probably heard me called by my other name. Lucifer.”

As the lightning flashed and a crack of thunder rattled the windows in the building, Lucien, or Lucifer, turned around. His olive skin had turned a ghastly shade of white, and his brown eyes had turned to a lifeless black. There were no little red horns coming out of his head, nor was there a tail coming out of the back of his suit. He didn’t have a pitchfork in his hand, but there was no question about who was standing in front of Tommy.

Should Tommy pull his gun? What the hell would a 9mm do against Satan incarnate? Should he make a break for the door? It seemed like an unlikely option. No, he was stuck.

“So, what would you like me to call you?”

Tommy was doing his best to hide the level of fear that gripped his soul.

“You can call me Lucien, Lucifer, whatever you’d like. You’re still Tommy to me.”

“Fine. So, Lucifer, what’s the point of this meeting?”

“You need my help, and I believe that you could help me. You see, Tommy, I believe in symbiotic relationships. I don’t want to just ‘take, take, take.’ I want to set you up for success, too. But I need something in return.”

“What?”

“Your soul. I want to purchase your soul.”

“Purchase my soul?”

“Yes, I’ve done it with people before.”

“Listen, I appreciate the meeting and the interest, but I think you’ve got the wrong guy. If you’re looking for somebody that wants to sell his soul to…”

“Satan. Not my favorite name, but yea, it fits.”

“Anyway, if you want somebody that wants to sell his soul to Satan, you should probably have a meeting with Shawn Summers.”

“Summers? HA! I checked into buying his soul once, but it was out of stock. There’s nothing to buy there.”

Tommy couldn’t help but chuckle at that one.

“Anyway, I’m not exactly looking to be an evil, soulless, bastard. I’m not trying to be cheesy here, but I have found a good woman, I’ve got a kid on the way, and I’m gonna try to be what I didn’t have. Besides, if you buy my soul, what's in it for you?"

“Yea, Sammy was an absolute waste of a father. I always thought your mother could’ve done better. Anyway, I think you may have a misunderstanding about me and the type of transaction that I’m offering. Don’t’ feel bad, a lot of people don’t understand it. As far as what's in it for me, I to add another high-powered, important name to my...let's call it a roster."

“Go ahead.”

“Have you ever heard of Robert Johnson? He was a musician who almost wasn’t. As a child, he said he would do anything to be a successful musician, so I made him an offer. It went great for him.”

“I’m familiar with Robert Johnson. Didn’t he die of syphilis?”

“Listen, just because I bought his soul, I couldn’t be responsible for where he got his rocks off.”

“Fair enough.”

“John Lennon, too. Phenomenal musician, terrible negotiator. He made a 20-year pact with me in 1960. I offered to purchase his soul, and he informed me I could rent it for 20 years. Poor guy never saw it coming when Mark David Chapman went to collect.”

“So far the two people who have sold you their souls have died of syphilis and been shot. You’re not making this a very attractive offer for me.”

“You have more control over those things than you think. Don’t be an idiot like Robert, fucking a prostitute, and don’t only rent me what I want to buy like John, and you’ll be fine. You don’t have time to listen to all the names that I’ve purchased over the years, Tommy. Randi will be home with your dinner before we could even get out of the top 100.”

“Right. Randi. She’s a big part of the reason that I’m not going to do this. She doesn’t deserve some soulless, evil bastard.”

“That’s the thing, Tommy. You won’t be any of that. John Lennon loved Yoko Ono long after he made a deal with me. David Bowie loved his wife, Beyonce still loves Jay-Z, and I purchased them long ago. You can love your wife, love your child, and be a fine man even if you sell out.”

“What’s in it for me? Obviously, you’re some kind of soul collector, but what’s in it for me?”

“I’m so glad you asked. Is it safe to say that this match against Shawn Summers is the biggest of your career? I mean, I know you had that brief run with the Gauntlet Championship, but does anybody even count that?”

“Not really.”

“Right. So this TV Title shot is big. Potentially the biggest moment of your career. You were close to this level before. In fact, I almost made you an offer when you got involved with the whole founding of Deathswitch Initiative. I was rather impressed with your work. But injuries happen and I wasn’t entirely sure you’d ever come back. Now, you have a match against the most hated man in all the FWA. He’s vile, evil, and sadistic. I’m gonna be honest with you Tommy, I don’t like your chances.”

“You don’t like my chances? I’m not sure if you understand how to negotiate, but insulting the person that you’re trying to strike a deal with may not be the best route to take.”

“What have you ever done to make me believe in you? Hell, what have you ever done to make you believe in yourself? It certainly wasn’t that world-beating performance that you put on in the F1 Climaxxx Tournament.”

“So, what are you offering?”

“Tommy, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Shawn Summers isn’t like anyone you’ve ever faced before. The levels that he will stoop to in order to pick up a win are alarming to say the least, even by my standards.”

“Everything he does has a purpose. When he shoved Randi down the other night, that wasn’t an accident. He did that because he knew he would get in your head. Hate Summers as much as you want, but the fact remains that he plays chess while a lot of people are playing checkers.”

“I can’t really disagree with that.”

“Of course, you can’t. Do you think that Summers didn’t know that you would fly off the handle and go after him? Do you think that he didn’t know that security would come running to keep you two apart? Don’t you think that he knew that he would be able to lean up and say…what he said to you? Just close enough to the camera for you to sweat bullets, and just far enough away to let you know that he hasn’t tipped his hand, yet. If you’re going to have a chance against Summers, you’re going to have to go to a new level, Tommy. You’re going to have to tap into something that you’ve only tapped into once in your life.”

“And you’re going to help me to do that?”

“If you’ll make the deal with me, absolutely.”

“So, what is this, Satan’s grand entry into professional wrestling?”

Once again, Lucifer threw his head back and let out a loud laugh. This one seemed deeper than the earlier laugh.

“This is the professional wrestling business, Tommy. The most successful people made their deals with me years ago. The ones that are still struggling either turned me down, haven’t accepted my offer yet, or worse, weren’t worth my time. That’s not the case with you.”

“So you think I’m worth the…investment? Is that the right term?”

“It’s a fair enough term. But yes, I think you are. But you’re not going to do this on your own. Randi can’t help you beat Summers, and Rocco, as much as he knows this business can’t help you beat Summers.”

“And you don’t think I can do it on my own.”

“I never said that you couldn’t do it on your own. I said I’m not betting on you in this particular match. Could you pull it off? Absolutely. Is there a chance that Summers embarrasses you in the biggest match of your career? There is. What I’m offering you is the opportunity to improve your odds. And all you have to do is sign this contract.”

Lucien, or Lucifer as Tommy had come to know him, reached back into the folder and pulled out a single piece of paper. There were no page numbers, articles, or sections. No, there was simply a line along the bottom of the page. He reached his hand into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a pen. He removed the cap and handed it to Tommy.

“The choice is yours, Tommy. But before you decide, you need to understand something. You can turn down this offer. You can decline what I’m offering you and go right back to flailing around on the mid-card. Hell, there might be a show where so many of the main eventers take the night off that they put you on at the end of the show. You can make enough money to live, you can love Randi, and you can take care of little Walker. You’ll make an honest living, but when you’re gone, you will just be another name on the long list of professional wrestlers who died.”

“Or?”

“Or, you can take my offer. You can put pen to paper right now and put yourself on the fast track to the top. I know you've gotten into the crowds cheering when you come out. You don't have to worry about losing that. They'll never know about this, you don't have to 'go heel' or any of that. You can, but you don't have to. When you align yourself, or sell your soul to me, I’ll allow you to become what you need to become to beat Summers. You’ll experience fame, fortune, and everything that you wanted when you dreamt of playing professional football in college. You can still love Randi, still love your kid, but you will be able to give them a life that is greater than anything you have ever imagined. The choice is yours.”

“When you say it like that, I’m not sure that I have much of a choice.”

“I’m not sure you do.”

For what felt like an eternity, Tommy stared at the page. His mind went back to every failure that he had ever experienced. Then, he thought about Summers knocking Randi to the ground. Finally, he flashed back to feeling that piece of shit’s breath against the side of his head when he whispered what he whispered in Tommy’s ear. At that point, Tommy didn’t have much of a choice.

Tommy Bedlam. The contract was signed.

“Lovely.”

Tommy looked up at the smiling Lucifer whose skin had returned to its naturally olive tone, and whose eyes were once again a piercing shade of brown.

“You’ll have to understand that I can’t really have Delilah send you a copy of the contract, but we both know it was signed, right? That’s what really matters.”

“I guess so.”

Tommy stood up, and the two of them shook hands. The cold sensation that ran from Tommy’s right hand down his back almost made him shake. He masked it.

“Do you think you can find your way back out? I’ve already sent Damien home for the day.”

“Yea, I think I can handle walking down this hallway.”

When Tommy stepped out of the conference room and into the hallway, he thought he was lost. Gone were the expensive marble floors. Instead, the concrete that used to serve as the floor of the warehouse were in their place. There was no plush carpet that ran down the center of the hallway. The art on the walls was gone, and there was no longer a faint sound of music. Everything that had impressed Tommy when he walked in the door was suddenly gone.

He turned around to ask Lucien what had happened, only to see that he was gone too. The conference room, the table, the chairs, all of it had vanished without a trace. Tommy slowly walked back towards the front of the building, past where the reception desk had once been. Everything and everyone were gone. The warehouse that had once been Booth’s Feed Store was back in its dilapidated state.

As Tommy got back into his truck, he pulled out his cellphone. He had a text from Randi.

“Picking up dinner, then I’ll be over. Can’t wait to show you what I bought Walker! Hope I didn’t spend too much. ”

If she only knew what had gone on since they left the doctor’s office, she’d know that she never had to worry about spending too much.

As Tommy put the truck in reverse, he took one last look in the building. There were no lights on, no security guards, no Delilah, and no Lucien. He glanced over to his right, and there in his passenger seat was a bottle of scotch. Glen Mckenna 35. A sticky note on the outside of the bottle simply read “L.. “

 

[Dubb]

Bryan Baxter opened his eyes.

His vision was blurry.

He couldn’t quite make out where he was.

The last thing he remembered was walking out of the office and heading to his car. He remembered grabbing his keys and using the remote to unlock the door to his black 2022 Mercedes Benz. He was about to get into his car…

And now he remembered just opening his eyes.

He was not outside of his car. He was certainly not in his car. His car was nowhere to be found. No, he was in some kind of very boring, generic room. Almost like the waiting room at the hospital. The walls were bare but the lighting in the room was quite bright. Almost too bright. Much brighter than any lightbulb Bryan had ever seen. But as he squinted through the light and tried to examine the room, he didn’t actually see any type of light fixtures.

In fact, there was no other furniture in the room except for the beige couch he was sitting on.

“Bryan Baxter…”

Baxter’s eyes grew wide as he looked around as a deep voice bellowed out his name from almost every direction of the room.

“Y…y…yes? Who’s there? Who are you? Where are you? Where am I?”

The bright light in the room slowly dimmed, allowing the silhouette of an angelic figure to appear on the far side of the room. The figure slowly walked closer and closer becoming more in focus. Bryan recognized that blonde hair, that scrawny frame, and that white sweater and khakis anywhere. While the voice that had spoken didn’t match, the person walking towards him was his old friend, Jeremy Best.

“Hello, Bryan. Don’t be alarmed. Everything is okay. Everything is fine.”

Bryan breathed a sigh of relief, hearing and seeing his old friend certainly put him more at ease. “Whew, that’s good to know. For a minute there, I thought I was dead!”

Bryan laughed and Jeremy joined in the laughter as he took a seat next to him on the couch. “Hahahahahahaha… oh no, you’re actually quite dead.”

The laughing came to an abrupt stop as Bryan’s jaw dropped. “W..w..w..what?”

“Oh, I’m so, so sorry! I probably should’ve led with that. I’m still getting used to this job.”

How could he possibly be dead? One minute he was getting into his car, the next minute he was dead. He lowered his head down as Jeremy reached over, placing his right arm on the top of Bryan’s back to offer consolation.

“This certainly isn’t the fun part. Again, so sorry.”

Bryan sighed, looking back up at his friend. “So wait… you’re dead too then?”

“Me… yes, oh wait you mean… your friend. Oh no, Mr. Best is still quite alive. I just tend to take the form of someone the deceased is comfortable with. Makes the whole transition so much easier instead of someone you’ve never seen before, y’know?”

“Oh…” Bryan said with some slight disappointment. Not that he wanted his old friend Jeremy to be dead. That wasn’t it at all. He hadn’t even really seen Jeremy in years but he was probably the only person Bryan would consider a friend. But the more Bryan had advanced in his job, climbing the corporate ladder so to speak, the less time he had for his only friend. “So… if you’re not Jeremy, then what can I call you?”

“Oh, you can still call me, Jeremy. I don’t actually have a name to call my own.”

“That’s kinda sad.”

“Not much use for names around here, anyway.”

“So is this… you know…” Bryan inquired.

But “Jeremy” didn’t seem to get what Bryan was asking. “I’m not sure I follow. Is this what?”

“You know…” Bryan pointed up and then down… “the good place or the bad place?”

“Ooooooh, yeah, no.”

“What do you mean NO? It was a yes or no question.”

“I mean no. It’s neither.”

“What? How can it be neither? I know how this works.”

The Jeremy lookalike smiled as he stood up off the couch and placed his hands on his hips. “You humans all think you’re experts on the afterlife. Every religion has its theories. Each has some elements of it but at the end of the day, it’s just not that simple. There are all sorts of departments you can get into once you’re dead and it all depends on how you lived your life.”

Baxter began to rub his head, expecting a headache to come on but luckily for him, in the afterlife, there were no headaches. “Look, just explain it to me like I’m five. What happens to me now?”

“Well, how do you think you lived your life?”

Baxter hesitated. He knew he probably wasn’t destined for the “Good Place” no matter what anyway. He just wasn’t looking forward to eternal damnation either. “I mean, nobody’s perfect, right?”

The spiritual guide chuckled, “you have no idea.”

“I do have another question.”

“Just one?”

“I mean, no. I have so many questions… but I just can’t make any sense of how this happened. How did I die?”

“You don’t know?”

“I don’t. One minute I’m unlocking my car, the next minute I’m here.”

“Oh… well, I’m afraid to inform you that you were brutally murdered.”

“MURDERED?”

The man from the afterlife nodded in affirmation. “I’m afraid so. That’s why you are with me.”

“Unbelievable! Who did it?”

“See, that’s the thing. I’m not sure.”

“WHAT? HOW CAN YOU NOT BE SURE?! This is the afterlife! Aren’t you all-knowing?”

“Again with the afterlife expertise. No, I know you were murdered because you were sent to me. It’s my specialty. But if you don’t know who did it, neither do I. But we must figure it out. Because my specialty is hauntings.”

“Like ghosts? I can be a ghost?”

“That’s one name for it, sure.”

“Nice.”

“I am authorized to allow those that have passed on to me to haunt the person that wronged them on Earth. Specifically, those that caused their death. But if you don’t know who killed you, it’s gonna be kinda hard to haunt anyone. So… think. Think hard. Is there anyone you’ve wronged? Any enemies you’ve made? Anyone who would want to harm you?”

Baxter began to think… it wasn’t going to be a short list.

Where to begin?

BIG BRYAN BAXTER

IN

Bryan Baxter adjusted the rearview mirror inside his forest green 2000 Jeep Wrangler, fixing his tie. He looked at his dashboard to note the time as 7:55 AM, choosing to once again ignore the “check engine light” as he removed the key from the ignition. He opened the door and stepped out into the parking light of an office complex. He grabbed the beige sport coat he had bought the previous day from Goodwill, sliding it on over his broad shoulders. It was a little snug, but the price was right.

“Hiya, Bryan!” It was Bryan’s friend Jeremy Best. Bryan used the term friend loosely, but he didn’t have many friends to begin with so the term certainly worked enough. But Bryan certainly was pretty thankful for him at that moment because Jeremy had been heavily involved in getting Bryan this new job. “You ready for this?”

“A little nervous, man.”

“First days can be nerve-wracking, I get that! But you’re gonna be great!”

“I hope so,” Bryan said, not completely sure. But he definitely needed the job. He had never done anything sales related, though don’t tell his new boss that since his resume said he had 10 years of experience. He didn’t think too much of it, after all, who doesn’t embellish a little bit on their resume?

“Welcome to the FWA!” Jeremy exclaimed as he led Bryan through the parking lot and into the office buildings.

FWA, also known as Fitness and Wellness Accessories, was a distributor of, fittingly enough, fitness and wellness products including things like yoga mats, resistance bands, and foam rollers. Bryan’s new job involved sitting in a cubicle all day making cold call after cold call to gyms and yoga studios across the country and trying to push their crappy products to them. Again, not what Bryan envisioned doing for a living, but the commission structure meant he could make a lot of money. And Bryan liked money. Or at least the idea of money. He’d never really had much of it.

Jeremy introduced Bryan around the office. Of course, he already knew Jeremy, who was in customer service. Then there were two other salesmen - Jackson and Nate, a couple of guys Bryan immediately could tell were the type of douchebags who were trying to live their frat life glory days well past their prime. “Look Nate,” Jackson rolled his chair over to the neighboring cubicle and nudged his pal, “fresh meat.”

Nate glared at Bryan. “Looks like a real winner. Wanna place bets on how long he lasts?”

“I give him two weeks.”

“I’ll put money on that.”

“Keep it down over there!” the senior salesperson, Phillip, shouted across the other side of the cubicle. Not only was Phillip senior in that he was the most tenured employee, but he was also by the far the oldest.

“Sorry grandpa!” Jackson chuckled, “we’ll get off your lawn!”

Jackson and Nate both continued to laugh at each other’s jokes as Jeremy continued his tour, “you kinda have to tune them out. They’re jerks but mostly harmless.”

Bryan wasn’t so sure. He couldn’t stand pricks like them. Both reminded him of the jocks in school that got away with everything, including being douches, just because they were popular and athletic.

The tour continued as Bryan met the final member of the sales team, Chris. Chris stood out like a sore thumb in the office because unlike the more professional appearance of everyone else, including Bryan’s own second-hand business suit, he wore a bright, flashy leisure suit right out of the 70s. Chris was tapping his feet and bobbing his head to the disco music blaring through his headphones at his desk. Jeremy tapped Chris on the shoulder, alerting him to their presence as he took off the headset. “Heeeeyyyy what’s the haps, my dudes? You must be the new guy.”

Bryan eyed Chris up and down, not sure what to make of his getup but nodded, “uh, yeah, I’m Bryan.”

“Groooooovy - I’m Chris. Welcome to the grind!”

Yeah, Bryan wasn’t too interested in spending much time with this guy.

The rest of the office included Cyrus, who was in Quality Assurance, a guy who seemed very interested in keeping to himself; Gerald in Human Resources, who seemed like a nice enough guy but somehow found himself wrapped up in the soulless world of HR; and finally there was Elizabeth, who Bryan had already met as she was the person who interviewed and hired him. As North American Sales Director, Elizabeth would be his new boss.

“Welcome! Welcome!” Elizabeth’s bubbly personality popped as she walked out of her office to greet Bryan. “I think I speak for everyone when I say we are so excited to have Bryan join our team! I see Jeremy has given you the grand tour! So let’s all give Bryan a warm FWA welcome!”

A very lethargic “welcome” echoed, out of sync, through the office as Bryan half-heartedly waved to everyone.

Bryan quickly found himself excelling in his role. It turns out most of selling just involved straight-up lying to people. And that was something he was really good at. His expertise in the art of double-dealing had Bryan’s numbers steadily growing.

He was bringing in paychecks he had never expected. But as the months went by, he realized he wanted more.

While making phone call after phone call, successfully sending crappy gym equipment out across the nation, Bryan would look toward that big office that Elizabeth sat in. She didn’t have to do all this. She no doubt had a nice comfy base salary and didn’t have to live off the commissions. Especially when he learned that there was a cap on his commission structure and he was quickly approaching it.

He wanted that salary.

He wanted that office.

He wanted that title.

North American Sales Director.

But Corporate seemed to love Elizabeth. Everyone loved Elizabeth. Not Bryan. Known as a bit of a grump, Bryan wasn’t one for her perkiness. Being around her for longer than two minutes and he was ready to claw his eyes out and stab a pencil in his ear.

He just needed the right moment…

“Omigosh, omigosh, omigosh…”

Elizabeth paced back and forth in her office. She always got nervous right before a visit from corporate and today, Bill Scorpane, VP of Sales, was coming in and she had to provide a presentation of the quarterly sales report.

She walked to the window in her office that overlooked the parking lot for the fifth time in the last thirty minutes. She peered through the blinds as she saw Mr. Scorpane exiting his BMW. “Oh gosh… he’s here… okay, okay… breath, Lizzie, breath… it’s okay. You got this. The numbers are great. He’s gonna be so excited… you got this… okay… shouldn’t have had those two lattes… okay, quick pee break before he gets up here!”

Elizabeth rushed out of her office and to the break room where the bathroom was.

Just as Bryan expected. Her nervous bladder got the best of her moments before Mr. Scorpane’s arrival. Bryan got up from his desk and walked into her office, looking around to notice everyone was too buried in their own work to notice. He went to her computer and quickly pulled up the presentation…

And deleted everything.

He clicked save.

He then inserted a flash drive he retrieved from his pocket. From the flash drive, Baxter inserted just the most graphic pornography pictures into the presentation where the different bar graphs and pie charts had been previously.

He clicked save.

He removed the flash drive and slid it back into his pocket before minimizing the file and exiting the office, quickly getting back into his desk as Mr. Scorpane walked into the office.

Being a large, imposing figure, Mr. Scorpane’s presence was always immediately felt as soon as he entered any room. “How’s my favorite branch?” he asked rhetorically as he entered just as Elizabeth exited the break room to greet him.

“Mr. Scorpane, good to see you!”

“I trust you have everything ready for me.”

“I sure do, boss. Just gotta hook the laptop up to the conference room screen.”

“Splendid, then to the conference room we go!”

Mr. Scorpane walked into the conference room, taking a seat at the table while Elizabeth retrieved her computer from her own desk and entered the conference room as well, shutting the door behind her.

Bryan pretended to work… knowing it shouldn’t be too long now...

“OH MY GOD!” Elizabeth’s reaction was heard throughout the office, despite coming from behind the closed door. Even Chris overheard it, removing his headphones to join everyone to dart their heads toward the conference room.

“What is the meaning of this?” An outraged Scorpane could be heard, “is this some kinda joke? Is this what you do with your time here in the office?”

“No, no, no, no!” Elizabeth tried to dispute, “I don’t… I don’t… I don’t… know… this wasn’t here. This was… my report…”

But despite her best efforts, the evidence was plastered all over the conference room screen. Mr. Scorpane really had no choice at this point. He had to terminate her. Right there on the spot. Elizabeth had been fired. She was no longer the North American Sales Director.

Elizabeth left the conference room, flustered and in tears. She began packing up her office while the rest of the office had no idea what was going on, trying to act like they were working but also eavesdropping on the events unfolding before them.

She had no idea how this happened. She had just been going over the presentation right before the meeting. Right before Mr. Scorpane got there. Did someone do this?

As she walked out of the office holding a box of her personal items in her hand, she couldn’t help but catch a glimpse of Bryan Baxter as she exited.

Was he… smiling?

A few days later, Mr. Scorpane returned to the office and specifically requested to speak with Bryan. The request had been very stern. Bryan nervously sat in the former office of Elizabeth, awaiting the arrival of the VP.

Did he know? Had he found out that Bryan had been responsible for what showed up on the computer the day?

He could feel the sweat in every crevice of his body as Scorpane arrived, his heavy footsteps coming in behind him as he entered the office and took a seat across from Bryan.

“Are you proud of what you’ve done?”

Bryan nearly choked on his saliva. “W-w-w-what?”

“Are you proud?” Scorpane repeated himself, leaning forward in his chair as Baxter remained silent. Unsure of how he should respond. Should he just come clean? “Because… you should be.”

Bryan was now thoroughly confused. “I, uh… am, I suppose.”

“Don’t be so modest. Your numbers are amazing. Never seen anything like it.”

Bryan breathed a sigh of relief, he wasn’t being accused of anything except being a great salesperson. “I guess I have a bit of a gift.”

“I’ll say. I have to say, the first time I saw you… I wasn’t impressed. You looked like you had just walked in from the homeless shelter… but I really should learn not to judge a book by its cover.”

“Well, uh… thank you, I think?”

“I’m sure you know all about what happened the other day with Elizabeth. Unfortunate situation, I’m afraid. But now we find ourselves needing a new Director.” Bryan nodded along, hopeful about where this conversation could be going. “And I know each person on the sales team is gonna want it… but I know who I want. I want you, Bryan.”

Bryan had to contain himself from leaping out of the chair and celebrating like he was the MVP-winning quarterback in the Superbowl. But he did remain calm. “Really, why me? I’ve only been here a few months.”

“This is true. But in those months, you’re already running circles around those idiots out there. You think I want any of them to have this title?”

“Well, I’d certainly be honored…”

“But unfortunately, some of my cohorts at corporate aren’t quite as convinced,” Mr. Scorpane broke the news which caused Bryan’s heart to sink. “They do have concerns about the optics of someone so new leaping those in tenure. They’re more traditional. They believe loyalty and tenure should be rewarded. But me, I believe results should be rewarded.”

“Oh,” Bryan said softly, dejected. “Well, I guess I get it…”

“I’m not sure you do,” Scorpane continued, “because there’s a solution. We just got to show Corporate why we shouldn’t promote the other guys.”

Bryan leaned forward, not sure where Bill was going with this but was certainly intrigued. “I’m not sure I get it. How do we do that?”

Scorpane smirked. "C’mon, Bryan, I think you can work some magic.” He paused briefly as Bryan shifted slightly in his chair, anxiously. “Just might want to try something different than porn this time.”

His heart sank once again. Mr. Scorpane did know what he had done. But yet… he was wanting to promote him? Bryan’s mind was racing.

“Don’t look so glum, Bryan,” Scorpane said with another grin, almost proudly. “I had been wanting to get rid of that little goody-two-shoes for a long time now, but she was the Corporate golden girl. You gave me the out I needed.”

Bryan was still speechless. Was Mr. Scorpane actually happy about what he had done?

“I like you, Bryan. Really, I do. You remind me a lot of myself. You know what you want and you go after it. You’re not afraid to do what it takes to move up the corporate ladder. That’s what I like to see. That’s what I want to see more of, quite honestly. So if you want this title, this promotion… and all the perks that come with it… you go do that same thing to those other losers out there in the bullpen. So, this is your chance. What do you say? Do you want this job?”

Bryan didn’t respond immediately. He stared at Mr. Scorpane, unsure if this was real or a dream. Maybe he was being pranked. Bill leaned back in the office chair, crossing his arms as he waited for an answer. No, this was definitely real. This was happening.

“I do.”

When Bryan returned to his desk, he found that a certain two office jackasses had taken his stapler and put it in a Jello mold. Baxter stared at it, unamused while he could hear Jackson and Nate snickering on the other side of the cubicle. “Real mature, fellas. You got me good, alright.” Bryan shook his head as he simply picked up the Jello/stapler and tossed them in his garbage pail before he took his seat.

“Bet you just got your ass reamed out by the big boss,” Nate laughed, “on your last legs huh?”

Hearing more chuckling coming from his two immature colleagues, Baxter thought to himself about how wrong they were. “Yeah, sure. Something like that. Or maybe he was talking to me about the Director opening.”

Jackson and Nate both peered around the cubicle wall. “No way,” Jackson said, “you just got here. And look at you, there’s nothing about you that says executive like it does me and my boy. We got that somethin’ somethin’ that you need to be true leaders. If anyone is gonna get that title, it's one of us.”

“Yeah,” Nate agreed, “good luck with that dream. And as soon as we’re the boss around here - your ass is grass. You’re first to go!”

Baxter swiveled his chair away from the duo, not wanting to see them anymore. But he smiled as he leaned back in his chair. No, he thought, you two are the first to go.

Perhaps they were the easiest targets but it was going to bring Bryan great joy to sabotage these douchebags.

Just outside the office building, a homeless man waited every night, hoping to get some spare change or goodwill from the workers inside. To his credit, the man seemed nice enough but he also kind of gave Bryan the creeps. But most people paid him no mind. Except for Jackson and Nate. And no, they weren’t giving him the attention of offering him a little charity. Instead, every night they were antagonizing the poor man. Sometimes it was simply making fun of him, especially his appearance and smell. Other times they would go as far as to take something from his hobo shopping cart.

So that evening, Bryan got in his Jeep and pulled out of the parking lot… and went about a block away. He parked his car and tossed off his sports coat and tie, replacing them with a black jacket. He exited the car and walked back toward the office complex. It was finishing emptying out as the janitorial staff was starting to make their way in for an evening of cleaning. The homeless man loaded back up his shopping cart and started to walk away.

Bryan pulled a black mask out of his pocket and slid it over his head as he watched from the nearby bushes. He then charged out from the hedge, “GET HIM NATE!” Bryan shouted out as he tackled the man to the ground. The hobo never knew what hit him as Bryan began to pummel him, “LOOK JACKSON! I did it!” Bryan couldn’t help but laugh at his own plan as he gave a few more kicks to the homeless man before deciding enough had been done. It didn’t want to put the guy in the hospital or anything…

He scurried off just as quickly as he appeared. One of the janitors noticed the commotion and rushed out to the aid of the homeless man.

The next day, Mr. Scorpane learned of the little homeless man outside the building and how he had been attacked by what he said was “two people” and the names he heard were Jackson and Nate.

Despite their pleas, Nate and Jackson would be joining Elizabeth on the unemployment line. No one in the office seemed particularly surprised by the revelation and everyone seemed to enjoy the office was now much quieter. A sudden lack of juvenile pranks was also a plus.

Bryan was already making the office a better place to work and he wasn’t even the Director yet.

With Jackson and Nate out of the running for the promotion, that just left Chris and Phillip. Despite his lowest sales totals, Phillip was perhaps the biggest threat because of his tenure. He had been around much longer than Bryan and even Chris.

Bryan considered the ways he could get Phillip out of the picture. He went as far as to think about trying to induce a heart attack to the old man but realized that may be taking things a little too far.

No, he’d probably want to at least stick to things that aren’t going to kill him or anyone else for this. He’s not a total monster.

Bryan wheeled his chair over to Phillip’s desk. His desk was littered with photos of his family, specifically his kids, and grandkids.

“What do you want,” the grouchy old man wanted to know. Bryan actually appreciated the old man. Much like Bryan, he wanted very little to do with anyone else in the office so he left Bryan alone for the most part. That’s what he likes in a colleague. But it is what it is.

“Just admiring that family of yours,” Bryan responded. “Hope to have one of my own one day.”

“Okay, sure,” Phillip responded, rolling his eyes and continuing to poke at his keyboard.

“Must suck though.”

“What’s that? Your life?”

Baxter shook his head. “No, not that. I just mean, if I had all these grandkids, it’d really suck to have to still be workin’. But I guess the money is worth it, right?”

Phillip paused, looking at the photos on his desk. Phillip’s prime was certainly behind him. He used to be a rock star in sales, always on top of the leaderboard. But times have changed. Things are more about being online and using technology. Rolodexes were replaced with online address books. Going door to door was replaced with making phone calls, text messages, and e-mails. His competition had gotten better and passed him by.

But he still had bills to pay and a family to provide for. “I admit, the money isn’t as good as it used to be. But I know I’m going to get this Director job and then it will be worth it.”

Dammit, Bryan thought, that was the exact opposite reaction of what he was going for. But he regrouped. “Sure, sure… that it would be. But all that increased responsibility. Having to be responsible for a bunch of people like you. Making sure they are hitting their numbers. Firing people. Hiring people. Working God knows how many hours each week. I dunno man, I’d hate to be spending even more time away from my family, if it were me. And I’d probably be worried about the stress… at your old age, that ticker probably can’t take much more of that, right?” Baxter began to roll away in his chair, “but hey that’s just me.”

Bryan rolled back over to his desk, with a Grinch-like grin on his face. The seeds of doubt had been planted. And sure enough, within the hour he had a call from Mr. Scorpane.

Phillip had withdrawn from consideration.

And then there was Chris.

The thing about Chris is that he was a peculiar cat. He didn’t seem to particularly care too much about making sales but still made enough to not be terrible at it. He always seemed to have the attitude that he was better than all of this. That he deserved better and that he was above everyone else.

So he spent most of his time jamming to his beloved 70’s music. He was always the last one in the office and the first one out.

But if he wanted something bigger and better… maybe Bryan could give him just that. He grabbed his cell phone and dialed Chris’s phone number and waited...

“You got Chris with FWA, what’s the jive, turkey?”

Bryan cringed at his greeting. “Is this Mr. Peacock?”

“You know it, man. What’s up?”

“I received your resume and wanted to offer you a job.”

“Aww man, that's kinda freaky deaky. I don’t remember applying to any job.”

“Err, no,” Bryan stumbled briefly but recovered again, “your info was actually given to us by one of your impressed clients.”

“Ah, got it man. That makes a lot of sense. But I dunno, daddio, I’m up for a pretty groovy promotion here… North American Sales Director… gonna be hard to top that.”

“What if I told you, we here at… uh… Gym… Equipment… Incorporated… uh yeah, we’re can offer you the job of, uh, WORLD Sales Director.”

“Woah, World Sales Director? The world is so much more than North America.”

Bryan kept himself from laughing. “Yes sir. It certainly is. So how about you come on down to 493 Sunnyside Lane and sign this offer letter? We’ll give you whatever salary you want. Just name your price. That’s how bad we want you.”

“Aw yeah! I’m on my way!”

Chris hung up the phone and Bryan slid his phone into his pocket, still trying not to laugh. Chris began to prance through the office. “Peace out bitches! I quit this bitch!”

And like that, his final piece of competition was gone. Well, Chris would eventually come crawling back when he realized the address Bryan had given him was for a pizza restaurant, but the bridge had been burned.

The next day, it was made official. Bryan had become the North American Sales Director.

As the new North American Sales Director, Bryan wasted no time making some sweeping changes.

The first thing he did was promptly fire Phillip. This raised a lot of eyebrows, especially from Phillip, after Bryan had been the one to convince him not to go after the Director job. But the reasoning was simple. He was the lowest person in sales. Some new people had been hired to replace Jackson, Nate, and Chris… and all of them were already running circles around Phillip.

The next thing he did was fire Gerald. This might have seemed super random, but as HR, Gerald tried to speak out against the firing of Phillip so Bryan just fired him too. At first, Gerald indicated Bryan didn’t have the authority to do it, but Mr. Scorpane ended up overruling it and used his sway within Corporate to allow it. They had been meaning to centralize Human Resources in the corporate office anyway so it was a nice cost-saving effort for them.

Bryan would offer Jeremy a raise, but Jeremy began to realize that Bryan may not have gotten his promotion through completely ethical means. Jeremy confronted Bryan about it, but Bryan insisted that the ends justified it. He was the right man for the job. He deserved the title. And Bryan tried to insist to Jeremy that if you want to move up in the world, sometimes you have to do whatever it takes.

From that point, Jeremy began to distance himself from Bryan. Plus, with the new title, Bryan was much busier and working long hours, just as he had predicted to Phillip. So he himself had little time for Jeremy anyway.

Bryan was knocking it out of the park as Director. He was pushing his team like crazy. They were making sales and he was making sure the product was getting out of the door quicker than ever. Perhaps a little too quick.

Bryan had started to skip some of the steps along the way and signed off on shipments to be sent out earlier than they were supposed to. Customer complaints started to go up as shipments were either wrong or featured defective products.

When questioned about the quality, Bryan did what he knew best. He threw someone under the bus. Specifically the man in charge of quality… Cyrus.

And so Cyrus was also fired.

But none of it mattered to Bryan, because he was still on top. He was thriving. He had everything he ever wanted.

Nothing could stop him.

“Uhhhh,” Bryan reflected back on the couch in the afterlife, “so yeah, I guess I had a few people who might be considered an enemy…”

“Jeeeeeez,” the form of Jeremy said with his jaw dropped, “that’s impressive. Truly impressive.”

“Hey, I did what I had to do. And it worked out.”

“You remember, you’re dead right?”

“Oh, yeah. Fuck.”

“Well, now that we at least know some potential suspects, I can look into some files..” Jeremy made a heavenly tablet appear out of nowhere and he began to go through it.

“Let’s see here. Elizabeth Rose… looks like after she got fired, she ended up joining a cult or something. I dunno but it doesn’t look like she did it.”

“Nate Savage and Jackson Fenix… well, looks like they really turned their life around after you got them fired. There was no actual evidence that they attacked the homeless man so they never had any charges filed. But they were apparently scared straight and cleaned up their act. They got jobs at a nonprofit helping the homeless and are definitely on the path to going to the Good Place now.”

“I thought you said…”

“Shh, I’m still looking. Phillip ended up retiring after you fired him and he’s enjoying the retired life with his grandchildren. He couldn’t be happier away from the drama. And it looks like Chris actually did end up finding a World Sales Director role at another company.”

“WHAT?”

“Yep, he and Cyrus actually ended up getting better jobs after being fired. So I think they are fine with how things turned out.”

“You gotta be kidding me. What about Gerald? He seemed too nice. He probably wanted me dead.”

“No, he was actually already in a cult so he just leaned on them and he was fine.”

“I didn’t realize how many cults are out there.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“So, it was none of them. Was it Jeremy? I always thought he may have some issues… he was always so nice but I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a screw loose.”

“Nope, looks like he was hanging out with some guy with a mustache that night.”

“Damn… then who was… oh…” Bryan’s eyes grew wide. It suddenly became clear. “I remember now… I know who I am going to haunt.”

Bryan Baxter whistled to himself as he walked out of the empty office complex. Another day down that he could be proud of. The rest of the employees had already left for the night. Even the cleaning crew had come in and done their work. As usual, he was the last one leaving for the night.

He pulled out the remote for his black 2022 Mercedes Benz. Life had been so great ever since getting the job at FWA. And things were only getting better.

He opened up the door.

“YOU!”

What, Bryan thought he was all alone. He turned around… “Oh, you… I’m sorry, I’m not carrying any spare change right now but I’ll get you tomorrow, I promise.” He was, of course, lying.

The homeless man stumbled over, dropping a beer bottle to the ground. “I know it was you!”

“What? What do you mean?”

“NO MORE LIES! YOU WILL PAY FOR WHAT YOU DID!”

“What, no…”

The homeless man had retrieved a knife from his pocket and stabbed Bryan right in the stomach, pulling up violently. Bryan gasped, clutching his gut and dropping to his knees as the homeless man now plunged his knife deep into Bryan’s throat.

“I knew it all along! And I didn’t forget! I never forget!”

The homeless man pulled the knife back out of Bryan’s throat as the North American Sales Director slumped over to the asphalt parking lot, blood pouring out onto his reserved parking spot.

The homeless man disappeared into the night.

“Wow, it was the hobo all along!” Jeremy said, now eating popcorn on the couch while listening to Bryan’s story. “I love a good twist ending!”

Bryan shook his head in disbelief. “So that’s my mystery man.”

“Indeed. All has been revealed. So let me just see who he actually is and then…”

“And then… I’m gonna haunt his ass REAL good!”

Bryan Baxter was going to get the last laugh.​

 

[CakeWalker]

Grayscale IV

This is such a strange experience, that last time I made an entry into a diary I felt like I was still lost in the world and hadn’t even put myself on the road to recovery. Opening up to myself and being vulnerable to myself - this just feels the exact opposite of everything I do when I step into the Dojo. Sensei Nakajima offered me an escape route and a different way to handle my problems, but as we approach the Grand March Weekend I have to be honest with myself. I am scared and I am not sure how I can get over this lingering fear that I know will envelope my body as soon as I step into the squared circle.

I know that when I signed up to compete for this company I knew I was going to be putting my body on the line, but I must admit the prospect of involving myself in a deathmatch tournament absolutely terrifies me. The style of fighting I am most comfortable with is much more disciplined and strategic, but knowing that I could leave my body permanently scarred and have an assortment of household items used as weapons instead of performing the function they were designed for. That fills my body with complete dread and multiple times this week, I have woken drenched in sweat after the most horrific of nightmares.

It is times like this that I really wish my Nanny was still living and breathing. I wish I could just pick up the phone and hear her voice and she could guide me through these worries. She could be the lighthouse on the rocky shore guiding me into port, without the worry or fear of crashing down onto the rocks and meeting a perilous fate. It is time like this that I almost had faith in God, faith in astrology or belief in runes and gems, because at least that way I will go into this coming weekend holding something close to my heart with the hope it would guide me forward.

That isn’t the case though. I am all by myself going into this war. And if I live by the sword, then I must die by the sword. But now it hits me. Why am I dancing on the border of life and death, and why am I fearful of the pain that is going to be put upon my body. I came to the FWA with the eventual hopes and dreams of being the very best version of myself, but how can I possibly do that if I hold the person of an underdog of someone that thinks they are going to lose at every turn. Of someone that has already accepted that they will fail, before they have even left the starting gates. Why have I allowed myself to think so little of myself, that I have started to lie to myself? Why am I rewarding myself with a participation medal and patting myself on the back for just competing? How can I hope for anyone to ever invest in me and push me towards anything, if I don’t even believe in myself? When did I become such a coward again? This isn’t the journey I wanted to have and this can not be the road I continue to travel down.

I choose to fight. I choose to live.

* + * + * + * + * + * + * + * + * + * + *

Madison Gray stands outside an old school New York boxing gym, with bandage wraps around her knuckles with a cut lip and bruising around her face. She acknowledges the camera and offers it a half smile before speaking.

“The best way to toughen up your body is to take a beating every now and again. If you don’t know how to lose then how on earth do you know how to make someone else suffer. Winning and losing is an exchange between two sides and you have to be versed in one, to become stronger in the other. If you look at combat sports, the fighter that went on a long unbeaten run and then suffered their first loss. If that person was unable to come back from that loss and get back on the horse, then they shouldn’t be someone you should look up to. The fighters that you need to look up are the ones that have suffered defeats and then managed to stand back up on the mat and actually claim victories and honours once again. That is the type of fighter I want to be.

The truth of the situation I am in now though, is that I have realised that I can no longer sit on the fence if I want to make a name for myself and have any hope of moving past treading water in order to stop drowning in my own inadequacies. I must channel myself in such a way that I create a version of myself in order to thrive. I realised that I didn’t join FWA to offer them my services, but rather I must learn to benefit from being part of this company and grow and improve at the expense of others around me. This is a dog eat dog world and in order to do that I need to stop viewing myself as a rookie and I need to take the mantle of being a Young Lioness and toss it into the garbage. In order to thrive in this company I must reinvent myself - I must become a Parasite. No better put - I must become The Parasite. I need to toss my shades away and stop seeing the world in a grayscale.”
​

 

[Jimmy King]

Parr for the course

”FORE!”

Jackson Fenix yells out before he takes a swing with his golf club, but he whiffs it and doesn't connect with the golf ball. Jackson looks out to see if he hit the ball but soon realizes that he did not, and he sadly looks down at the ball still in place.

"You do know that you're supposed to hit the ball after you say that, right?" Nate Savage says to his friend as he shakes his head at Jackson.

"Yeah, I know that. Do you think I don't know that? I meant to do that!" Jackson says proudly, trying to cover for his mishap.

”You purposefully missed the ball?”

"Uh, yeah, of course!" Jackson says, being so sure of himself. Nate rolls his eyes at Jackson, and Jackson swings again, and this time he hits the ball across the course.

”Why are we here anyway?”

"I wanted to get ready for my match with Mike Parr at The Grand March."

”How does playing golf help with Mike Parr?” Nate asks dumbfoundedly at his friend.

"He was a golfer, right? Didn't he use to play golf? His last name is Parr."

"Wait, you think that because his last name is Parr that he was a golfer? Did you ever consider the fact that it's his real last name?"

Jackson looks at Nate with a confused expression.

"Do you think so? I thought he used to play golf."

"I'm pretty sure he never has, so you have us out here wearing these ridiculous outfits for nothing?"

Nate motions at his outfit, which would be best described as tacky. Actually, tacky would be an understatement.

"I feel like I should kick my ass for wearing this crap!"

"Now, it wasn't for nothing! I wanted to get in the right frame of mind for Mike Parr, who I thought was a former golfer, but that doesn't mean we still can't have fun. We had the last time we played golf, remember?"

"First of all, that was miniature golf, which is different from actual golf and certainly not as boring. Secondly, no, I didn't have fun then either. That was an awful experience with awful people, and I'm sure that one jerk still owes me the money I won from our bet!"

"Oh, well, I remember having fun then. Jeremy and I had fun, but you and Bryan wouldn't stop fighting."

"That's because he's a jerk, just like Jeremy! You know what? It would help if you forgot about Jeremy. He's in the past, man. Focus on what's ahead of you in Mike Parr because if you beat Parr at The Grand March, you get a shot at the North American Championship."

"If I can do that and Baxter retains his title, then I can beat him for it!"

"Yeah, but don't get too ahead of yourself. Parr is no slouch, man. He's an accomplished competitor and no stranger to that title. He wants nothing but to regain that championship, so it would be unwise to overlook him."

"Yeah, but I'm undefeated in my last two singles matches."

"He's coming off some wins too, and while it's nice that you've won, look at who you beat. Trevor Walker has been around the block, but he's nowhere near Parr's competitor, and the other match was a triple threat match with a lumberjack and a witch."

"So what you're saying is, you don't believe I can win? Is it because of me trying to be nice, is that it? Nice guys finish last?"

"That's not what I'm saying; you're misconstruing what I said. You have a good chance of winning, but it wouldn't be smart to overlook Mike Parr. He's unlike anyone you've ever faced. He's motivated, and he's hungry for gold, and that's a dangerous combination."

Nate approaches Jackson and puts his hand on his shoulder.

"Look, man, I appreciate what you're trying to do with trying to be a nice guy. I may not get it, and I'm not entirely on board yet, but I can respect you're trying something different. I don't get why you're letting this Jeremy thing affect you so much; you need to let that go and focus on the now. I'm not saying to stop trying to be nice, but maybe forget about Jeremy, okay?"

"Parr is good, okay? He's one of the best. He's a 4-time North American Champion, and he could be a 5-time champion if he can get past you and go against Baxter or whoever it is that might beat Baxter. I don't want to see that happen, okay? I want you to succeed, man."

"Look, I'm going to get some grub. You finish here, and I'll see you in the country club."

Nate pats Jackson on the shoulder and walks off, leaving Jackson to contemplate. Jackson walks down to his ball, which is near the hole. Jackson attempts to putt the ball in the hole, but he misses and looks frustrated.

Come on, Jackie, get it together! If you can't putt the ball in the hole, what makes you think you can beat Mike Parr? Nate's right; I need to forget about Jeremy Best. I must put that behind me and focus on what is before me.

Jackson tries to hit the ball in the hole again and misses again.

Seriously, it can't be that hard to get the ball in the hole! It shouldn't be that hard, just like it shouldn't be hard to beat Mike Parr, right? Yeah, he's an accomplished competitor, but I'm Jackson Fenix; come on now!

Miss again.

I can beat Mike Parr. I can do it.

He hits the ball, and this time it gets in the hole. He celebrates by himself in silence by pumping his fist.

Well, I did that, now onto Mike Parr. This is it. I can do it. Beat Mike Parr and get a title shot.

This is it. This is my time.


​

 

[WelshyBOI]

Bellatrix Bordeaux in…


The King of the Deathmatch...kind of.

“STAY AWAY FROM ME!”

A panicked, female voice bellows, as a young blonde woman runs hell for leather through the forest, leaping over fallen trees and getting scraped and clawed at by protruding branches. Bellatrix Bordeaux, or “Trixie” for short, is wearing the black version of her wrestling attire, along with an unmistakable look of fear and panic filling her beautiful brown eyes as she attempts to flee whomever, or whatever, gives her chase.

???: “Get back here, Trixie! We just wanna talk!”

A sinister male voice calls playfully, causing the terrified young woman to glance behind herself, before somehow gaining even more speed in an attempt to escape capture.

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “LEAVE ME ALONE!”

Trixie cries out in a pleading voice, as the sound of footsteps, along with playful laughter, crescendos as her pursuers grow ever closer.

???: “Oh, come on, Trix! We promise we won’t hurt you!”

Another voice calls out, amidst the sound of laughter from his friends as they slowly catch up to their target.

As Trixie runs frantically, she glances behind herself once again, and in that split second where she wasn’t watching where she was going, she trips over a thick, gnarled tree root protruding from the ground, let’s out a panic-filled “AAAAAAAAAH!” as she flies through the air, before crashing face first into the muddy and stick-filled ground with a sickening impact, much to the apparent enjoyment of her pursuers, as they burst out into ever crescendoing laughter.

???: “BAHAHAHA! Mind your step, Trix!”

Another voice calls out in amusement, as Trixie scrambles to her feet and limps on as fast as she can muster, her face and body being muddied and scratched from her trip and her eyes filling up with fearful tears as her attackers gain on her and her hopes of escape slowly diminishes.

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “Please, leave me alone!”

Trixie pleads once more amid tears, as fatigue sets in and her pace gradually decreases. As she continues to flee, her limp becomes more pronounced, as we get a glimpse of a gash on her right calf through a tear in her plaid sock, and several drops of blood begin to leave a trail on the forest floor.

As Trixie’s pace slows, the sound of snapping twigs and crushing leaves behind her loudens rapidly as her chasers gain on her with great speed, and only a few moments later…

WHACK!

…and Trixie is barged completely off her feet by an athletic-looking man and ends up crashing arm and shoulder first into a nearby tree with a sickening thud, before bouncing off it and crumbling to the floor in a heap.

As Trixie clutches her left shoulder and cries in agony, the athletic-looking man, who looks as though he’s in his mid-40s, and who we recognise as Reagan Cole, comes to a halt a couple of footsteps away from Trixie and proceeds to place his arms on his knees and take a deep breath.

Reagan Cole: “Fucking hell…you’re a fast little shit, I’ll give ya that! Jesus Christ.”

As Reagan catches his breath, two other men can be seen jogging towards him. Any avid Ground Zero fan would recognise the man on the left as TYLER, who doesn’t look at all tired in comparison to Reagan and the man jogging behind him, none other than Jeffry Mason. Neither man looks on the young side, but in comparison to “The British Apprentice”, they look positively strapping.

Jeffry Mason: “About time you caught her. You alright there, Trixie?”

He remarks, a sinister smirk on his face as he looks down at the incapacitated young woman.

TYLER: “Yeah, she ain’t getting back up. I mean, look at her, crying like a fucking infant…pathetic.”

TYLER looks down at Trixie with disdain.

TYLER: “Let’s just finish her off….there’s no point in just hanging around. We’ve got bigger fish to fry than this little minnow.”

Jeffry Mason: “Alright, you impatient fuck, give us a sec!”

Mason responds, having now taken up the same stance as Reagan in an effort to regain some stamina.

Jeffry Mason: “Fuck me, I ain’t run like that in years!”

Reagan Cole: “I can tell…”

Reagan quips as he stands up straight, having regained some of his breath,

Reagan Cole: “Looked like you were waddling in slow-mo.”

TYLER laughs at Reagan’s remark, as Jeffry raises his middle finger in the direction of “The British Apprentice”, before responding,

Jeffry Mason: “Yeah, go fuck yourself, yo-...”

Before Jeffry could finish his retort, the conversation is interrupted by the guttural and terrifying bellow of a wild animal…

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “WRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

Trixie exclaims with great fury, as she completely blindsides Reagan Cole and takes him off his feet with a spearing tackle, before climbing atop and unloading with a randomised selection of hammer fists, slaps and forearms. Reagan covers up as best he can, but given the sheer volume of strikes being rained down upon him by the rage and adrenaline-fuelled young woman, he’s unable to block everything. TYLER moves to intervene but is stopped in his tracks as the right arm of Jeffry Mason signals for him to stay put. As Trixie unleashes all of her rage upon “The British Apprentice”, Jeffry looks on with his eyebrows raised, and an intrigued look on his face, clearly impressed by her mean streak and resilience.

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “I! TOLD! YOU! TO! LEAVE! ME! ALONE! YOU! BIG! MEANIE!” Trixie screams, between strikes.

Reagan Cole: “GET THIS BITCH OFF OF ME!” Reagan shouts as he blocks and dodges strikes from underneath.

After a few more moments, Jeffry, having quenched his curiosity, signals for TYLER to intervene, who complies almost instantly. Moving furiously towards her, TYLER grabs Bellatrix by her long blonde hair and yanks her off of Reagan, causing Trixie to scream in pain as her hair is nearly ripped out of her scalp. As TYLER drags her away from Reagan, Trixie swings furiously and lands a right hand on TYLER’s jaw, staggering him and causing him to release his grip on her blonde locks, before bellowing her thunderous war cry once again…

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “WRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

And looks to land the same tackle on TYLER that she’d just successfully landed on Reagan. Unfortunately, the element of surprise wasn’t there to assist her this time, and as she ducks in, she is booted straight in the face with a sickening thud by Jeffry Mason’s right foot, almost disintegrating her nose and causing her to drop to the ground in a heap, clutching her face and whimpering in agony.

Jeffry Mason: “Hahahaa, WOO! Tough little cookie, ain’t ya?”

Jeffry says with a beaming grin on his face as he looks down at the poor young woman as blood spills out of her face, before glancing in the direction of Reagan Cole as he climbs to his feet.

Jeffry Mason: “What the fuck was that? Reagan Cole getting his ass handed to him by a little girl?…well, come to think about it, that’s actually a recurring theme for you, ain’t it?”

Reagan Cole: “Fuck you.”

Reagan says with a look of embarrassment and frustration etched on his face, annoyed with himself that he let his guard down and allowed Trixie to take him by surprise.

TYLER: “Stupid little shit!”

TYLER says with disdain as he punts Trixie in the stomach, causing her to wheeze and cough as she clutches her gut before he grabs her by the hair and yanks her to her feet while saying angrily

TYLER: “Get your bitch ass up!”

Trixie, with an injured leg, busted nose and blood-covered mouth, and also having just had the wind kicked out of her, tries valiantly to fight TYLER off, screaming “LEMME GO!”, and landing several shots to his stomach, but to no avail. TYLER, shrugging off Trixie’s attempts at punching him in the stomach, swings her around and locks her in a half-nelson, keeping her still as she struggles.

Jeffry Mason: “Right, let’s finish this bitch and move on,” Jeffry says, impatiently, “we’ve got a tournament to win. Reagan, fancy a little payback?”

Reagan looks at Jeffry, and then down at the subdued and bloodied Bordeaux, who stares back pleadingly, with a great deal of fear in her eyes.

Reagan Cole: “think she’s had enough…” he says, pitying the young woman.

Chuckling at Reagan’s response, TYLER chirps up,

TYLER: “Yeah, very funny. C’mon, don’t be a prat. Just put your foot through her head and be done with it.”

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “Please…” Trixie pleads tearfully, “please lemme go…”

Reagan Cole: “Guys, look at her,” Reagan says, trying to convince his compatriots to spare her, “let’s just move the fuck on. Let someone else waste their time ending this bitch.”

Jeffry glares at Reagan with his eyebrows raised, looking both surprised and frustrated at Reagan’s attempted act of mercy.

Jeffry Mason: “Nah…no loose ends. TYLER’s right, stop being a fucking pussy and finish her.”

Reagan Cole: “Bu-”

Jeffry Mason: “NOW.”

Jeffry interjects bluntly, the look in his eyes letting Reagan know that he doesn’t have a choice in the matter.

Both Reagan and Jeffry glare at each other for a moment, both looking ready and willing to come to blows over their disagreement on how to handle the situation…that is until Reagan breaks eye contact and sighs, before nodding in agreement.

Jeffry Mason: “Good boy,” Jeffry says as if complimenting his pet dog, “now fucking end her.”

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “Please, no…”

Trixie pleads snivelling, with tears falling down her face and mingling with the blood that drips from her nose.

Reagan doesn’t look at her. Instead, his eyes are transfixed on a random twig on the floor as he tries to eliminate any pesky thoughts of mercy, before finally, he raises his head and looks the terrified and battered young woman directly in the eyes with a steely expression…

and then…

We hear the sound of twigs and leaves being crushed underfoot, along with some distant conversing voices that immediately draw the attention of the three men, who stare back and forth between themselves in a slight panic as Trixie, seeing an opportunity, screams as ferociously as she can, “HEL-” before being cut off as TYLER tightens his squeeze around Trixie’s neck and beginning to choke her out.

TYLER: “Fuck,” TYLER curses under his breath, frustratedly, “Reagan, hurry the fuck up.”

Reagan Cole: “No,” Reagan responds in a frantic whisper, seeing an opportunity, “let’s leave her as a distraction and get the fuck outta her.”

???: “Hello? Who’s there” a female voice calls out from a distance away as their footsteps crescendo at a quickening pace.

Jeffry Mason: “Oh, for fuck sake…let’s get the fuck out of here,” Mason agrees reluctantly, much to the chagrin of TYLER, “TY, drop the bitch and let’s go!”

TYLER hesitates for a moment, his half-nelson choke still sinched in as Trixie slowly drifts into unconsciousness. “Fine.” he blurts out, before begrudgingly releasing the near-passed-out Trixie, causing her to drop to the ground like a sack of potatoes before the three men flee into the trees.

As Trixie slowly drifts off to sleep, she sees three sets of feet rushing towards her, before the scene fades to nothingness.


++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Several hours have passed since Blair, Celestia and Kleio heard Trixie’s cry for help and rushed to find the young woman beaten and unconscious on the ground, and with Kleio’s decision to have the Ravenwood sisters carry the battered Trixie with them for the rest of the day, the witch sisters do not seem to be in the best of moods.

Blair Ravenwood: “I can’t believe she made us carry her.”

Blair mutters quietly to herself as she looks on as her sister pokes Trixie with a stick as she lies, still unconscious, near the campfire.

Blair Ravenwood: “Should’ve just left the stupid girl to rot.”

Celestia Ravenwood: “I think she might actually be dead,” Celestia says with no small amount of hope in her tone, as she jabs Trixie in the stomach with her stick.

Blair Ravenwood: “She’s still alive…”

Blair says frustratedly, as she glares in the direction of the leader of their coven, Kleio De Santos.

Blair Ravenwood: “Wish I knew why, though.”

Kleio De Santos: “She’s alive because I wish it so…”

Kleio says sternly as she glances in Blair’s direction, who recoils slightly in fear.

Kleio De Santos: “…and she shall remain alive until I say otherwise, understood?”

Blair nods begrudgingly, not wanting to anger her leader.

Celestia, not really paying much attention to Blair and Kleio, pokes and prods the corpse-like Trixie a couple more times, before eventually becoming bored and throwing the stick into the fire.

Celestia Ravenwood: “She looks pretty dead to me,” Celestia says as she leans her face over Trixie’s and, using her index finger, she pokes Trixie’s right eyelid and forcefully opens it, revealing Trixie’s pretty brown eye as it rolls around in its socket.

As Celestia continues to mess around with Trixie, the injured young woman begins to stir for the first time since her altercation with Reagan and co earlier in the day. Not expecting a reaction, Celestia jumps in startlement.

Celestia Ravenwood: “Uh, I think she’s waking up!” she calls out worriedly.

Upon hearing this, Blair and Kleio turn their heads in the direction of Trixie and their fellow witch and, a moment later…

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

Trixie screams in terror as her eyes open to see Celestia’s face mere inches from her own, and in a moment of instinct, Trixie grabs Celestia by the head and uses her grip to lift herself up and connect with a vicious headbutt to the mouth, and forcing a yelp of pain from the young witch.

Trixie gets to her knees and dives on Celestia, tackling her to the ground and unloading on her with a barrage of slaps, shouting and screaming many Trixie-style profanities in the meantime. Seeing this, Blair darts to her feet, fully intending on coming to her sister’s rescue, but she, along with the brawling Trixie and Celestia, are each halted as Kleio speaks up.

Kleio De Santos: “ENOUGH!”

The powerful witch exclaims, before looking at Trixie, who stares back in shock and recognition, with Celestia still underneath,

Kleio De Santos: “Trixie, my darling, would you be so kind as to release my friend, please?”

Kleio asks calmly, donning a warm smile as she speaks.

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “KLEIO!?”

Trixie yells in shock and recognition, before looking down and recognising Celestia, although she hadn’t had a busted lip the last time Trixie encountered her, until she realizes…

Bellatrix Bordeaux: ”O-Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!”

Trixie gingerly removes herself from atop Celestia, who sits up and grasps her mouth in pain, with an angry look in her eyes as she glares back at Trixie’s regret-filled face.

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “I-...I-I didn’t realise it was you! I’m really sorry!”

Trixie says beggingly, hoping that Celestia will forgive her.

Celestia glances in the direction of Kleio, who glares back at her with a stern look. Upon seeing this, Celestia turns to face Trixie, and after removing her hand from her lip, she forces a reluctant smile.

Celestia Ravenwood: “Don’t worry about it, It was just a big misunderstanding,” she says behind gritted teeth, “I forgive you.”

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “R-really?”

Trixie asks, staring at Celestia with a look of both shock and appreciation.

Celestia glances momentarily back at Kleio with a furious expression, before turning back to Trixie and quickly returning her forced smile.

Celestia Ravenwood: “Really.” She says, as she climbs to her feet and walks towards Blair, as they both find a place to sit, as far away from Trixie as possible.

Kleio eyes the two sisters as they walk past her, before turning her attention to Trixie.

Kleio De Santos: “How’re you feeling, sweety?” She asks in an almost mothering tone as she walks over and sits down next to Trixie.

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “My leg hurts.”

Trixie says, her voice sounding bunged up, likely a side effect of the broken nose she suffered at the foot of Jeffry Mason earlier in the day.

Kleio De Santos: “Aww, poor Trixie.” Kleio responds softly as if speaking to a family pet. “You’ve had a rough day, haven’t you?”

Trixie nods in response, wallowing in self-pity.

Kleio De Santos: “Tell you what…how about I get one of the girls to cook us some beans, and you can tell me all about it over supper. Sound good?”

Trixie looks up at Kleio with no small amount of gratitude, as her tummy grumbles at the mere thought of being fed, and nods, agreeing.

Kleio De Santos: “Great!” Kleio exclaims excitedly. “Blair! Make yourself useful and conjure us up some food, will ya?!”

Off in the distance, we see Blair scowl in annoyance at Kleio’s command, but nonetheless, the young witch climbs to her feet and begins to prepare supper. Seeing her orders being followed, Kleio again turns her attention back to Trixie.

Kleio De Santos: “Right then, let’s start at the beginning, shall we?”

Kleio says, and moments later, the scene fades into the future, as we see Trixie, Kleio and the Ravenwood sisters all finishing off their supper, as Trixie regales them with her traumatic story of pain and terror.

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “And I tried to scream for help, so the younger-looking one tried to strangle me to death. That’s pretty much it.”

Trixie finishes, before shovelling another spoonful of beans into her still blood-stained face with great pleasure.

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “These beans are delicious, by the way! You guys are AMAZING CHEFS! First the Jolly Rancher juice, and now this? I so need to get your recipes! You should make a cookbook!”

Blair Ravenwood: “They’re just tinned beans, you stupi-”

Kleio De Santos: “I’m sure Blair would be more than happy to share her special baked beans recipe with you, right Blair?”

Kleio gives Blair a stern look, one that Blair matches momentarily, before breaking eye contact with her leader.

Blair Ravenwood: “Yes, Kleio…I’d like that.” She responds, sounding dejected and slightly frustrated.

Trixie lets out an excited “Yes!” under her breath as she pumps her fist, which causes Kleio to smile.

Horn Of Plenty LONG VERSION - Panem's anthem

As the group converse around the campfire, a blue logo that reads “The Fallen” shines brightly in the sky. The three witches seem unfazed by this, simply looking up in mild interest. Trixie, however, is completely baffled.

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “Uh, what the fudge is that!?”

As she looks up at the sky, she’s hit by a sudden realisation.

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “OH. M. G…IT’S ALIENS!”

Blair and Celestia simply shake their head at Trixie’s stupidity, meanwhile, Kleio has an amused smirk on her face.

Kleio De Santos: “It’s not aliens, Trixie.”

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “Well, what is it, then?”

Celestia Ravenwood: “It’s a tribute…to the dead.” She says, spookily.

Trixie’s excitement at the thought of making friends with intergalactic beings dissipates, as the names and faces of the dead continue to appear. Eight faces have already appeared since the music began to play, and they are joined by the names and faces of…


=======================================================

Maddison Gray

And…

Sawyer Xavier

=====================================================


Trixie’s face sinks even further as the name and face of Sawyer Xavier appears.

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “No, not him!” She says, as she begins to well up. “He-he can’t be…”

Kleio De Santos: “You know this man, Trixie?”

Trixie nods, her eyes beginning to fill with tears.

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “He was my friend.”

A look of understanding falls upon Kleio’s face as she nods.

Kleio De Santos: “Right…you fought alongside him and XYZ. At Fallout twenty-six, I believe?”

Trixie nods sadly.

Blair Ravenwood: “One match!?”

Blair and Celestia snicker.

Blair Ravenwood: “You’re getting all teary-eyed over someone you’ve met ONCE!?”

Trixie glares at Blair and Celestia as they giggle.

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “HE WAS MY FRIEND!” She cries out furiously.

Celestia Ravenwood: “‘My friend’,” Celestia copies, before she and Blair burst into laughter.

Kleio De Santos: “Right, that’s enough, you two.” Kleio says sternly.

Blair Ravenwood: “Oh, come on! Seriously? Kleio, please…you can’t honestly tell me that you believe that Sawyer Xavier, after teaming with Trixie ONE TIME, actually considered her a friend. Like, seriously?”

Kleio looks at Blair with eyes that contain a severe warning.

Kleio De Santos: “I said, that's enoug-”

Before Kleio could finish, however…

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “YOU FUDGING LADY DOG!!!”

Trixie curses out in sheer fury, as she charges past Kleio and leaps off her feet, diving towards the Ravenwood sisters! Caught completely off guard at Trixie's unbridled aggression, and having no time to climb to their feet, the sisters turn away and cover their heads, awaiting the inevitable barrage of punches…

…the assault never came.

As Blair and Celestia open their eyes, they’re greeted with the sight of Bellatrix Bordeaux, equal parts furious and completely befuddled, levitating mere centimetres above their heads.

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “What the-“

Kleio De Santos: “I said…that’s enough.”

Kleio says, as she stands behind Trixie with her right arm stretched forward.

Kleio De Santos: “Now, Trixie…I’m going to put you down, but first I need you to promise not to maul Blair and Celestia to death. Can you do that for me?”

Blair snickers.

Blair Ravenwood: “She couldn’t beat us if she tried.”

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “Oh yeah!? C’mere!”

Trixie aggressively attempts to get a hold of Blair, but the arrogant witch simply takes a single step back, leaving her out of reach. Trixie attempts to doggy paddle forward, but she doesn’t move any closer to her target. The only thing that the doggy paddling accomplishes is making Trixie look even more ridiculous, and causing Blair and Celestia to burst into laughter as they point and taunt the hovering and frustrated young woman.

Blair Ravenwood: “C’mon Trixie! You can do it! Hahaha!”

Celestia Ravenwood: “Just keep swimming! Just keep swimming!”

The incessant taunting, coupled with her inability to retaliate, causes frustration to build up inside Trixie, causing her to try even harder to get to her targets.

Kleio De Santos: “ENOUGH!!!”

Kleio yells in a powerful voice. The annoying trio does as they’re told.

Kleio De Santos: “Blair, Celestia…take a walk.”

Celestia Ravenwood: “But it’s the dead of nigh-“

Kleio De Santos: “NOW!!!”

Seeing the look in their leader’s eyes and knowing better than to cross her when she’s in a mood like this, the sisters scurry off into the trees, leaving Kleio and Trixie alone at the camp.

Kleio De Santos: “I’m going to put you down now, Trixie…do you promise to behave?”

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “But they started it!”

Kleio De Santos: “I’m aware of that, but regardless, I can’t have you ripping my coven to shreds. Okay?

Reluctantly, but realising that in her current position, she hasn’t really got a choice in the matter, Trixie nods in agreement, and as a result, Kleio slowly lowers her down to the forest floor, with Trixie landing gently on her bum.

Kleio De Santos: “There. Alright now?”

Trixie nods, clearly not meaning it. Noticing that, Kleio sets herself down beside the dotty young woman.

Kleio De Santos: “Would you like to talk about it?”

Trixie shakes her head to indicate that she doesn’t. Kleio twiddles her thumbs awkwardly.

Kleio De Santos: “Okay then…is there anything that you do want to talk about?”

After a couple of moments of silence, Trixie speaks up.

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “Why did you save me?”

Caught off guard by Trixie’s question, Kleio takes a moment to think of a good answer.

Kleio De Santos: “Because we’re friends…”

Hearing this, Trixie stares at Kleio, looking wholly unconvinced.

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “Are we?”

Looking confused, and a little nervous, Kleio responds.

Kleio De Santos: “What do you mean? Of course, we are! Why else would I save you?”

Trixie pauses, trying to come up with a reason.

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “Because…” she says, recollecting something she learned once, “‘you want to use me…take advantage of me…manipumalate me…”

Kleio chuckles.

Kleio De Santos: “Manipulate, you mean?”

Trixie nods thankfully, before continuing with her thought.

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “You want to manip…ulate me. And then when you’re done with me, you’re gonna toss me in the trash and move on.”

A look of remembrance falls upon Kleio’s face, along with a small, vindictive grin. Catching herself, she puts on a figurative mask of confusion.

Kleio De Santos: “Where is this idea coming from, Trixie?”

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “I-...I dunno.” Trixie says, not being able to place the origin.

Kleio places a hand on Trixie’s shoulder, causing Trixie to tense up slightly. Realising this, Kleio removes her hand, not wanting to set the explosive young lady off again.

Kleio De Santos: “Look, Trixie…whatever gave you the idea that I’m just using you and that I don’t care about you…they’re wrong. We’re in a tournament where only one person can win, and you’re in that tournament too. It would’ve been in my best interest to just leave you for dead…but I didn’t. I saved you…I saved you because I care about you. I saved you because you’re my friend, and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for my friends.” Kleio says, as convincingly as possible. “You do believe me, right?”

A moment of silence goes by, as Kleio’s words weasel their way into Trixie’s playdough-like mind, before Trixie, moved by Kleio’s words, grabs a hold of the menacing witch, hugging her tightly.

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “Thank you.”

And with that, the scene fades once more.


++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++


Intermission

Over the course of the last two days, the cannon that signifies the death of a participant in the tournament has fired its thunderous shot four times. The nightly “Fallen” tributes had confirmed these eliminations as…

Horn Of Plenty LONG VERSION - Panem's anthem

Jason Randall

Logan Darwin

Ansu Kurosawa
and…

Death Walker

Intermission End


++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

It’s quite a pleasant morning, all things considered. The sun is out. Birds are chirping happily. Everyone still alive when they went to sleep is still alive now…

For Trixie, not hearing the thunderous shot of the death cannon during the night was a nice feeling. Yes, the more people that die, the better the odds of her own survival, but the dotty young woman couldn’t help but be cheered up at the fact that a few hours had gone by without the depressing realisation that someone had just been violently killed.

So, all in all, as she walks through the forest, side by side with Kleio De Santos, with Kleio’s coven a few paces behind, Trixie can’t help but feel a little happier. As she looks up at the pretty birds swooping around above her head with a smile on her face, Kleio speaks up.

Kleio De Santos: “You seem a little happier this morning!” She says with a smile.

Trixie doesn’t respond. She looks to be transfixed with the stunning beauty of the forest, and the creatures that live within.

Kleio De Santos: “Trixie?” Kleio calls, tapping the young woman on the shoulder to grab her attention.

Trixie snaps out of her little trans and looks at Kleio, slightly startled.

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “W-wait, what was that?” She asks, confused.

Kleio chuckles.

Kleio De Santos: “I said, you seem a little happier this morning.”

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “Oh. I suppose I am.”

The women take a few more steps in silence, before Kleio, a curious look on her face, once again breaks the silence.

Kleio De Santos: “Can I ask you something, Trixie?”

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “Sure!” Trixie says, happily.

Kleio De Santos: “Why are you here?”

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “Whatchu mean?” Trixie asks, confusedly.

Kleio De Santos: “In this forest. In this tournament. Putting your life on the line…for what?”

Trixie thinks about the question for a moment, before responding.

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “Because Bret wants me to.”

Kleio chuckles, before responding

Kleio De Santos: “Yeah, that’s bullshit.”

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “What?” Trixie asks, confused by Kleio’s response.

Kleio De Santos: “Trixie, there’s no way in hell that you can convince me that your brother is fine with you doing this. Like, I don’t know much about Bret, but I know what siblings are like,” She says, glancing momentarily at Blair and Celestia as they chat amongst themselves, “and there’s no way in hell that either Celestia or Blair would enjoy the prospect of their sister going it alone in a tournament of death.”

Kleio turns her eyes back on Trixie once more as she continues.

Kleio De Santos: “Now, if you don’t want to tell me, then that’s fine…but I think that there’s another reason you’re doing this that maybe you haven’t even realised yet.”

Trixie’s thinking face comes into full effect as she ponders everything that Kleio said.

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “I-...I dunno.” Trixie says disappointedly.

Kleio De Santos: “C’mon, Trixie, there must be something you want. Fame? Fortune? To become a Queen?” She says, rattling off some of the things that victory in this tournament could bring. “A lifetime supply of green Jolly Ranchers?”

Trixie chuckles snortingly at Kleio’s last comment.

Kleio De Santos: “Have a good old think now.”

After a long moment, Trixie responds.

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “I-...”

Kleio De Santos: “Yes?”

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “I-...I want people to stop being mean to me,” She says, continuing to look within herself as she speaks, sounding more and more irritated with each sentence, “I want people to stop calling me stupid, or dumb…I want people to treat me like a grown-up, and not just some stupid kid.”

Kleio nods in understanding.

Kleio De Santos: “You want respect.”

Trixie looks at Kleio excitedly, elated that she understands.

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “YES!!! I just want people to RESPECT ME!” She yells out liberatingly.

Kleio smiles, as a huge weight seems to have been lifted off of Trixie’s shoulders.

Kleio De Santos: “And that, Bellatrix Bordeaux, is a worthy reason for being here.”

Trixie smiles appreciatively, as the two walks in silence for a moment, before Trixie asks…

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “So, what about you, Blair and Celery? Why did you guys enter the tournament?”

Kleio De Santos: “Oh, Blair and Celestia aren’t in the tournament. Only I signed up…wouldn’t make sense for me to have to kill my own coven to win the crown now, would it?” Kleio says, chuckling.

Thinking for a moment, a look of confusion on her face, Trixie responds.

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “Wait…I thought we were told that we had to come alone?”

Kleio De Santos: “We were.”

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “Then how come Blair and Celery are with you?” Trixie asks.

Kleio pauses, a look of sheer bewilderment on her face.

Kleio De Santos: “Wait…YOU’RE RIGHT!” Kleio yells in disbelief, shocked that she didn’t realise herself. “My girls shouldn’t be here! There’s no way in hell they’d be allowed in!”

Kleio’s face looks to be one of genuine shock at this revelation, with confuses Trixie.

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “Well, how are they here, then?”

Kleio De Santos: “I have NO IDEA! Wait,” Kleio and Trixie both turn around as Kleio calls, “BLAIR! CELESTIA!”

…they’re nowhere to be seen.

Kleio De Santos: “Wait, where did they go? Where are my girls!? BLAIR!? CELESTIA!?”

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “BLAIR!? CELERY!?” Trixie calls out, trying to help.

The two women break off in opposite directions, in search of the Ravenwood sisters. As Kleio’s calls for her coven members grow ever distant the further Trixie moves away from her, a rustling of leaves and the snapping of twigs can be heard, startling the young woman.

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “Blair!?” She calls out as her head snaps in the direction of the scurrying. “Blair, is that you?”

As Trixie’s eyes transfix on the location where she heard the scurrying, the same noise shoots past behind her, causing her to snap around once more…to find nothing but an empty forest in her vision.

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “Celery? You there?”

Creeping forward slowly towards the last known location of the noise, the scurrying can once again be heard behind her. When Trixie turns to face the direction of the noise…

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! WHAT THE FUCK!?” Trixie cries out in horror, as a being that I am nowhere near skilled enough as a writer to describe to you, leaps towards her!

Weaselperson: “BARK! BARK! BARK BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK!

The vile creature quite literally barks, as it takes Trixie completely off her feet and attempts to maul her to death.

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! GET OFF MEEEEE!”

Trixie screams in a panic, as Weaselperson claws at Trixie’s face. Trixie, having a few fights under her belt at this point, manages to bring her arms up, covering her face from harm…her arms, though, take an absolute mauling.

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAW! LEAVE ME ALONE! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Weaselperson: “BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK!”

As the mauling continues, we can hear footsteps charging before the combatting duo at a dramatic rate.

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “HEEEEEEEEELP! SOMEBODY HELP ME! AAAAAAAAAAH!”

And, as if answering her hails, Kleio De Santos throws herself at Weaselperson, tackling it off of Trixie and her near-mangled forearms! The momentum with which Kleio impacted Weaselperson, and given the inhuman agility of the horrendous, dirty, stinking, flea-ridden creature, Weaselperson manages to wind up on top of Kleio, dishing out the same mauling that it’d just gifted Trixie.

Weaselperson: “BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK!”

Kleio De Santos: “OW! GET THE FUCK OFF ME!” Kleio screams as she struggles, all the while her forearms get scratched and clawed by the scrawny, bug-eyed, ugly and rabid humanoid weasel.

Trixie, in no small amount of agony after the assault dished out to her by the repulsive, reeking, shaggy beast, manages to climb to her feet and charges at Weaselperson with great fury, and an almost signature…

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “WRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

Before barging Weaselperson off of Kleio and climbing atop the hideous creature and raining down upon it with a barrage of punches, as it cries out…

Weaselperson: “BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARK! BARK! BARK! BARK!”

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “WRAAAAAAAAAAAAH! DIE, FOUL BEAST!” Trixie yells out vengefully.

Kleio, seeing the unbridled fury being unleashed upon Weaselperson, looks on with great interest, and a vindictive smirk as Trixie continuously hammers her fist into Weaselperson’s face and arms.

Weaselperson: “BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK!”

Without even thinking, Trixie grabs a fist-sized rock off of the ground next to her, and letting out a thunderous roar, she drives the rock into Weaselperson’s face, causing the panicked barking to cease as the beast gets knocked out by the impact.

The creature's silence or the fact that it’d stopped struggling hasn’t seemed to register with the irate Trixie, as she strikes the beast in the face with the rock yet again…

…and again

…and again

…and again

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “WRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

…and again, until the sound of the death cannon sounding its thunderous shot snaps Trixie out of her rage-fuelled state. As she sits atop the now dead humanoid weasel, its face completely unrecognisable from the onslaught that Trixie had delivered upon it, she realises what she had just done. Seeing the flesh-covered rock in her hand only further confirmed what she already knew…

Bellatrix Bordeaux had taken a life.

As the rock falls out of Trixie’s hand, Kleio De Santos slowly walks over to her, her arms covered in her own blood from Weaselperson’s assault. Seeing Trixie, who looks as though she’s in a stake of shock, sitting atop the destroyed creature, Kleio speaks up cautiously.

Kleio De Santos: “T-...Trixie?” She calls softly, “...you alright?”

Hearing Kleio’s voice, Trixie snaps out of her trance-like state and climbs off of Weaselperson, her expression as cold as winter as she looks at Kleio and simply nods in response to her question.

Kleio, thinking it best not to talk about this, decides to move on.

Kleio De Santos: “My arms are killing me,” she says, examining the gashes on her forearms, “no doubt that thing was disease-ridden to all hell.”

Kleio notices that Trixie’s arms are dripping with blood as well, but Trixie doesn’t seem to acknowledge the pain.

Kleio De Santos: “We should get back to the Cornucopia” Kleio suggests, “you know, where we were dropped off at the start? There may still be some supplies there…hopefully a med kit.”

Trixie simply nods in agreement, her eyes and face looking empty of emotion.

Kleio De Santos: “Trouble is, I don’t have a clue what direction to go…any ideas?”

Trixie shakes her head, no.

Kleio De Santos: “Hmm, well…”

As Kleio walks around a little bit, trying to get her wits about her, she notices a golden sparkle off into the distance.

Kleio De Santos: “Uh, Trixie?” Kleio calls.

Trixie looks at Kleio, who points in the direction of the golden sparkle.

Kleio De Santos: “Come on, let’s take a look.”

As the two walks towards the golden sparkle, their jaws drop. Even Trixie, who’s still in almost a state of shock at what had just transpired with Weaselperson, can’t help but react.

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “Uh…” she says, confused.

Kleio De Santos: “My thoughts exactly.” Kleio agrees.

As they slowly walk closer, the reason for their confusion becomes clear…

Kleio De Santos: “There’s no goddamn way…” Kleio says in utter disbelief as she double takes, looking at the yellow brick road in front of her, and back at Trixie, standing to Kleio’s left, a look of amazement and recognition on her face. “This is impossible…there’s no way that anyone knows…”

Kleio, a look of understanding forming on her face, looks back at the road, and then back at Trixie. Kleio smirks.

Kleio De Santos: “I know where we are…” Kleio says, staring at Trixie.

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “Where?” Trixie asks, confused.

Kleio De Santos: “...” Taking a moment to think, Kleio finally responds. “Never you mind, Trixie…never you mind. Shall we?”

Kleio gestures for them to follow the yellow brick road, and after a moment’s hesitation, Trixie, confused by Kleio’s comments, still nods in agreement, and they begin their journey, following the yellow brick road as the scene fades.


++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Kleio De Santos: “There it is!” Kleio says excitedly, as she and Trixie emerge from the trees.

The yellow brick road had, almost too coincidentally, led them exactly where they wanted to go. Seeing the Cornucopia, both women smile excitedly.

Kleio De Santos: “Right, I’m gonna go have a look. Stay here and keep a lookout, okay? If you see anyone or anything, shout as loud as you can…got it?”

Trixie, remembering what happened the last time she and Kleio split up, responds hesitantly.

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “But, shouldn’t we stick together?” She asks nervously.

Kleio De Santos: “Trust me, this is the best way…you do trust me, don’t you?”

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “YES!” Trixie responds without hesitation.

Kleio De Santos: “ Good. Now, stay here and keep watch. I won’t be long.”

And with that, Kleio makes a move towards the Cornucopia. A minute or two passes without incident, as Kleio searches through the supplies that were left behind at the start of the tournament. Trixie, bored out of her mind, seems to have drifted off into one of her trances as she sits, cross-legged on the ground at the edge of the forest, staring at a seemingly interesting blade of grass.

As Trixie’s mind wanders, we see a man creep slowly out of the forest, heading towards the supplies, and Kleio De Santos…

…Trixie is completely oblivious.

As the man reaches the Cornucopia, he wastes no time, charging at Kleio, taking her completely by surprise and tackling her to the ground. Kleio and her attacker look to be pretty evenly matched as they roll around on the ground, each gaining and then losing a dominant position. Kleio, not liking this playing field, calls for backup.

Kleio De Santos: “TRIXIE, HELP!”

Snapping out of her trance upon hearing the cry for help, Trixie scrambles to her feet and stares at the battle going on at the Cornucopia…

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “XYZ!?” Trixie calls out in shock and recognition.

Embroiled in battle with The Witch, XYZ doesn’t register Trixie’s call. Seeing her two close friends battle it out, Trixie tries to grab their attention.

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “Wait, NO! GUYS! STOP!” Trixie pleads as she begins to rush toward them, “STOP! WE’RE FRIE-...”

WHACK!

…and Trixie is barged completely off her feet by a familiar foe. Landing hard on the ground, she looks up to see Reagan Cole, who looks as though he’s been through a few battles since the last time Trixie saw him.

Reagan Cole: “Well, hello again, Trixie!” Reagan says with a smirk.

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “YOU!” She says with great fury, before realising something.

Her head turns rapidly in several directions as if she’s searching for something...or someone.

Reagan Cole: “If you’re looking for Jeffry and TYLER, then don’t worry, they won’t be joining us. They disappeared on me a couple of days ago.”

Hearing this brings Trixie some relief, as she climbs to her feet and readies herself for battle.

Reagan Cole: “Before we finish this, Trixie, just know…It isn’t per-”

Before Reagan can finish, Trixie charges forward, screaming…

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “WRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

…and looking to tackle Reagan as she did days prior. This time, however, Reagan was ready. As Trixie drives her shoulder into Reagan’s abdomen, “The British Apprentice” manages to grab Trixie’s right arm, and as she takes him down, he wraps his legs around her waist and sinches in a Kimura Lock.

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “AAAAAAAH!” Trixie yelps in pain as Reagan applies an extreme amount of pressure on Trixie’s elbow and shoulder.

As she attempts to fight back, digging several left-handed punches into Reagan’s ribs, Reagan applies even more pressure, until…

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Trixie screams in agony, as she feels her elbow and shoulder snap, crackle and pop…breaking her right arm completely. Reagan, realising this, releases the hold and pushes the young woman off of him and climbs to his feet.

Looking down at Trixie as she cries her eyes out in agony, Reagan can’t help but feel a hint of remorse. Recognising this as the same remorse that prevented him from being able to finish her off the first time, Reagan quickly buries this feeling.

Reagan Cole: “As I was saying,” Reagan says as he reaches down and drags Trixie up to her knees by her hair, “this isn’t persona-”

Reagan is once again interrupted, but this time in a far more devastating fashion, as Trixie, out of sheer desperation and grit, stabs Reagan through the neck with a particularly sharp piece of branch gripped in her left hand.

Reagan, his mouth filling with blood as he chokes, releases his grip on the young woman’s hair, and both of them collapse to the ground. A moment later, we hear the death cannon fire its shot, as the life leaves Reagan Cole’s eyes, as Trixie looks on.

A few long moments pass, where Trixie’s eyes are transfixed on Reagan’s, the moment she drove that stick in his neck replaying in her mind over and over again, as her eyes begin to fill with tears.

Until…

Kleio De Santos: “TRIXIE! HELP!” Kleio cries out, as her battle with XYZ rages on.

Hearing her friend in distress, Trixie snaps out of her trance and, with nothing but sheer grit and her overwhelming desire to save her friends, Trixie climbs to her feet, her broken right arm dangling uselessly at her side and a great deal of agony etched on her face. Seeing Kleio and XYZ trading punches on the feet, beating the hell out of each other, Trixie moves as fast as she possibly can towards her battling friends, trying with all her might to reach them before they kill each other.

Bellatrix Bordeaux: “Guys! Please STOP!” She says, pleadingly, amid tears of pain.

As she resiliently marches forward, a great deal of pain on her face, she hears something moving behind her. She turns to face the noise…

Before she even saw what was coming, she feels something sharp get driven straight through her abdomen. The air begins to leave her being as she drops to her knees. She looks down, to see a knife in her abdomen. Holding the knife, a gloved hand. She manages, with all her remaining strength, to look up…she had never felt horror like it. As the gloved hand rips the jagged knife out of her, and as blood, and her life, spewed out, she gazed into the black abyss of a sinister-looking mask…

And moments later, she falls to the floor. The masked figure, discarding Trixie as if she were nothing, makes a b-line for the still warring XYZ and Kleio De Santos…before we could see the outcome of that confrontation, however, the scene fades, and we hear the ominous sound of the death cannon once more…

Bellatrix Bordeaux…

…is dead.

…

…


Bellatrix Bordeaux: “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

The terrified young woman screams as she sits up off of the couch, sweating profusely and hyperventilating…after a few moments, she realises where she is…

…home.

Bret Bordeaux: “Trix, turn the horror flicks off, will ya’? I’m tryna sleep!” The annoyed voice of Trixie’s brother Bret, calls from another room.

Hearing his voice brings Trixie a sense of safety. Her breathing slowly calms as she looks around to see the familiar, barren sight of her mostly undecorated living room. The look of fear subsides, if only slightly, for she knows that soon, she will be involved in a tournament. One that she’s been told very little about, but the name…

King of the Deathmatch.

As she slumps back into a lying position on her couch, Trixie’s imagination continues to run wild with all of the possible outcomes of the coming conflict. One thing is for certain, though…she ain’t getting any more sleep tonight.

As the scene fades, we catch a glimpse of the TV…

THE END.​

 

[Cyrus Truth]

Exile Chronicles (Volume 5)
Chapter 18: A Life Without Regret

At an old, somewhat weathered Victorian-era building in some corner of some massive metropolis, we find The Exile approaching the front door. Dressed in simple blacks and greys, Cyrus Truth pauses at the top of the stairs leading to the door, standing still on the doorstep as the clouds above him start to darken, beckoning the rain.

Cyrus has been in numerous big matches in his career. He’s built a legacy of being ever in the mix, always either at the top of the mountain or just right behind those who sit upon the throne. A hundred battles, dozens of championships…

…and yet, something about this match at the Grand March has been weighing Cyrus down more than all those other matches in the past.

A shot at the FWA World Championship is never to be taken lightly, of course. Even more so when it’s been so long since Cyrus has had one. On the surface, this match is everything Cyrus has wanted ever since losing his last World Championship all those years ago.

So then…why does it seem like Cyrus is even more gloomy and miserable than before?

After a minute or two of standing there as raindrops begin to fall from the heavens, Cyrus finally reaches for the knob and opens the door. No knocking, no doorbell…The Exile simply walks in with a grim countenance.

As we follow him inside, we find that the interior of this old building is as rustic and antiquated as the exterior. The walls are old plaster, and the wallpaper that adorns the walls has begun to peel and rot in some places. There’s a veritable hoard of cluttered curios that adorn and line the walls, antiquities that have seen better days.

The floors creak under Cyrus’s heavy footsteps as he walks down the entry hall and turns the corner, opening another door that leads to a dining room. A long table, one that we don’t quite see the end of, awaits The Exile as he enters and closes the door behind him. The seat closest to the door appears to have been prepared for company, as there’s a large spread of meats, cheeses, and vegetables accompanied by a large goblet of wine. Cyrus approaches and takes the seat, but doesn’t partake. He simply rests his hand on the table, tapping it.

Our perspective shifts to the other end of the table, where a nearly identical spread has been laid out. And while we don’t see the face of the person sitting at the other end of the table, we do see his wrinkled, shriveled hand reaching out and tapping the table to the same rhythm that Cyrus is. This man’s fingers are spindly, and we see a pair of small liver spots on the back of his hand. Even though he keeps in beat with Cyrus’s tapping, it’s obvious that rheumatism and the rigors of aging have taken their toll on The Exile’s host, as it trembles and shakes. As does this host’s voice as he speaks:

“You’re late, kid.”

“Am I? Hadn’t noticed.”

“Bullshit. You should eat something.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Even more bullshit. Eat. I didn’t go through the trouble to lay out this meal just for you to be a shitty guest.”

Cyrus scowls at The Host’s gruff and crotchety tone. However, he does acquiesce, as he grabs a baby tomato and bites into it. It’s perfectly ripe, as some of the juices dribble out of the corner of his mouth.

Mirroring The Exile, The Host also grabs a tomato and bites into it, albeit a bit more shakily. Both men reach for a napkin to wipe up the dribble, and for the first time we see the face of The Host.

The Host is most certainly an elderly man, withered and emaciated due to the rigors of time and a hard life. His cheeks are sallow, his eyes sunken and dark. What remains of his hair is thinned and wispy flakes of grey and white. However, there’s a certain hardness in his gaze, an almost eerily familiar one as he coughs for a few seconds.

“You don’t look so well.”

The coughing stops as The Host scowls and reaches for his goblet of wine, an act mirrored by Cyrus. Both men take a sip as they set the goblets down.

“And you’re the picture of health? Tsk. I’m old. Well past my prime. What’s your excuse, hmm?”

“There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“You know, I’m getting real tired of calling you out on your bullshit, boy. But if you keep spewing it like you have been ever since you got here, you’re not leaving me with much of a choice, are you? Why are you here, if not to get right?”

That causes Cyrus to pause for a bit as The Host laughs. It’s throaty, but definitely a sickly laugh as it causes him to cough again. Cyrus doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything. The sympathetic thing to do would be to ask if The Host was all right, but The Exile’s expression is as hard as stone.

Eventually, The Host stops his coughing fit as he sucks in a deep breath, relaxing a bit as his breathing steadies. He grabs a knife and almost absentmindedly jams it into a side of beef that’s long past gone cold. Cyrus does the same, almost on instinct.

“You are sick, kid. Not like me, obviously. You’re not the one waking up every morning watching the Grim Reaper peek around the corner waiting to finally take your soul.”

“Bit morbid, wouldn’t you say?”

“Is the fact that your name’s Truth some sort of obligation where you have to state the fucking obvious? Either way, you’re not right. You’ve not been right for some time now. You’re supposed to be the very best, or at least that’s what you’ve let people believe. Hell, maybe you were. But you aren’t anymore.”

Cyrus stops himself just short of snarling at that. However, while it was a definite blow to his pride, he doesn’t say anything to rebuke The Host’s statement. He just stares at his knife jammed into the meat and twists it, almost impotently. The Host, sneering, does the same.

“Hurts, doesn’t it? I bet it feels like that knife is cutting into your belly, having to hear someone call you out for not living up to your own hype. You’re supposed to be preparing for the biggest match of your life. Yeah, I know you’ve had plenty of big matches, but this one? This one’s special. It’s your chance at living up to your reputation, to get back what you’ve wanted ever since some bastard took it away from you. And yet, you’re wasting time here?!

“You know full well that this fight’s your best chance to not just be another statistic, another cog in a machine that’s been bigger than you for far longer than you’ve been a part of it. But it’s your last chance as well…”

“That’s not…”

“DON’T! Don’t you dare say I’m lying, boy! I may be one foot in the grave, but you? You’re not some spry chicken either. You know full well that someday, you’ll be as old and fucked up as I am. The world has changed, Exile. And day by day, it’s passing you by. So why in the hell are you here, wasting your time on an old buzzard like me, when you should be getting yourself ready to fight for your life?”

“Because…”

“Because?”

“...because I’m afraid.”

The dining room becomes dead silent, to the point where a pin drop would seem as loud as a thunderclap. The Host looks at Cyrus with those sunken, hawkish eyes, whereas The Exile’s gaze is…soft. Vulnerable. Concerned.

And yes…afraid.

Cyrus rests his hands on the table, as if it were a buoy in the middle of a turbulent storm. The Host rests his hands similarly, but says nothing as if waiting for The Exile to reach the conclusion he’s known for some time.

“I…want to be champion again. No…it goes well beyond wants. Both Michelle and Chris can say that they want and deserve to be the World Champion, and they likely both believe that with all their heart. But the minute any of them say that they need it? They’re LYING. They don’t need it. Not like I need it.

“It was in a Triple Threat Match just before Back in Business that year where I would lose the World Title. Since then, I’ve had what little opportunities to reclaim it be yanked away from me like some child taunting a dog by keeping its food just out of its reach. By rights, I probably shouldn’t even have this opportunity that I have at the Grand March, but I do. Another Triple Threat, against opponents just as skilled and duplicitous as the ones I fought those years ago.

“...Another match, with Back in Business on the horizon.”

“Almost poetic, isn’t it?”

“Sure, I guess. But…I should be focused. Should be razor sharp, and I’m NOT. And it frustrates me. To be approaching a fight like this with fear is…is…”

Cyrus doesn’t finish his statement. Perhaps, it’s more accurate to say he can’t finish it. But it’s clear from his expression that Cyrus is sullen and distraught.

Cyrus has always prided himself on putting his best effort into everything and anything he does. And more than that, he has always held fast to the belief that, unlike so many of his opponents over the years, he could achieve everything and more through resolve and the willingness to press forward. No tricks, no underhanded tactics…just fighting with every last fiber of his being.

But…if that was the case? Then why has it taken him so long to get a title match? To reclaim a championship he dominated for years on end, a title he’s held longer over his four reigns than anyone in FWA history? Cyrus hasn’t stopped fighting with the same fury he had been…

…right?

“You’re right. The world has changed. And I thought that, regardless of what changed, the crux of what my world was didn’t. The way wrestling is supposed to work. If you fight like hell, with everything you have regardless of whether it’s the most important match or just another random one-off…then you have the power to rise. To become a legend. To build something that will last long after you’re gone.

“But…that’s not what’s happening. While a trickster like Chris Peacock struts like his namesake and indulges his impulses, and a snake like Michelle von Horrowitz finds the spotlight and the fortune by taking every single shortcut they can, I struggle. My shot at the championship at The Grand March was one that was stolen by one, and given to me by another, and it KILLS me.

“Because…if I am Truth, and I am truly committed to The Truth? I’m left to assume one of three scenarios.”

Cyrus takes the knife back in his hand, gripping it so tightly that his knuckles go white. The Host mimics the motion, despite his arthritic bones struggling to close.

“Either my beliefs in what is and isn’t true about wrestling have been wrong this whole time…”

Cyrus, in a flash, jams the knife into a small loaf of bread.

“I’ve not been fighting as hard as I should’ve been…”

The knife is yanked out of the bread, and The Exile brings it down with a fury into a pear, cleaving it into two jagged halves.

“Or…”

With one last movement, Cyrus brings the knife down hard onto the table, jamming it deep enough to where it remains standing. As it wobbles, Cyrus says in a slightly resigned tone:

“My best simply isn’t good enough anymore.”

We turn back to The Host, and bizarrely, we see that his knife is also jammed into the table, eerily wobbling in sync with Cyrus’s. Both men rest their elbows on the table, folding their hands at the same time. But while The Host’s stance is like that of a judge holding court, Cyrus’s expression is that of a man struggling to come to grips with harsh realizations.

“So, you finally get to the point. Question is…what the hell are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know…”

“That’s not good enough, boy. What are you going to do about it?”

“I SAID I DON’T KNOW!”

Cyrus shouts, slamming his fists into the table. We hear a sound from the other side near The Host, sounding like an echo. But we don’t see it. Instead, our focus is on Cyrus, whose voice is strained with a mixture of anger and sorrow.

“Do you think I don’t want to know? Is that it? Do you think I’ve woken up every morning since the F1 Climaxxx and told myself that I don’t want to understand how I’ve gotten to this point? Or how I can stop coming up short and shut up the insipid braying of a couple of fools and children? I have been struggling…not just in matches, but in trying to understand what the answer is. And I HATE it. And I fear that the answer’s going to be just outside of my reach.

“So yeah. I’m afraid. I’m afraid that I don’t have what it takes anymore. That everything I’ve done is all I’m destined to do and that the title that I held and made prominent in my time is something I can’t have anymore. That this match at The Grand March is the crucible that will shatter the steel in my soul.

“And I can’t stand the thought of watching either of those two walking away with the prize…”

*****
​

It’s the closing moments of the main event at The Grand March. And chaos reigns supreme. Both Cyrus Truth and Chris Peacock have fought like hell, fighting against one another…hell, even fighting alongside one another as Michelle, in her desperation and utter disregard for her own respectability, has made this match devolve into a circus of interference, as Cthulhu’s Nephews have swarmed the ring, battering both Cyrus and Chris after rescuing Dreamer from the righteous beating she deserves for all the chicanery she’s pulled to even be in this match to begin with. And The Exile and Disco’s Last Warrior do fight. They even manage to fend off the swarm of Nephews for a time. But…it doesn’t last. How could it? Eventually, the Nephews overwhelm them, driving Chris head-first into a set of steel chairs and ganging up on Cyrus until The Exile can barely get to his feet. It’s at that moment that a kick to the head knocks Cyrus for a loop, causing him to collapse. And whether they needed to or not, Quiet and J.J. hold Cyrus down on the mat by his arms and legs, giving Michelle plenty of time to ascend to the top of the turnbuckle and deliver her 450 splash. The pin is elementary. And as if to rub salt in the wounds, the Nephews apply their own body weight to the pin, just to make sure their golden girl gets the pin and the 1-2-3. Michelle von Horrowitz is the new World Champion. A cheater and scoundrel masking herself in the guise of some faux intellectual. A champion whose legacy and third championship reign was built on a pedestal of skullduggery and underhanded tactics. A Dreamer who unrepentantly waded through scum and wielded it like a cudgel to get what she wanted. Cyrus’s vision returns to see them celebrating, as if Michelle had conquered the entire world on her own and hadn’t just thrown waves of simpering clowns to ensure a clear path to false glory. Knowing that FWA would again have to suffer her droning, meandering words that had no soul, no dignity because they are spoken by a woman with neither. The sinking feeling rests in everyone’s stomach, knowing that she likely will continue to use the Nephews in order to ensure that she stays champion this time. The Exile has been humiliated, because he wasn’t strong enough or wise enough to counter what she would do. Maybe…humiliated for the last time.​

*****
​

It’s the closing moments of the main event at The Grand March. And chaos reigns supreme. As expected, the Nephews have interjected themselves into this match on behalf of Michelle von Horrowitz, early and often. Cyrus knew they would; after all, it is a Triple Threat Match. Disqualifications are null and void in a match like this. He even warned Peacock that his inane desires for some kind of acknowledgement from The Exile were a distraction from the real problem the champion’s “gift” to Cyrus created. But, it would seem that, here, in this most dire of moments, that Chris Peacock finally understands. The Exile and Disco’s Last Warrior fall in line, and fight like hell. It’s not easy. The sheer number of Nephews is overwhelming, but the no disqualification rule does give them a few options. Steel chairs, much like the one Michelle used to get Cyrus disqualified in the finals of the F1 Climaxxx. Tables that buckle and break as bodies are slammed into them. Everything and anything that can be used as a weapon is used as the number of Nephews thins out. Until all that remains is Michelle von Horrowitz. Dreamer tries to sneak a pin onto Chris Peacock, as he’s distracted after delivering a Strut to a kneeling Uncle. A rollup with feet on the ropes…but Cyrus intervenes with an elbow drop to break the pin. Michelle scrambles to her feet, but an elbow strike to the side of her head connects with a satisfying crunch as he hoists her onto his shoulders, driving her into the mat with Journey’s End. It’s over. Michelle has won the majority of their matches, but Journey’s End is something she’s mostly avoided. It’s a death blow. But…before Cyrus can pin her? He’s tossed out of the ring. Chris Peacock tosses Cyrus aside and pins Michelle himself. Cyrus lands hard, and is unable to move quickly enough to stop the referee from completing the three count. Chris Peacock retains. Nobody will fault Peacock for winning the way he did. If nothing else, he has proven to be a canny competitor who skirts the line between cunning and duplicity well enough. And if nothing else, he has proven he can roll with the punches to get what he wants. He did it in the Chamber to win the Golden Opportunity. He did it against Cyrus in the Climaxxx, scoring the cheeky pin and forcing Cyrus to fight from underneath throughout the remainder of the tournament. But still…it leaves a bitter taste in Cyrus’s mouth, watching another man walk away with a prize that continues to elude him…and may forever elude him for the rest of his career.​

*****

“I have fought so hard just to have a chance. And the chance that I have is in a match where so much is out of my control. I…don’t know if I can take it. Take losing another Triple Threat against people like Michelle and Chris after struggling for so long. I don’t want to live in a world where my best is no longer good enough to be the best, or good enough to stop others from polluting the sport I’ve devoted everything to with their backbiting. I don’t…want you to be the fate that awaits me after all is said and done at The Grand March.”

Cyrus looks up from the table and turns his gaze downward to the opposite end, and it is here we see The Host in full.

But it’s not a person. It’s a reflection. There is no flesh and blood person sitting at the end of the table.

Just a mirror.

The Host mimics Cyrus’s movements, every twitch and shiver. But while The Exile’s face is one of frustration at a future he seemingly can’t change, The Host’s is that of indignation at what he’s seeing.

“Who the fuck are you, boy?”

Cyrus looks at his reflection of his, eye-to-eye. Hearing The Host…or, is it him? Hearing the reflection bitingly ask that question has stoked a bit of a fire in him.

“Have you gotten this far by giving in to doom and gloom? Looking at your situation as if it were hopeless? Yeah, this match sucks for you. It sucked for you when you were facing Sullivan and Gabrielle, and it sucks even more now thanks to that bitch’s posse and the champion’s need for validation. Some might think that, even if you can’t pull this off, there’ll be another chance. But you know better, don’t you?”

“Yeah…I do. There is no tomorrow for me. No matter what anybody says.”

“Right…because you know that opportunities won’t be granted to you again. The world is changing, boy. And those who feared you before have gotten smarter, stronger…or more devious because they want to prove that what legacy you have is meaningless by shitting over it, and shitting over their own by their actions and attitudes.

“But tell me…when has the prospect of oblivion ever stopped us before?”

Cyrus’s heart feels like it stops beating for a second. As if a giant has punched it clean out of his chest. The Host, withered and decrepit as he is, the dark reflection of what Cyrus could become if fear and bitterness claims him. But at that moment, Cyrus grits his teeth. He sweeps his arm and clears the table, allowing some of that frustration out as The Host in the mirror does the same. Slamming his fist down hard, Cyrus takes a deep breath before growling.

“Fuck them all. Fuck them all for their charity, and to hell with them all for wanting me to crawl into the grave they’ve been digging for me. If I’m going to fall, then let it be in the ring. If I’m doomed to go through hell, then I’ll drag everybody who wants me to go there along for the ride.”

“Because life isn’t worth living with regrets.”

“Because life isn’t worth living with regrets. So I won’t. I won’t bother thinking about what is and isn’t fair. I won’t let fear of failing stop me from rising to the occasion.

“It isn’t about whether I deserve this title opportunity or not. The bottom line is…I have it. As fleeting as it might be, and knowing full well that this will likely be the last one that I have in FWA…I won’t back down. I CAN’T back down. I’ve come too far to let things end this way, not without leaving a scar that wrestling fans will remember long after the last match is concluded.

“I am Cyrus Truth. Four times, the king. The righteous hand of fury, the devil the entire roster has forgotten and abandoned to the annals of history. That is who I am. That is who I have to be…one last time. One last time to right the wrongs of years past, to make all of the pain and suffering matter. One last time to be the king, to prove to myself that I wasn’t wrong.

“I’m going to be the World Champion. I’m going to beat Chris Peacock, Michelle von Horrowitz, and every single scumbag Nephew that decides that they value their loyalty to a woman who has none to anything other than her own ambition over their continued health and careers. Because there is no tomorrow for me. There are no second or third chances like others have gotten before...because I’ve already had mine. And I refuse to debase myself like the others to get another chance like this.

“This is it. There’s nothing else. I either win…or I doom myself to become you. That’s the Truth, isn’t it?”

The Host grimaces as he has another coughing fit…however, even as he gasps for air, he looks at his younger self with a semblance of pride. He nods as the coughing subsides and the mirrored reflection goes dark, before a loud cracking sound reverberates in this room.

The mirror shatters. Leaving Cyrus alone.

In spite of his words, Cyrus Truth still holds onto just a bit of fear. When one faces the prospect of failing after taking such a long journey to reach this point, I suppose it’s only human for it to be hard to let it go.

But then again, that’s the point, right? Fear isn’t doomed to condemn you to stagnation and obscurity. In fact, it is in that fear that true greatness can shine through.

For it is in the conquest of that fear that one can truly find their strength, and prove their worth.

Cyrus has lived a life and had a career of great achievement. The Exile has seen and done nearly anything and everything one could do in this life. But it is his hunger for more that continues to drive him, even when it seems that his efforts are for naught, and left unappreciated by those who bear witness.

But in the end, Cyrus Truth has chosen to stay true to the virtues of the Long and Winding Road. True to who and what he is, even when the world has told him that it’s not enough.

Because it IS enough. It has to be. It was enough when he was untouchable and reigned as champion. And it will be again at The Grand March.

Chris Peacock seeks acknowledgement. Craves validation. And fears when the cheers die down and the music stops. Ego blinded him to the true danger as he sought gratitude for something that should have been done, should have been accepted by someone who claims the title of champion. He hopes to prove his worth at The Grand March.

But all he will find is oblivion, and know the fear that comes when ego isn’t tempered with resolve.

Michelle von Horrowitz demands attention at the cost of respect. Surrounds herself with sycophants and malcontents who don’t care if the world sees them as fools so long as eyes are on them and their antics. Uses those who truly care about her well-being and her soul in pursuit of glory she is ill-equipped to grasp onto. She seeks to rub her meaningless successes by stealing another win at The Grand March.

But she will finally be silenced, and cast down into the shadows never to rise again and to wallow in the filth she herself propagated.

Come what may, Cyrus Truth will walk into The Grand March with one solitary mission in mind. And he will achieve it.

Because he has no choice.

Because there is no tomorrow.

Because he is ready to claim the rewards he’s been chasing for years.

And he’s not about to have any regrets over what wasn’t done.

The Exile leaves the dining room, and this house behind. He has found his resolve. He will not be just another decrepit antiquity, left behind and cast off to wither and rot.

Cyrus Truth is the Vagabond King.

And come the Grand March?

Cyrus Truth will be FWA World Heavyweight Champion…​

 

[Rosie]

Princess Nova: @Princess Rosé
Keres: @Nostradamus

We return to a familiar sight, the tree at the heart of the TORN Universe. Its violet leaves are in full bloom as they sprout above with a gray cloudy sky. Crows and ravens caw in the distance as a light wind breezes through while carrying some fallen leaves. Attached to the tree, Slate Bass and Eden, are at peace. In front of them in the path are chairs placed in a circle. They are mostly folding chairs apart from two thrones seated at the base of the tree, being put in a place of prominence. Their arms have an intricate design as if roots were woven together into its shape. Next to each throne is a stool.

Two hooded figures in masks walk down the path. Both of them have crow masks on with beaks pointing sharply forward. The two mysterious figures hold a cello each with a bow. Walking over to each stool they take a seat. In perfect sync… They begin to play.

Spoiler: Music

As the emotional whaling of the cellos echo through the garden of The Residence, down the path, Keres and Princess Nova begin to lead a group of people. Each person is wearing either a blank black suit or a plain white dress. Their individual appearances appear unique, based on actual people apart from one… striking similarity. Looking deep into their eyes is a blank white voice. They move robotically in perfect synchronization. Princess Nova, as almost always, has a lavish dress on, a black and gold affair with a lovely necklace with a heart. Tiara on her head. Keres is with her usual school inspired outfit, dark colours with a skirt and leggings. Behind them, each of their “followers” hold in their hands a flower of some kind. To some, roses. Others, tulips, one a daisy. Keres and Nova head to their thrones with their followers each standing in front of a chair, only one remains unoccupied. Keres snaps her fingers as the music stops.

“You may sit now.” She says coldly. The followers take a seat as her and Princess Nova remain standing. She begins a speech.

“I would like to welcome you all to this evening's meeting. You are all very courageous and strong souls for attending. The TORN Universe and its healing waters flow through you as you journey along its paths. You are all here in search of your truest selves and we are here to guide you.”

“Remember,” Princess Nova carries on for her sister. “This is a place built on tolerance and strength. We want NOTHING but the best for each and every one of you. It is what a family wants. We dedicate ourselves to the continued growth of ourselves and of our TORN Universe, a place each of you have the privilege of being touched and shaped by.”

Keres nods, looking at Nova. She turns her attention to the empty chair which stands across from them.

“We have a guest of honor planned. Elizabeth Rose. We have already given her a connection to the TORN Universe which binds us all. It is just a matter of opening the door and letting her true self come when she is ready. We are patient, but it appears that someone is trying to rush the process.”

“Poor Joseph,” Nova sighs, resting her cheek on her hand, “His intentions pure, but his actions misguided. In fact, we have a match scheduled. Us two, against Elizabeth and him. Now think…”

The Princess holds her chin with her finger, “Is this REALLY needed? It is such a tired misconception that problems are solved upon the ring of a bell or a statistic on a win-loss record.”

Nova cups her hand as if it is holding a delicate glass. She raises it up.

“It is like… drowning your sorrows with a drink of choice. The poison…” She tips her hand back as if the drink is touching her lips. She pulls her head back. “Touches your lips and seeps through your body. Each drop slows your body down, making each heart beat slow.” Nova folds her hands “Every extremity becomes numb as you hope to forget. Yet you wake up the next morning, head pounding, telling you to stop, and yet you go back to the old reliable.”

Taking the floor, Keres steps forward. Her face is unflinching.

“Consider us people who will break the cycle…” She quips, though her tone tells anything but. “But we are not naive. We can still find use. We can begin our intervention early. An attempt to break through to Elizabeth in a way to see if she is truly special, as we believe. Elizabeth is desperately stuck in a cycle, but there is a way out. The door will be presented to her, only opened when she is ready. And she will step through. The seed of her fate is already being planted here…”

Raising her hand slowly, each head turns to the path away from the tree.

“Behold… The essence of Elizabeth Rose.”

Walking down the path is… Lizzie Rose? She is in a plain white top and jeans, her hair in a ponytail. But… Her eyes are pure white. Moving her feet forward in a military-like way, she’s almost robotic. This isn’t Lizzie at all, but… It seems like her? She goes over to her seat, standing in front. Keres snaps her fingers and she sits down.

“Elizabeth. We are doing this for your betterment. The more you fight it, the harder it will be for you.”

Keres stares forward at “Lizzie.” Princess Nova, on the other hand, has a more heart-filled plea.

“Don’t consider this an act of malice or contempt. We’re doing this because we care about you!” Nova puts her hands on her heart. “I think we can get along so great one day! You defied every odds possible to get here, and that story speaks to me. It speaks to my very soul!”

Keres motions to Nova.

“My dear sister has become the perfect servant to the TORN Universe. Her transformation and dedication to the cause has become legendary. She is the standard that we compare others to.”

Blushing, Princess Nova curtsies to Keres.

“Aww, you are too kind, Keres!”

Keres gives but a small nod to Nova. The TORN Angel turns to their guests and continues on.

“This decision was the best I ever made. I think back to each time I.. felt weak and out of control. I grew distant from those… I thought I had a special connection to. That feeling was all gone. I felt myself saddled with the scraps left to me by someone who had long abandoned me…”

Nova shakes her head, tongue in her cheek, specifying.

“Because he was too weak to continue to fight. Rather than fight his battles…”

Giggling, Princess Nova motions towards her dress. “I chose to fight a cause that loves me back. Now in the love and care of the TORN Universe, I find myself whole, reaching something I never thought possible. And this…” Princess Nova does a playful twirl around. “Is something few achieve. My greatest fantasy becomes reality.”

“Though we have a hunch that there is one more who may reach your high standards…” Keres glances forward at “Lizzie” in front of her. The body of their guest is unflinching, blank. Keres motions to the seats. “Around you, are but a collection of people who have been touched by the TORN Universe. Their essence forever remains here, a small part of them. But to achieve the very privilege of being in service of the TORN Universe… this is earned. However, even by a brief experience, your life can be altered for the better. You find yourself closer to the place you are destined to be. Through-”

Keres raises one hand. “Tolerance…”

Then the other… “And strength.”

Looking around the circle, Keres rests her eyes on two individuals to her left side. A couple. The male has, best can be described, as a punchable face, one where if you would see down the street would have an unmistakable shit-eating grin. His hair is somewhat short, well kept, with a fade. He holds the hand of a girl with red hair and a sparkling necklace around her neck.

“You two.” Keres singles them out. “Share for our guest.” Both Keres and Princess Nova sit on their thrones. “Introduce yourselves. State your names.”

“Brian…” The man says. His other half introduces herself after.

“Stacey.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Toogood.” Princess Nova clarifies them. Brian and Stacey Toogood.

“What led you to the TORN Universe?” Keres asks.

“I was a young rising star in professional wrestling, first graduate of my wrestling academy, later signed by Slate and Eden. Excelling in every aspect of life. Football. Wrestling in high school. Investing. I was accomplished.” Brian states as a brief introduction which does not have the usual pizazz as he would in person, listing a laundry-list of nicknames and hyperbole.

“I was a girl with a silver spoon in her mouth from Manhattan. Daughter to fashion moguls. Yet through my love of this man, I found myself to the world of professional wrestling, dedicating myself to building his brand.”

Turning to Nova, Keres asks her.

“Sister, you are a helpless romantic, how can you describe their love? When you first met them.”

Nova has a cold laugh. “Superficial and shallow.” Folding her legs, leans forward. “Because you two… had everything, did you? At least from the surface. Money, fame, power… but not everything that matters?”

“We lacked love. We lacked care from others.” Brian responds. “For every friend I had bought, so many others I threw away. That was until I was left with nobody else in the world except for her, and I was slowly pushing her away.” He turns to his wife.

“And I… Never thought you truly cared… or cared as much as I wanted to believe you did.” Stacey looks into his blank eyes.

“But what brought you two together?” Keres asks.

Turning to Keres, both of them speak together in perfect harmony.

“The TORN Universe…”

Keres turns to the tree in which both her parents are part of. Slate Bass and Eden, giving off an almost god-like glow from skin that is nearly waxy in appearance, lift their heads to look at their daughter.

“Did you bring them together, Father?”

Without saying a word, Slate nods. Brian continues.

“Times of turmoil make you realize what truly matters. I was offered a position in the TORN Universe. But my HEART knew where my loyalty lies, with my beautiful Stacey. I realized how much she completes me. So, til’ death do us part, we are together.”

“And though we are not in service to the TORN Universe, deep down, we know what role it played in bringing us together.” Stacey affirms. “We know what truly matters now. We hope Elizabeth will too.”

Folding her hands together, Princess Nova blushes and bears a giant grin.

“Aww! And seeing you two in such love is SO lovely! It’s so cute! I love playing match-maker!”

“And we hope you were paying attention, Elizabeth…” Keres looks across to their guest. “The first lesson of tolerance. But maybe someone you may have heard about will speak more to you, right, Andersen?”

She darts her head towards another guest, and, sure enough, for his brief appearance in FWA around Lights Out, we know the self-proclaimed bastard, Andersen Vega. The man’s bald head is recognisable with his beard stubble. His skin is pale. Sure enough, Eternal was right about one thing, even before their appearance in FWA, they have already made brief inroads into the promotion.

“Slate met me at my lowest point…” His voice has a sense of dread to it. “I was deep at a point where I self-medicated with substances. Alcohol, more, you name it. I was expecting a wrestling show in Boston, a championship match. Slate was the champion and was the one who saw me walk down the ramp in no state to perform.”

“What did Father do?”

Keres asks Andersen Vega. She turns to her father on the tree.

“He showed no mercy.” Vega adds. “It was what I deserved. He led to embarrassment on a large stage for me. My career would not have continued if he did not knock sense into me.”

“And I think that is an important lesson.” Princess Nova stands up. Going to the middle of the circle, she brings her attention to their guest of honour. “Tolerance. The ability to have respect, not just for others, but yourself. Each person is different. There is a different path which leads someone to open up and experience a whole new world of possibility!” She grins. “But each person has a different path. Each person tears in a different way. I was a little rebellious girl. I needed some harsh lessons, but eventually, when the time was right-”

Princess Nova gives herself a big hug.

“I was embraced with open arms! I was nurtured and loved. Andersen didn’t need any of that…” Her voice becomes cold… “We had to cut his sickness out fast… and painfully. And- given an incident with a certain wannabe superhero, it is clear you needed a more severe beating…”

Keres snaps her fingers and Princess Nova sits down obediently.

"Each person has different origins for their strength. A part within them. Each person manifests themselves in the TORN Universe in a different way. My sister finds joy as Princess Nova. Others will be different. But what I hope is that you look in the right places rather than hide behind a weak shield..."

Both Keres and Princess Nova look across to someone sitting just two chairs down from “Lizzie Rose.” It is someone with long blonde hair which looks phenomenally familiar. He has a matching beard.

“Isn’t that right, Christopher Young?”

One other person from their past. A world travelled veteran, though one that has yet to make his way through FWA, Chris Young.

“For someone who continually calls himself “Amazing,” you sure looked for it in strange places?” Princess Nova puts her hand on her chin. “A strange representation of one’s personal ‘demons’ so to speak.”

“-When I felt I was down or my back was against the wall… I would cover my body in paint.” Their guest explains. “It would appear as if a monster had latched onto my body. I would design him in different ways after different monsters from lore or pop-culture. Some cultures would describe it like… war paint.”

“Was it your artistic expression?” Princess Nova asks and Chris shakes his head.

“It was suppression. It was to suppress my insecurities. No matter what I would call myself, the Amazing One, an Instant Classic, a King that ruled the ring… my skills would not always result in a win… The paint was simply that, paint. Washing away as the battle wore on.”

“And you thought just wearing body paint would result in victory?” Keres asks bluntly. Chris Young, deep down, wishes to defend his war paint. But, she makes a point.

“Clearly I was wrong.”

“Elizabeth.” Keres motions towards Chris Young. “Learn from Christopher’s mistakes. Strength does not come from suppression. It comes from expression. Take… someone who faired better. Mrs. Rhodes, or should I say, Miss Valentine?”

Looking to the seat next to him is a woman. She is somewhat short with vibrant purple hair. “Introduce yourself, please.” Keres asks.

“Riley Valentine-Rhodes. The Black Sheep of the Valentine family. Husband to a former world champion, but no longer bound by my husband’s career.”

“I remember when I helped open your eyes!” Princess Nova grins. “I knew taking you to play would just be the thing to change your perspective, hehe. But do share.”

“Upon being signed to a promotion, my husband was already signed and had just recently won their world championship. I therefore had to fight his battles, taking attention away from those who wished to take his prize. But that came with a curse. I was forever labelled his sidekick: His other half, despite me being part of a wrestling family. His enemies were mine and some even saw my inclusion as a favour to him.”

“And that is why I thought it was right to save you!” Princess Nova gets up from her seat and approaches Riley. “I know what it is like to have… the perception of nepotism. The false idea that your position is only from who you know and NOT from what you can do! We battle. We lead. We’re destined for great things. My crown is physical. Your crown is in your heart.”

Princess Nova puts her hand on Riley’s shoulder. “I didn’t want you to make the same mistakes I did. You didn’t need to fight another man’s battles. You are a world class woman. Seeing you express your anger, confidence, that is truly a beautiful makeover! I know your real half has bitter resentment over the experience, but I still hope for a day we could be best friends! I hope she can thank me, but she knows that I am PROUD of her!”

Reaching forward, Princess Nova gives a BIG hug to Riley Valentine. The husk of a person is lifted from her chair before being dropped back down. Princess Nova skips back to her throne.

Keres’ gaze fixates on “Lizzie Rose” and an uncomfortable smile comes across her face. Getting out of her throne, Keres walks over to this stand-in husk, kneels down to meet her at eye level, and cups “Lizzie’s” face in her hands.

“My dear, sweet, Elizabeth. You are so lost. So…. scared and misguided. The cards dealt to you in life have been that of a loaded deck forever against your favor. Nobody expected you to be a wrestler, and yet here you are. Your road has been filled with bumps, relapses, unmet expectations, broken relationships, and more.”

Keres slowly moves one of her fingers gently on the cheek of her prey.

“Even being subject to all of that…. You managed to scrape by and attain notoriety…. A championship. You became the FWA North American champion after overcoming a monumental challenge in the form of Mike Parr, one of the greatest champions in its lineage. The emotions you must have felt…. Enough to silence the doubts in your mind. The feeling of success in the face of adversity…. Didn’t last long, did it? That doubt creeped its way back in when someone without a soul decided to snatch yours. But hear this Elizabeth….”

Keres’ grip on “Lizzie’s” face tightens, her nails digging in and marking the skin. The husk does not react to what a normal person would experience as an immense amount of pain.

“We do not doubt. We see you as something special. A woman worthy of a second chance…. And this is your second chance. Too long you have Ẅ̷͔̟̾̉̍͗̅̽̎Â̷̧̗̜͕̑̀͝͝S̶̨͎͔̬̩͖̣̥̗͗̀͐̎̀̀̕͝ͅT̶̞̰̤̥̳͇̰͈̎͗̄͐̔̕E̵̺̾̄̇͑D̸̡͙͓͇̩̝͆̀̽̒͗́̀͐ your potential!”

Keres violently shakes the head of “Lizzie”, making it appear like she’s trying to rip it off.

“We know that you have the potential to achieve amazing feats. You are your own barrier, and through our faith in you, you can be greater. This is not an opportunity you should take lightly, this is not a moment in time for you to waste, Elizabeth…. Do not let anything…. Or anyone…. Drag you down into the abyss. Crawl along with us and meet your true potential. B̴̢̛̘̼͖̥̅͊͆̄̓̆͂ḛ̵̲̦̯̈́͌̎ ̸̜̊̿̇n̵̥̋̐͆̒̈́̓̂͝͝ö̴̪͖͖͙̥͉͉́̐̔̂t̷̨͇̥̫̰̰̤̝̍̽͆́̂̈́̕ ̴͍̹̉̐̒͋a̶̮̞͍̿͌͘f̸̡̗͎̋͐̾͝r̵͕̭̘̬̱̼̯͕͆̋͐̓́̄̆̃̀͘a̶͖̬̦̩͎̍̈́̌͊͗̂i̷͖͉̹̘̻̔̈́̉̿͑̏̊͜ḋ̶̰͈̜̥̘̩̍̕ and see what fate has in store for you!”

Rustling is heard in the distance, breaking Keres’ plea to Lizzie. A familiar face walks in. Someone who is somewhat short with long curly hair. He has a pair of black trunks on with knee pads and boots. Joe Burr? But, his eyes are white.

“Joseph…” Keres glares forward, looking at their guest. “It seems we have an uninvited guest in our TORN Intervention. Joseph Burr, intervening with fate for his friend. Former Gauntlet Champion, but best known as someone who takes advantage of misfortune… For a pinfall.”

Getting up from her throne, Princess Nova moves closer to the unexpected guest. She hums as she walks near him.

“I understand his reason. I would say that at one time, I would have done the same. It is a shame that he is interfering in something far beyond his comprehension. A misguided attempt to tempt fate.”

Turning to Nova, Keres interjects.

“But does it have to be this way, sister? I think his presence provides us with an opportunity.”

“Then what?” Princess Nova asks.

With a shiver of motion, and in the blink of an eye, Keres seems to float over in front of “Joe Burr,” giving him a cold stare as she proceeds to walk in a circle around him.

“Let us think. An individual, relatively small in stature, obsessed with pinning people’s shoulders to the mat despite it being no guarantee of a better tomorrow. Very likely to get crushed by many opponents due to a difference in size, skill, intelligence, you name it. Look no further than his recent failure to fight for FWA’s Television Championship.”

“So, what you are saying…” Princess Nova takes a step forward. “Joseph Burr is someone who could benefit from an enhancement, so to speak? Rather than be used for enhancing the records and performances of others, he can overcome his stature and find… a greater purpose?”

The TORN Angel hums. She skips around Joe. “Certainly I know the feeling of feeling inferior, a knowledge that you are in a situation where your destruction is but assured. Though that has not happened in years. Though, unlike him, I was less concerned with the result and more with survival.”

“Tell me, sister.” Keres asks Nova. “Do you worry about that now?”

Shaking her head, Nova shouts. “No, I thrive now!”

“Of course.” The Daughter of Demise hums slightly. “Would Joseph be one ready to thrive? Or even have the potential to? Hard to say, but we have made progress with greater challenges before. Imagine… Joseph Burr, an agent of destruction?”

“That would be the best result for him-”

Nova says before catching herself. Both her and Keres, seemingly on the same wavelength, turn to see “Lizzie Rose” sitting down.

“But is that the best result for her?” Nova asks.

Keres walks closer to their guest of honor. She takes a long inspection of her. Taking a look back at Joe, Keres shakes her head.

“I think of Elizabeth’s current bonds, the loose connections and the familiar bonds she has. She already served her blood family, providing for them from her unexpected road to stardom and received little in return. I think of her budding friendship with Jeremy Best and how, in the end, Best chose to side with an abusive and manipulative friend, abandoning her. Then, we have ‘Hollywood’ Joseph Burr.”

Giggling, Princess Nova quips. “‘Hollywood,’ Joseph Burr, starring in a life-long comedy.”

Putting her hand on “Lizzie’s” face, Keres looks into her pupiless eyes. “I sense great fatigue in you. Giving and giving and never receiving anything in return. Wouldn’t you love people who return the favor? Wouldn’t you love to be rid of those that leech on your kindness?”

“Speaking from personal experience,” Princess Nova interjects. “Ridding yourself of the ties that weigh you down was what I needed to truly be happy. No partners who never care. No blood family who takes advantage of your love. No second hand friends for you to be forced to ‘deal with.’ I think-”

Nova shakes her head. Her voice has a chill to it.

“No, I know Elizabeth needs that great release…”

“It is settled then.”

Keres jabs her hand forward and immediately grabs the pressure points of “Joe Burr’s” neck! A Clutch of Woe! There is very little struggle as Joe’s entire body becomes limp in the clutches of the Daughter of Demise.

Keres, each part of her body uncomfortably snapping in the opposite direction of “Joe Burr”, drags his limp carcass by the neck. The sound of his boots grinding against the ground is a symphony to her ears as she walks towards the purple-leaved tree of the TORN Universe.

Watching this, Princess Nova gently runs her hand through “Lizzie’s” hair, as if she is consoling her.

Upon reaching her parents, Slate Bass and Eden, Keres snaps her fingers and their bodies convulse as the roots of the tree begin to pulsate and let off a very light purple glow. She easily tosses her hapless victim at the feet of her parents and watches as they, the tree, and the TORN Universe begin to feed on the essence of “Joe Burr”.

“Let this sustenance serve as an apology to the TORN Universe on my behalf…. For allowing such blatant tomfoolery within.”

The roots of the tree begin to surround the limbs, neck, and abdomen of its food, dragging it beneath the ground to a chorus of cracking and gurgling sounds. Keres closes her eyes and breathes deeply, enjoying the almost orgasmic feeling of this orchestra of gore she has conducted…. Which is over with a numbing amount of silence.

Walking over to their guest of honour, Keres kneels down. Her eyes look dead forward, putting her hand on “Lizzie’s” cheek.

“Don’t worry.”

She says. Her voice is monotonous.

“This is…. for your own good….”

Raising her finger she snaps and every single guest, along with the chairs, disappear. Princess Nova grins as she stands by Keres’ side. Keres looks at her loyal sister.

“Consider this Elizabeth’s first step of her process. Her recovery. Her revitalization. Come, sister. We have much work to do.”

Princess Nova curtsies to Keres, bowing her head, not needing to say a word. Keres leads her and Nova away, walking down the path to The Grand March.​

 

[Mandalorian]

Chris Peacock in…

THE VOICE IN YOUR HEAD

I.
THE LAST OF HIS KIND

It was a perilous situation.

Amidst a backdrop of blaster fire, explosions and the terror-laiden trills of trillions of innocents, a solitary individual resolved to be the one to avenge the suffering inflicted on his kind.

C11RU5 used his many appendages to interact with the various gears, knobs and buttons on the console in front of him. The escape vessel he had procured was not as advanced as the craft he had previously used as a part of his world’s elite defence force. The official name of their collective was lost to time; to all they had simply become known as ‘The Old Guard’. The group had managed to stave off countless invasions in the past, but over time, their effectiveness waned. They could not prevent their world from being taken over by an irresistible outside force.

As he tinkered with the controls, preparing for take off, C11RU5 thought about the times where he and the rest of The Old Guard had staved off the threats in the past, but his memories of his contemporaries quickly shifted to each of their individual demises;

K3N3D3Y. G4BR1L3. SU773Y. P4JCK0N. As members of The Old Guard, they stood with C11RU5 as equals in official standing, but he never considered any of them to be allies despite them sharing a common enemy. For so long they had all reigned supreme, safeguarding their planet but one by one, they all fell in battle against the seemingly ever-lasting waves of invaders.

Who were these invaders? C11RU5 and his species did not know much about them at first. It was only around thirty months (in Earth’s time) prior to his evacuation that his people became aware of this new threat. The intruders were indistinguishable from one another and nothing like C11RU5 or his kind had seen before. Each one towered over the natives, and with each footstep could trample an entire town.

Their faces were uncovered revealing thick black hair which stopped just at the bottom of their necks and thick black moustaches which curved around each of their mouths down to their jawline on each side. Each one was able to move with grace and purpose and they each showed an enduring will to fight until they could fight no longer.

C11RU5 knew that the time had come, though. This was not the same as any other invasion because this time the cloned soldiers were fighting with one goal in mind; pure conquest. The penultimate surviving member of The Old Guard - G0LD3N - had just lost his life in a battle with one of the clones. C11RU5 watched on as he was mercilessly stomped out of existence. It was at that moment C11RU5 created his resolve to eradicate the threat once and for all, even if his kind could not be saved.

“I am the only one who can bring an end to this.”

C11RU5 noticed the ignition light flicker for a few moments before coming to life and he pressed one of his eight claws onto it and the craft began to hover from the ground. He scanned the systems for a final time and then his pod began to accelerate across the surface of the planet, weaving through the legs of the much larger creatures that had invaded his home world.

As he navigated his way through the battle and witnessed the army’s defences being easily swept aside by the adversaries, he was able to study their forms further. To his intrigue, each was identical to the point of minor scrapes and blemishes on their faces. Whilst C11RU5 was of a species numbering the decillions, he knew deep down that he was the outlier. Only he had the capacity to survive and tear down the tyrannical regime which had scoured his world and decimated his kind.

“I am the only one.”

His craft, no bigger than a computer mouse, rose almost exponentially towards the sky, parallel with one of the various mountains which covered the landscape. C11RU5 took a final look back down at the battlefield, but as he did so, he noticed a figure standing at the summit of the nearest mountain. C11RU5 delayed his ascent into the atmosphere momentarily as he focused on this individual. They were not like the others. Whilst their general features appeared to be the same as the others on the ground, they were different. Shorter, thinner and instead of thick black hair, the locks of this individual were a different colour.

Blonde.

Multiple thoughts crossed C11RU5’s mind. This individual was also an outlier. Different from the others. Qualities which C11RU5 viewed within himself. A kindred spirit trapped on the other side of the battlefield? An equal?

C11RU5 activated a command on his console to initiate a scan on this particular invader, who was also wearing more intricate battle armour than the rest of the opposing forces. Was this their commander?

“I have to find the source and stop them. I am the only one.”

The commander-apparent then slowly raised their head, allowing C11RU5 to see that they were some sort of hybrid being. Some genealogy was shared between them and the others, but they also drew their likeness from another, different source. The variant seemed to acknowledge the escaping craft, but this was not a concern for C11RU5. As he resumed his approach towards the planet’s atmosphere, the being on the mountain pressed a button on their wrist and immediately they and the rest of the clones down below disappeared.

A notification appeared on one of the many screens in front of C11RU5. He had pinpointed the original to which the clones belonged on a far planet called Earth.

C11RU5 looked into the vast chasm of space in front of him as he heard a loud explosion, muffled by the walls of his pod, which he knew was the unmistakable sound of his world being destroyed.

“I am the only one.”

**********

II.
THE ORIGINAL

“AH-”

Chris stopped himself from screaming as he woke up in a panic and he sat up in his bed for a moment before throwing himself back and then covering his head with the other pillow on his bed. “Make it stop, please. I can’t take it anymore!”

It was another nightmare. Not only this time was he being chased through an otherwise-pleasant field by a storm which he had associated with Michelle von Horrowitz, the very ground he was running on to escape from her was cracking underneath him. Chris attributed the newest wrinkle which first began appearing a couple of weeks earlier to the inclusion of Cyrus Truth into his match with Michelle at The Grand March. He was aware it was not the greatest metaphor, but it fit.

Chris felt like he was above Cyrus Truth; not only had he beaten him in the F1 Climaxxx and advanced over him from Pool B, but he relinquished his own spot which allowed Cyrus passage back into the tournament. Then, when Cyrus was screwed by Michelle and the Nephews in the final, who went out of their way to get Cyrus the justice he would not have otherwise received? It was Chris.

Despite having every reason to believe that Cyrus Truth was not going to be the problem at The Grand March, the FWA World Champion was aware that the veteran could take out the ground from underneath him if he wasn’t careful. Cyrus scalding him for his perceived superiority over him made him realise this and that he was dealing with two very real threats to his fledgling title reign in the Three Way Dance.

Given the threat of the Nephews, Chris was frustrated with himself that he had antagonised Cyrus to such an extent. Perhaps the only other person in the world who could justifiably despise the Nephews as much as he did. Not the faux hatred for clout or attention displayed by the likes of Reagan Cole. Cyrus had endured the pain, fought the fight and most importantly earned the hate. Just like Chris had.

So whilst the threat of Michelle with the Nephews - and frankly, Michelle without the Nephews - was evident from the onset, Chris had convinced himself that both of his opponents were equally as dangerous as the other. Which made preparing for the match a totally different kind of nightmare. For as much as he tried his best to put on a brave face and exude as much confidence as he could, the anxiety which riddled his brain was doing everything in its power to convince him that his reign was as good as over and that Chris Peacock was just going to be the next name in the growing list of names of people who would lose the FWA World Championship just as quickly as they won it.

What made it even worse was that the Nephews could very likely play a hand in it. Each of their faces raced through his mind as he removed the pillow from over his face and glanced at his bedside table to see that it was presently three o’clock in the morning.

“Look, there’s nothing you can do about this now.” Chris thought to himself as he stared up at the ceiling in his bedroom. “Just go back to sleep and tomorrow, we’ll think about how we can do this thing. Just clear your thoughts, Chris.”

With that, Chris forced his eyes closed and did everything in his power to quash his anxiety and clear his mind. What he needed was an empty head, free from any intrusion or unwanted visitors in the form of distressing thoughts about his upcoming title match.

As Chris fell into a light sleep, he did not notice a small flashing light outside of his window. What he was unaware of was that a small spacecraft from a completely different world had landed on his window sill. From inside the craft, C11RU5 performed a final check on his scanner in front of him and realised that he was now but six feet away from the origin of the army that had ravaged and destroyed his homeworld.

“At last. I have found him. To exact my vengeance, I must conquer the original and then I can restart my civilisation.”

Unable to see Chris due to the curtain obstructing his view, C11RU5 released the hatch at the top of his small (by human standards) vessel and he took a moment to breath in Earth’s atmosphere; he posited that if the clones could breathe the air unaided on his world, then he could theirs, and he was correct. He scuttled his small, pink body out of the escape pod and was able to climb up the glass pane in front of him and through the open window.

After using one of his claws to abseil down the curtain, C11RU5 landed on the floor and then avoided a series of garments scattered around on the floor until he reached the bed post, which he also scaled. On Chris’s pillow, C11RU5 looked at the sleeping face of the FWA World Champion for a moment and examined him.

“Initial impressions are… underwhelming. Let’s find out what secrets you have for me to uncover.”

C11RU5 scuttled across the pillow until he was on the face of the sleeping man. He advanced past his nostril and paused as Chris’s face twitched involuntarily, but then resumed his journey across Chris’s cheek and into his ear, where he burrowed inside and out of view. Inside Chris’s head, C11RU5 struggled to find space but eventually located Chris’s brain and he reached forward with his antennae and touched it, thus allowing him to hear the thoughts passing through Chris’s brain as he slept.

“Look, it is going to be hard. You know that, Chris. The thing is, though, you’ve had hard matches before and you’ve won. You can defeat them. Both of them.”

“Your conquest ends now, scoundrel! You will not defeat any others!”

After interfering with Chris’s thoughts, C11RU5 sent a wave of fury through his antennae into Chris’s brain and the effect of this was to cause Chris to jolt awake once more. He held his head as a pain seared through it.

“Who’s there?” Chris said, looking around his room but not noticing anything untoward. “Seriously, show yourself, fucker!”

Chris jumped out of bed and grabbed the first thing he could reach in order to defend himself, which happened to be the lamp resting atop his bedside table. “You’ve got one chance to get the fuck out of here, asshole!”

“Hmmm… you are driven by fear! Yes, I can see it all now. As soon as power is stripped from you, you become feeble and pathetic. Now it is time for you to beg!”

As C11RU5 sent another wave pulsing through his brain, Chris dropped to his knees and gripped both sides of his head. “What the fuck is going on?!”

“Your kind has ruined what was once a great civilisation for the last time - you will pay for your crimes against my world!”

Another shockwave engulfed Chris’s head and he groaned loudly in agony as it did so. “What? I don’t know what you’re talking about - how are you doing this?”

There was a pause and a reprieve for Chris whilst C11RU5 considered what Chris had said and whether he was open to the possibility of sparing him based on that information.

“You slaughtered my kind!”

“No… no, I didn’t. I don’t know what you are talking about, man!”

“You don’t?”

“No! Can you just come out now and stop whatever you’re doing to my head? That shit really hurts.”

“That is not possible; I have attached myself to your brain.”

“WHAT?!” Chris shouted, extremely loudly, and he started panicking and running around the room, holding his head, and this culminated when he tripped over the FWA World Championship that was resting on the floor. “GET THE FUCK OUT!”

Chris continued to scramble as one of his neighbours repeatedly slammed their fist against the adjoining wall and he shoved his fingers into his ears to attempt to touch the creature inside of his head, but this only resulted in C11RU5 sending another wave of pain into his brain. “Look, I’ll do anything you want! Anything! JUST STOP!”

The outburst caused C11RU5 to cease his torture of Chris’s mind once again.

“Fine. You will assist me in locating the others. They may be drawn to you as their origin.”

“Others?” Chris asked as he picked himself up from the floor. “I’ve got a twin brother, but there’s only one me. I am the only one. I don’t know what you’re talking about?”

For the next few minutes, Chris listened in awe to the voice emanating from inside his own head which explained the events which had taken place on C11RU5’s home planet leading to its destruction.

“Let me get this straight. You’re telling me that someone, somewhere, has created an entire fucking army consisting of clones or alternate versions of me and that army destroyed your planet? Yeah, I had nothing to do with that.” Chris put his head in his hands as he took C11RU5’s pause as an agreement with his theory. “They all looked exactly like me?”

Of course, Chris had encountered previous versions of himself before; their existence was nothing new to him. However, this seemed different. The variants of himself that he had met were like him in terms of actions as well as appearance. He couldn’t see how any version of himself would find itself being compelled to exterminate an entire alien planet.

“You are correct, apart from there being one other. There was one that was different. Like you in some ways, but differing in appearance in others.”

“Yeah, I don’t know anything about that, either.” Chris shook his head and sighed before bringing it back up and looking up at the ceiling again. “Look, I’ve got no idea how or why, but I think I know who is behind all of this and if I’m right, I’ll do what I have to do to help you take them down. What do we need to do?”

“We must locate and eradicate all alternate versions of you to prevent further invasions once I have rebuilt my emp- planet.”

“Fuck it, I’m in. You found me, so surely you can find the others right? Please tell me that they’re all on Earth because I really am not into any of that space adventure shit.”

Once again, the lack of response from the being inside of his cranium suggested to Chris that he was on the correct track and he set aside the cover on his bed and settled back into it and he closed his eyes.

“We leave now. My ship will be able to transfer us across the surface of the planet in seconds once it has located similar lifeforms.”

“For fuck’s sake, can’t a guy just get some fucking sleep?”

“I can hear your thoughts. Now get up, we are leaving.”

At the mercy of the creature dwelling inside of his ear, Chris gritted his teeth and rolled back out of bed and then set about getting dressed. This was not how he envisioned his preparation for his first defence of the FWA World Championship to go.

**********

III.
THE LONG AND WINDING ROAD

“Okay, it clearly says here that we shouldn’t be doing this. We can’t climb the mountain at this time of year. It isn’t safe.” Chris thought, whilst returning his phone to the pocket of his bright orange puffer jacket. He had barely made out the words on the illuminated screen due to the rain hammering down from the skies surrounding Mount Fuji. “I’m not Randy Ramon, okay? Climbing mountains isn’t really my jam. How do you even know we’re in the right place?”

Chris awaited a response from the prawn-like being inside of his head, but again, the creature was content to reveal information at a time which suited it best. He had realised on the journey to Japan that he needn’t speak out loud to the creature, as it was already inside of his mind. Chris found its stubbornness grating.

“I tracked a large number of the clones to this location, but I cannot pinpoint the location exactly now that we are no longer in my ship.”

It was at this moment that Chris remembered that he was carrying their transport in one of his many pockets; he still felt slightly queasy after their lightning fast trip to the other side of the globe whilst also fascinated by the technology that allowed the craft to change its size to accommodate him inside. “Why can’t we just fly up there?”

“Must I remind you of the journey I undertook to find you? I travelled for what is your equivalent of three years to reach this point. You quarrel over the prospect of one mountain? Pathetic.”

Even though Chris knew the creature was aware of his thoughts and feelings, chiefly his simmering disdain towards it, he felt it fruitless at this point to argue with it.

“Fine.” He said aloud, before shaking his head and walking towards the beginning of the extremely long trail laid out before him to the summit of Mount Fuji, where he hoped to find some sort of resolution to the situation he had found himself in. “This is not the ‘Grand March’ I had in mind…”

Hours passed and rain pounded down onto Chris the entire time as he followed the path through the foothills of the mountain, passing several ancient buildings and other constructions as he did so. A cluster of what he assumed must have been traditional Japanese buildings nestled in a seemingly remote area in the shadow of the mountain resembled what Chris believed could have been a school.

With plenty of time to spare and no sign of any other version of himself, cloned or otherwise, Chris paid particular attention to the apparent school as he walked past it. He found it apt that he was climbing a mountain after working so hard to ascend to the top of the FWA. But did he still have lessons to learn? Devin Golden made it abundantly clear that winning the championship was only going to be the beginning. He was warned about Michelle and Cyrus - specifically - and now they were here. Together.

Due to the gradual incline at the base of the mountain, even after so much time had passed, Chris realised that he had not made much progress at all and was still a significant way from his goal, and he was getting frustrated.

“You grow restless. It is due to worry and boredom. Many things weigh heavy on your mind and they cause you to lose sight of what is important. You have been far too concerned about the journey that you forget the destination.”

“I know plenty about the journey, alright? You don’t know the first thing about me. Stop acting like you do.”

“Even without access to your mind, I already know who you are. I have seen many like you - and I am not referring to the clones. You believe that a single success means that there is no longer a need for hard work. Then, after taking for granted and subsequently losing what you believe you worked so hard for, you mewl and complain about how things aren’t fair.”

“No. That’s not true at all. You know what I do? I make a damn point of never doing things the easy way! You think I don’t know what I could be if I didn’t have a fucking conscience?”

The creature made a noise which Chris did not understand, but the noise made by C11RU5 was akin to a snort of derision on his homeworld. Chris stopped walking as there was a pause. “What?”

“You have no idea about right and wrong, Chris Peacock. Your concern is whether others perceive you to be on the side of righteousness and morality. You convince yourself that you have done some sort of grand deed for this ‘Cyrus Truth’, yet in actuality you have brought him into the equation as a buffer. Someone to distract yourself from the true threat to what you hold dear… this ‘Michelle’.”

This time, it was Chris who paused. He hadn’t realised it, but C11RU5 may have actually been onto something. Perhaps subconsciously, Chris had campaigned for Cyrus to earn his place in the match for his own preservation. It had already been made clear what was to happen had he been the sole focus of Michelle and the Nephews; the crashing of his celebration on Meltdown XXVI being evidence enough of that.

Cyrus Truth was someone that Chris had bettered at every turn when they had faced off before - Carnal Contenderships, Battle Royals, Golden Opportunity matches and even in the F1 Climaxxx. Chris realised the reason why he felt so perturbed by Cyrus not acknowledging what he had done ‘for him’.

“You live a hypocritical existence. Expecting gratitude for a deed done in bad faith. All the while ignoring those who have worked to put you where you are. Do you intend on responding to the communications from this ‘Rupert Watkins’ at any point?”

“THAT’S ENOUGH!” Chris shouted at the top of his lungs. There was only so much he could bear to listen to. “Yeah, fine! I admit it! I’m scared of Michelle von Horrowitz, are you happy?”

That’s not how a champion should talk, but I can’t run from these feelings anymore, especially with you in my fucking head. So fine, I got Cyrus in that match to make things easier for myself, alright? I admit it! With someone else there, it was someone else for Michelle to put her attention on. Someone else for the Nephews to toy with.

I can’t handle them on my own. I’ve never been able to and I don’t see why just because I have a big shiny belt that’s going to be any different. I know it is part of the game. I know I should expect people to come after me because I’m the one on the top. I’m the mountain that everyone wants to climb.”

As Chris spoke, a faint rumble could be heard from higher up in the peaks of Mount Fuji. He paid it no attention, though. “But none of that means that Cyrus Truth has to be such an asshole, does it? Whether I did what I did with good intentions or not doesn’t matter. I did right by standing by his side, stopping the Nephews from screwing him over again. Even if he’s not grateful for me getting him in the match, he should have been grateful for THAT!

I’m a hypocrite as well? Cyrus has been pissing his pants, screaming for a title shot for months, but what has he been doing since he was last World Champion, huh? Fucking around with the North American title, making the secession all about himself? He threw shots at me for taking some time for myself to get ready to win Golden Opportunity when all of this time he’s been creating excuses for himself as to why he’s not had a title shot when he’s had the same chances as everyone else!

People made fun of me for coming second in everything, when was the last time Cyrus got that fucking close? Yeah, the F1 Climaxxx… when he was only there because I dropped out, after I beat him during it. So fine, I’ll admit that I’ve done the right thing for the wrong reasons… but I’m not going to have people like Cyrus Truth act like they’re better than me because of it.

Cyrus has walked his ‘Long and Winding Road’ because he chose to make it that way. It isn’t my fault I’ve arrived and become the champion in the time since he last held the title. He had all of his distractions, probably because he knows deep down he can’t hack it anymore. Just like how PAJ couldn’t. The same with Rondo and Nova Diamond. Just like how Golden couldn’t. And yeah, I BEAT ALL THEM TOO!”

Chris shouted and stomped his foot on the ground, and at this moment the rain seemingly stopped. He was confused, wondering if somehow he had developed an ability to change the weather. Even he knew that would not be possible, even for an apparent over-achiever such as himself. In the absence of the pounding rain though, the rumbling sound from higher up the mountain was much more noticeable.

Peacock looked further ahead and his eyes widened when he realised what was happening. The snow and rock cascading down the mountain gave the visage of a ferocious cloud tumbling down towards him. Instantly, he turned around and began to sprint as fast as he could. The thick and bulgy puffer jacket slowed him down significantly. He knew though that he could not allow himself to be caught by the incoming avalanche.

As he ran and a repeated slew of expletives exited his mouth, Chris realised the similarity of this scene to his dream. The running. He knew that the dreams and his anxiety was because of his upcoming match at The Grand March, but even in reality, he chose to run. The alternative in this instance was death, though. He knew that he could not fight the end and the only option available to him was to avoid it for as long as he could. As anyone would.

After creating as much space between himself and the avalanche as he could, Chris needed to take a moment to catch his breath. He turned around and hunched over whilst looking up at the mountain and he saw that the avalanche was still approaching his position, but given he had retreated to a slight peak in the foothills beneath the mountain and was lucky that the contents had thinned out on the journey down the side of Mount Fuji.

Chris was able to watch as some of the smaller boulders approached him and avoided the peak he was standing on, followed by a long snow drift which reached his boots on the peak before continuing further down the trail behind him. He panted and breathed heavily in relief and found himself grateful to have survived. But as the dust from the stone settled, Chris looked into the snow drift in front of him and noticed a strange object sticking out of the snow.

He stomped through the thick snow towards the object and stopped as he reached it to find that it was a shoe which he then picked up and examined. “This looks familiar…”

It was familiar. He had a pair exactly like it and it was at this moment his eyes drifted towards something else sticking out of the snow right next to the black shoe. It was a hand. Chris grabbed it with his own and pulled on it, revealing an arm and then the rest of a clothed body. He turned it over onto its back and Chris gasped and recoiled back as he looked into the dead eyes of an exact clone of himself.

“That’s me.”

The reality began to sink in for Chris and he became aghast when he looked around his immediate vicinity to see that this was not an isolated case. He could see dozens of similar protrusions from the snow all around him in the wake of the avalanche.

“Whether it was your wailing that set off the avalanche or their own recklessness, it is unknown. It could have been just a natural occurrence. What is certain is that none of them would have been able to survive this. We need to move on.”

“You don’t want to climb the rest of the way?” Chris didn’t want to communicate with C11RU5 telepathically as he spoke whilst looking into the open eyes of his deceased clone.

“There is no need.”

It took Chris a few more moments to register what was happening and he found himself unable to break eye contact with the dead clone on the snow. He wondered if this was to be his own fate and whether it would be due to his own recklessness, or just a natural occurrence that he could do nothing to stop.

**********

IV.
SUCCESS EATS ITSELF

“Why were they at the mountain? Why did they leave for us to follow them here?” Chris asked out loud as he surveyed the new environment he found himself. The ship’s scanners indicated that the cluster of clones found at Mount Fuji were merely those that perished in the avalanche. The survivors had escaped and retreated to a new location on the other side of the world.

The sun shone down on the French countryside as Chris deposited the ship back into his pocket after it had returned back to its regular size. He trod along a cobbled path and ran his fingers across the top of the wheat growing in the field alongside the walkway. He plucked one of the stalks and rolled it in his hand for a moment as he meandered towards a village in the middle distance.

“They must have been looking for something, right? They wouldn’t have been up there just because they could, would they?” Chris was struggling to piece together the reasoning for the clones descending on Mount Fuji, and how this non-descript French village he was approaching fit into the equation. It frustrated him as he was almost certain there was some sort of link between the two locations. If a force capable of eviscerating entire planets - like the one the creature in his head belonged to - went to a specific location, it was surely for good reason?

“Stop concerning yourself with the rationale of others. You show a clear lack of understanding and empathy. Your ability to predict the behaviour of others is poor. Your concern is eradicating the menaces responsible for destroying my kind.”

It was at that moment Chris remembered that the creature was able to listen to his thoughts, and he released a puff of air from his mouth in an exasperated manner. Wanting to block out the noise, he remembered that he was storing his headphones in his pocket along with his cellphone and he put one of the buds into his left ear and connected the cable back down to his phone. Just as he was about to press play on his own theme song, he felt the same searing pain in his skull that he did in his apartment.

“No music!”

“Fine! Just stop doing that to me!” Chris said as he jammed the headphones back into his pocket.

With no music to guide him through, Chris walked the remaining couple of miles towards the village in silence, not wanting to even attempt some form of conversation with the abrasive parasite in his head. Upon arrival, Chris noted that the village itself in terms of architecture and size, was what he assumed to be rather unspectacular and standard for the area.

What struck him though was the complete absence of life. The cobbled road running through the middle of the village was barren of any sort of vehicle. The pathways were absent of pedestrians and even a glance through a window of a nearby building showed Chris that this village had been abandoned and probably a long time ago. “Are you sure this is the right place? There’s no one here.”

“The readings indicated a large quantity of the clone soldiers were present here not long ago. Inspect one of the buildings.”

Not interested in getting into another argument with C11RU5, Chris gently placed his fingertips on the door of the closest house and applied a small amount of pressure and the door swung open with a long creak. He stepped inside the residence and immediately coughed due to the accumulation of dust within the living room. His assumptions were correct; this place had been vacant for a very long time.

A crack in the blackened window on the other side of the room allowed a sliver of light to trickle through, resting on a desk set against a wall. Chris followed the light and walked towards the desk, where he saw a leather-bound book resting open on the middle pages. The words on the pages were handwritten, indicating that this was a diary or a journal of some description. He moved his hand along the page, removing the dust which obscured the words written down. To Chris’s lack of surprise, the words were written in French.

“You cannot read this?”

“No. It is French. I’ll use my phone.” Chris pulled his phone from his pocket and decided not to think about the exorbitant roaming charges he will suffer having used his data in Japan and now France. He tapped in the words on the open pages as best as he could; the cursive writing made some letters hard to determine what had been written. “This journal entry was written in the 1700s…”

After waiting a couple of minutes for the page to load, Chris read aloud his translation of the words written on the page, following it along with his finger as he read it from the screen.

‘It's been twenty-seven days since the young woman was devoured.

I am happy to report that I have freed myself from the curse and no longer desire the taste of human flesh.

With this clarity, I was able to push the other eleven back to the caves on the outskirts of the village. They are still there.

I took the opportunity to think about the young woman and the tonic responsible for all this. She thought she was untouchable. Perhaps it was this arrogance that brought her here and made her believe that she would be able to defeat twelve wanderers.

It is this writer's hope that no other is held in such high esteem. Such recklessness with its own value can only lead to more arrogance and mistakes. The need to constantly prove yourself can only lead to a bigger fall.

Sooner or later, success will lead to failure.

May this lesson be learned by those who need it most.

Yours truly,

Etienne Thomas’

“That can't be right. That’s so fucked up if it is. Something must have got lost in translation there, surely?” Chris frantically attempted to refresh his phone’s browser, but now found himself unable to connect to the internet in the remote location.

“We must go to the caves.”

“Are you fucking crazy?”

“Do you wish to eliminate these threats or not?”

“Oh so now it matters what I wish, does it? Well, quite frankly, I’ve already almost died in an avalanche today and now you want me to explore some cannibal caves from over two hundred years ago. What do you fucking think, dick? I want to get ready for my fucking title match!”

As Chris raised his voice in his frustration, he felt the searing pain in his head once again, caused by C11RU5 interfering with his brain from within his skull.

Chris departed the house, rubbing his cranium, and he looked up from the street and was able to identify the caves referred to in the journal of Etienne Thomas. He navigated his way through the small collection of trees behind one of the larger buildings in the village until he was able to locate the path leading up to the caves.

The opening to the cave was large enough for him to be able to walk through without the need for ducking or crouching, but despite this, the sunlight was unable to illuminate much further than a couple of metres inside. Chris pulled out his phone once again and turned on the inbuilt torch, shining it around him but seeing nothing more than the cave walls. The only sounds Chris could hear was his own breathing and a slow, irregular dripping from elsewhere within the cave.

Chris carefully walked forward into what appeared to be a larger opening and a clearing of sorts deeper inside the cave. Some of the ceiling had clearly given way at some point as light was able to filter down in certain spots from above. What was most striking for Chris as he entered this area was the horrendous stench in the air. It was nothing like he had encountered before and he had to use his jacket collar to cover his mouth and nose to prevent inhalation of the foulness surrounding him.

In his efforts to cover his face, he seemed to lose his bearings and tripped over something bulky on the floor, causing him to fall flat down onto his front. The impact of the fall resulted in him losing his grip of his phone, and it landed torch side up a couple of feet in front of him. He crawled forwards and picked it up, shining it in front of him and he screamed at the top of his voice as not for the first time since he was brought on this mission by C11RU5, he was faced with the empty expression on the face of a deceased version of himself.

He whimpered as he rose to his feet and hands shaking, turned around to see that the object he had tripped over was another dead clone.

“More bodies?” Chris thought it best to utilise his thought-based communication with the thing in his head given the circumstances. “What happened to them?”

Chris continued to scan the cave floor with his phone, seeing more bodies littered across the floor. There was one in particular which took his interest though, as it appeared naked whereas the others were fully clothed. He shone the light from the torso of the clone to its legs… or more accurately, where its legs should have been.

The flesh had been torn from the bone on the right leg, with the left removed altogether. “The cannibals… I don’t think I can do this. I can’t even watch zombie movies, seeing people get eaten turns my stomach, man.”

Chris staved off the impulse to vomit and coughed loudly as he did so. It was at that moment the atmosphere in the cage seemed to change. The dripping sound became more obvious, and a feeling of impending doom quickly took over Chris’s body. “We can leave now, right? You’re not going to make me fight whatever is coming, are you?”

“We can leave.”

Whilst he was confused as to why the Mount Fuji expedition was so readily abandoned, he had no such qualms over exiting the cave. Chris hotstepped as much as he could, ensuring not to fall over any corpses again lest he meet the same fate as them. As he escaped, he heard them coming from behind him. Eleven vagabonds turned cannibals, if the journal was to be believed. All the fault of one young woman, supposedly.

The end of the tunnel neared and Chris ran as fast as his legs would allow him until he was once again bathed in sunlight and realised he was no longer being pursued by the cave dwellers. Part of him was disappointed in himself for running from the danger. But the words of Thomas’s message were still fresh in his mind; it would have been reckless to combat eleven savages in the dark. He would have made a mistake and he would have paid for it. He did not want to suffer the same fate as the young woman.

Chris took a moment to catch his breath as he did after escaping the avalanche on Mount Fuji, and then looked back down from the entrance of the cliff to the village below. Unlike before, the main street was now occupied by several figures - five to be exact. Four Chris immediately recognised as alternate versions of himself. Perhaps clones he will actually have to deal with himself.

“Can it be?”

The fifth individual did not share any characteristics with the Peacock clones. They were shorter and slimmer and wearing different clothes; armour which Chris thought looked like Master Chief’s sans helmet. The most obvious difference though was the hair. Instead of black and slicked back, this person had short blonde locks.

“Wait, is that… MICHELLE, IS THAT YOU?” Chris called loudly, gaining the attention of those down below and they all looked up towards him. Chris focused on the person in the middle of the group, the anomaly. Their face was a strange amalgamation between his own and Michelle’s. Her general features were resting on his facial structure whilst also possessing his moustache.

They locked eyes for a moment, before Chris felt another surge of pain through his head and he winced, allowing the Michelle clone and the four Peacocks to escape.

“WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?! AFTER THEM!”

Chris fought through the pain being brought on by the enraged C11RU5 and he stumbled as he made his way back through the trees towards the main village street. He pushed himself up and made it through the thicket back into the road but the ones he was pursuing were nowhere to be found.

“Where have they gone?”

“I think I know.”

**********

V.
THROW YOURSELF IN

“Just as I thought.”

The ship landed on the outskirts of Highland Park in New York City, where it was once again the early hours of the morning and Chris realised that it had been twenty four hours ago almost since his mind was taken hostage by C11RU5. He exited the ship and then clicked the button on its exterior to return it to its original size and it took its place in his pocket once again as he walked from the park boundary towards the centre of it.

Chris’s destination was of course the lake in the very middle of the park. The lake where almost two years ago, he shared a boat with Michelle and Gerald Grayson. Gerald acted as a chaperone of sorts to ensure that Chris and Michelle did not get into too much mischief whilst under the influence of some very suspect tabs. It was their way of bonding ahead of a match where they were teaming together for the first time. Michelle was en route to winning her first FWA World Championship. Chris was the X Champion.

His instincts were correct. When the lake appeared into view, he saw the four Peacocks standing on the waterfront with the Michelle/Peacock hybrid standing in the water up to their ankles, looking out to the middle of the lake.

“You found them. I underestimated you-”

“Shut up. I’m trying to psych myself up here.”

Chris breathed heavily, as his ‘psyching himself up’ was actually doing everything in his power to prevent the panic attack that was creeping up on him.

“What are you doing? What is happening in here?”

C11RU5 found himself becoming incredibly uncomfortable inside Chris’s head. The intensity of his host’s feelings was not anything he had encountered before. All of a sudden, he felt all of the emotions rushing around Chris Peacock’s mind. The fear of failure, of rejection and just not being good enough. All of these thoughts were foreign to C11RU5 but something that Chris Peacock faced every single day.

He felt Chris’s worries over his relationships; with Drew, Max, Alyster, Allen… all people he feared disappointing more than anything. C11RU5 saw that deep down, Chris knew these people would love him and care for him whether he was the champion or not. He didn’t need the title to validate those relationships. Chris does everything he does for those people. The people that mean more to him than any championship ever could.

A being as goal-orientated and solitary as C11RU5 could not comprehend these complex feelings. Not only did he suddenly shoulder Chris’s fears and worry, but his shame also. The shame over why he campaigned for Cyrus to be in the match at The Grand March, and also whoever this ‘Rupert Watkins’ person was and Chris’s actions in that situation.

The pain of Chris’s strong emotions pulsed through C11RU5’s body just as his prodding had done to Chris multiple times before; he was being subjected to the same struggles that Chris Peacock faces every day… and he couldn’t hack it.

With a few alien whimpers of pain, C11RU5 detached himself from Chris’s brain and crawled back through his ear canal, looking for an escape of his own. But his progress was blocked by the presence of a headphone.

“That’s right, fucker.” Chris said in a defiant manner, standing up straight and having regained control of his breathing. “Now you know what it is really like to be in my mind. You can’t help me with this, because this is something I need to do on my own. You’re just coming along for the ride… and you’re welcome.”

Chris looked down at his phone and pressed play on his Spotify and the music began to play, causing C11RU5 to screech in agony himself this time, but Chris blocked this out and instead focused on the vocals of Annie Lennox and Aretha Franklin - the very same vocals he enjoyed the last time he was at Highland Park with Michelle.

‘Now there was a time,
When they used to say,
That behind every great man,
There had to be a great woman.’

With the song playing, Chris charged towards the Peacock clones, tackling the first down to the ground into the lake. He was then swiftly grabbed by another, but repelled it with a Fight Fever back fist, and then he cracked his forearm into the face of the third.

‘But in these times of change,
You know that it's no longer true.
So we're comin' out of the kitchen,
'Cause there's somethin' we forgot to say to you, we say!’

Chris grabs a thick branch from the ground and swings it into the face of the fourth clone, knocking him out instantly. The first comes back but Chris jabs him in the throat with the branch, with an offshoot from it going straight through its throat.

‘Sisters are doin' it for themselves!
Standin' on their own two feet,
And ringin' on their own bells, we say!
Sisters are doin' it for themselves!’

The music continued to play as Chris then dispatched of the other three clones, putting a permanent end to each of their synthetic lives. He quickly pulled the headphones out of his ears and allowed them to hang down in front of him whilst still being plugged into the phone resting in his pocket. It was at this moment that C11RU5 scurried out of Chris’s head, finally having had enough of occupying the hostile space.

Chris took a moment to savour having his mind to himself for a moment, and smirked at his handiwork and the four dead clones around him. There was something cathartic to beating the shit out of himself, given his level of self-loathing he puts up with on a daily basis. But not only did he no longer have C11RU5 literally in his ear, he found that the creature took all of his concerns and worries with him as well. His mind was for once as undisturbed as the calm water of the lake.

Chris also realised at this point that the Michelle clone had not deviated from their gaze towards the centre of the lake, almost at the exact spot where they shared the boat with Gerald two years ago. Much like the majority of that night, it was not just Chris and Michelle, or the closest version to that Michelle Chris believed he could get. Just like how Michelle had no Nephews to associate herself with back then, this one did not have any more Peacock clones to shield them.

“It was much simpler back then, wasn’t it?” Chris said, and he trudged through the water himself. There was no response from the person he towered over. It was as expected. This was a defeat for them. “I know why you’ve done this, Michelle. You know, made yourself look like me, the army of Peacocks.”

“You see me as a joke. All of the Nephews do. I bet these clones I’ve seen die today are just a piss in the ocean. The Nephews have used thousands of these things, haven’t they? Probably getting them to fight for entertainment, killing each other. Yeah, I bet you pricks had a good laugh about that behind my back. Well, that’s fine. It really hadn’t made any difference to me… until today, anyway.

Yeah, I’m just one big fucking joke, right? Well, except I’m not. I’m the fucking FWA World Champion, Michelle, whether you like it or not.”

In a first showing of emotion or acknowledgement of any sort, Michelle/Chris let out some air through their nose.

“You might find that amusing, but it doesn’t change any facts, does it? Just because you don’t think I’m valid doesn’t make me invalid, Michelle. You think me winning this championship the way I did makes me any less of a champion? You don’t hear this very often, but you’re wrong, tulip. You don’t think I’ve done enough to earn it… you’re just the same as Cyrus. Because you two are just as big failures as I am.”

Again, this comment is met with amusement from Michelle/Chris, whilst actual Chris meets this with a chuckle of his own on this occasion.

“Oooh, how dare I suggest there is a flaw with the big… bad… Michelle von Horrowitz… if I wasn’t so tired I’d be faking a gasp right now. Michelle, I know that you don’t know what you want.

You’re too busy trying to prove yourself to everyone, like no one takes you seriously. You don’t know what it is like to not be understood or not taken seriously. Not really… because you choose to make yourself the outcast and the outsider. Just like Cyrus. I’ve tried to fit in my entire life and I’ve been cast aside, no matter how hard I have tried to do the right thing. Even though I’m supposed to be at the top of the world right now, I’m still being told that I don’t belong and I haven’t earned it. How fucking dare you, Michelle.

I was fucking terrified of facing you. Worried you’d tear down everything I have worked so hard to build in one stroke, but I can see who you are now, Michelle. This entire time, I’ve been holding you to the standard of the person I knew the last time we were here. If I was facing that Michelle von Horrowitz, I’d probably not bother showing up. But that isn’t the case, I’m left with the shell of what you used to be… what you could have been.

You had the world at your fingertips… and you threw it all away by looking in the wrong places. The bottom of a bottle, the end of a joint or the bottom of a baggy… or among the ranks of the worst collection of people this fucking galaxy has to offer.

You’re a disappointment, Michelle.

You disappoint me now.

I’m not scared of you anymore.

I feel sorry for you.

This constant need to prove yourself… all those tag title defences. You just want validation and you’re becoming more and more desperate to get it. Why the fuck does someone as good as you are need to cheat in your matches? You’re doing it because you want to, because you’re doing everything in your power to set yourself apart and to be that outlier that you want to be. The thing is, you’d be able to do it without all of the bullshit. I knew that the last time we were together here. You remember that I told you in that diner that I wanted to be like you one day? I feel pretty stupid for saying that now.

The thing is, you’ve never really been a proper FWA World Champion either, have you? You didn’t hold onto it for very long either time. You lost it to a relic first and then an asshole, and now I’m facing both at once in my first defence!

So Michelle, you can keep looking for that validation, but you won’t be getting it at The Grand March. Not at my expense. It is going to be mine. You tried climbing that mountain to prove yourself and you almost got yourself killed for it. Just like that girl in France that got eaten by those vagabonds… you’ve gotten cocky, and bitten off more than you can chew. Just like that young woman in France… and I bet you knew her pretty well, right? You don’t need to answer, I can just tell.

Michelle, whilst it hurts me that you regret the time we spent together here, I can still look back at it for what it was. Two people just having a good time. I want you to know that it is your fault we can’t do that anymore… because you won’t even let yourself.

That night is one I’ll never forget, and it is because of the words you told me…

‘Throw Yourself In.’

The thing is though, if you throw yourself in too many times… eventually you’re going to drown.”

After finishing his speech, Chris grabbed the final clone by the back of the head and forced them to double over so their face was in the water. As Michelle/Chris struggled, Chris did not allow his grip to be broken and he gritted his teeth and held the head down for as long as was necessary to ensure that the life of the clone had been extinguished.

Chris released his grip and watched as the body floated to the surface; the moonlight glistening off of the blonde hair as the corpse slowly drifted away from the bank. Chris turned around and walked out of the lake, where he saw the creature that had inhabited his mind for the last day on the ground. He looked down at it.

“Well, they’re all gone. I won’t expect a thank you, because that’s just not really your style, is it? Not much of a surprise you’re going extinct really, to be honest.

Any sort of gratitude isn’t necessary, either. I didn’t do it for you and there’s no point in pretending that I did. I’m not afraid to admit that anymore. I did it for me. This is for me, as well.”

C11RU5 began to screech from the ground as he helplessly watched Chris’s shoe hover over him and he was then crushed under the weight of the FWA World Champion. Chris took a deep breath as he felt the creature flatten under his shoe and a small smirk cracked on his face. After sliding his shoe across the ground to remove any alien debris, Chris walked away from the lake, leaving the dead clones in his wake.

Despite the horrendous things he experienced in the last twenty-four hours, Chris did feel better for it. For all of the talking inside of his head that has taken place for as long as he could remember, the only voice present now was his own. It didn’t matter what Michelle and Cyrus thought about him anymore because in truth, they were both just as much fuck ups as he was. The difference between Chris and them was that Chris could admit it.

He was doing this for himself, and there’s nothing wrong with admitting that anymore. He didn’t need to feel bad. The success might end up leading to failure, and that was okay as well as far as Chris was concerned. He was not the one chewed up by a bunch of rabid Frenchmen or the one who allowed the world to pass him by and not do anything about it.

So the time for running away from his feelings had ended. It was time for the anxiety to go and for the depression to lift. He was going to start enjoying this whilst he could.

Before anything else though, he needed a good night’s sleep.​

 

[Jimmy King]

King of the Deathmatch

Friday April 7th, 2023

The scene begins in a desert in an undisclosed location in the USA, where a wrestling ring is set up. This is the site of the second annual FWA King of the Deathmatch tournament. In a few short hours, this place will buzz with excitement when FWA fans will bear witness to the beginning of the most violent and brutal two-day event in FWA history. Twelve participants have been announced for this tournament, plus eight mystery participants that add to the event's mystique.

One of those participants is the man known as "The Wildcard," Jason Randall. A man that has become synonymous with the hardcore style of wrestling. At one time, he had dubbed himself "The King of Extreme" in FWA. He is a former one-time FWA X Champion, and indeed he'd love nothing more than to become a two-time FWA X Champion. To fulfill that destiny, he must survive this tournament, which will undoubtedly be no easy feat, but if anyone is up to the task, it's The Wildcard.

Randall is alone as he approaches the empty ring, and he stares at the ring. He knows what awaits him later today when he steps inside that ring. He knows that blood will be spilled, but he's not scared. He's not afraid of having his blood spilled, nor is he fearful of spilling another person's blood. Randall thrives off of this type of environment. He revels in the violence and the bloodshed. Some may think he's a sick man for that, but we're all a little sick in the head, aren't we?

Randall scours underneath the ring and finds a trash can filled with weapons that will be used throughout the tournament. Randall tosses the trash can into the ring, searches underneath it for more weaponry, and tosses it all into the ring. Randall takes some of the steel chairs set up for the fans, and he throws those in the ring. The ring is littered with weapons now, and Randall enters the ring.

Steel chairs, fire extinguishers, trash cans, ladders, kendo sticks, barbed wire baseball bats, barbed wire 2x4s, little sacks filled with thumbtacks, light tubes, cookie sheets, and frying pans.

Anything you can think of that can be used as a weapon is inside the ring now. Randall takes one of the steel folding chairs, sets it down, and sits. He looks around at the weapons scattered about, and he nods.

" I know some of you were probably hoping for something extravagant from me for this thing, right? Something more creative, something more over-the-top, but that's not me. No matter how hard I try, that's never been me. I've never been one to go all out. I usually keep it short and sweet. I usually get right to the point and say what I want, and that's it. I want to keep it real. I want this to be real. I want it to feel raw. I want to speak from my heart."

Randall kicks aside a frying pan and looks down at the mat below him. He hangs his head low and closes his eyes.

" I hear the talks; I hear the rumblings. I hear people saying that Randall doesn't have what it takes anymore; he can't hang anymore. The Wildcard isn't even a wildcard; he's more like a mild card. People don't think I hear it, but I do. I hear it all, okay? Does it bother me? A little. Does it piss me off? Sure. I won't sit here and piss and moan about it, though, because that's not the kind of guy I am."

"Instead, I'm going to let it fuel me. It's going to motivate me. It will motivate me to show everyone that I still have it and can still hang. I'm going to show everyone why I am The Wildcard and why I am still The King of Extreme, with or without a championship."

Randall opens his eyes, raises his head, and looks straight ahead.

" It doesn't matter who it is that will stand before me; I'll show them I still have it. I'll show them I still have what it takes to do this. It can be Trixie Bordeaux, who, honestly, I'm not even sure she knows what she's getting into stepping into something like this. This won't be fun and games, Trixie. This won't be a happy-go-lucky time where everyone has fun and loves one another. I hope you're prepared for what awaits you, Trixie. For your sake, I truly hope you're ready. Just know that you won't be the same again after it's all over."

"There's Reagan Cole, a man I've shared the ring with several times, but this won't be like all those other times. This won't be the same Reagan Cole I shared the ring with. This is a Reagan Cole that has gone through hell. He's gone through something like this before. This is a Reagan Cole that has resorted to picking on innocent young women instead of growing a set of balls and standing up to some homeless-looking jackass named Jeffry Mason."

“Then there’s Death Walker…”

Mentioning this name triggers something inside Randall that causes him to stand up, and he kicks his chair aside and leans against the ropes.

" Darius Walker, Death Walker, it doesn't matter what you call yourself because the second I get my hands on you again, you're dead meat, pal. You think you've been to hell. You think that you've seen the devil. You haven't seen anything yet, my friend. What I will do to you in this ring will make you feel like you're in hell, and I will show you who the devil is when I beat you to a bloody pulp. Don't think I've forgotten what you did to me. I haven't forgotten, and you won't forget what I do to you in this ring."

Randall composes himself and begins to pace around the ring amongst the debris of weapons.

" There's Kleio De Santos and XYZ, returnees from last year's tournament. I'm sure they want nothing more than to go far in this. Kleio came close, but unlike the previous year, she won't even make it out of the first round if she's in there with me."

"weaselperson, I don't know what to say about that."

"Logan Darwin, Madison Gray, Anzu Kurosawa, Sawyer Xavier."

"It. Doesn't. Matter."

Randall is about to leave the ring, but he stops and starts to speak again.

" Win or lose, I'll be damn sure to give it my all." ​

 

[Mandalorian]

Ahem-! Today...

We are going to tell the story of life.

It's said that for as long as life has existed that there have been two halves to remain in balance constantly. Neither one can exist without the other.

In life, the darkness seems to be represented by eldritch beings, unspeakable monsters, and beings capable of horrible deeds; this is the great injustice of our reality. Evil is often loud and overpowering, whilst good is quiet and humble and usually takes the form of things like little elf boys and a blue hedgehog...

.....Or a plumber with a handlebar moustache.

Let's-A Go.

"HEY-! HEY-! HEY-! YOU; WAKE UP."

Groggily, Joe opened his eyes, taking a moment to adjust to his new surroundings; he was currently lying on a hill made of what looked like sand-coloured pixels. He looked up and noticed random floating blocks in the middle of the air bearing the legend of a ‘?’ and insanely large cartoony mushrooms right beside him.

Oh, and also, there seemed to be a hologram of his good friend Lizzie Rose clad in the garb of a Princess.

"Wha-"

"Ok, so just a quick round-up. You fell asleep in front of the TV again, and you fell asleep worried about how shy and withdrawn Lizzie has been recently...so this is happening...Only you can save me, Super Jorio...I'll be honest; I kind of hoped I'd be Luigi...but I guess Princess Peach was too similar to Princess Rose. Not as similar as Princess Daisy would have been though! Seems like your subconscious really likes wordplay, but just isn’t very good at it…”

This was a lot of weirdness in a very little space of time, and when one is confronted by a whole lot of weirdness in a small space of time, one’s befuddled mind tries to grasp on any little moment of logic and rationale it can get hence why this was Super Jorio's response; "If you're kidnapped, why are you right in front of me right now?”

"Well, I'm not here, not actually...well, you're not here either; you're passed out in front of the TV with about five different shades of monster energy roaring through your veins. FYI, you are ABSOLUTELY going to need to pee later, but that gets into a whole conversation about the nature of dreaming and whether or not we're actually HERE in the dream, but that's a very metaphysical discussion that I don't really have time for...because...y'know...kidnapped and all. Still, I've hijacked a hologram thingy and I am now talking to you from captivity.”

"....How?"

"I don't know, Joe. This is your dream, buddy. But it is important that you come and find me, Jorio. I do not know what they want to do with me but I can feel myself fading away…"

As the princess spoke, a few pixels from her left shoulder disconnected from her body. “That probably isn’t good, but oh well!” And with a noncommittal shrug of her shoulders, the image of the Princess vanished from sight, leaving Super Jorio all alone in this strange world.

Super Jorio held a hand up to shield his eyes as he sat up and looked at the grassy plains stretched out, and in the far-off distance laid tall mountains and thick forests. But dotted across the plains were even mushrooms of all shapes and sizes. Even more perplexing were the blocks of brick and blocks of metal, a question mark stamped on all four sides, hanging lazily in the air just begging to be hit with a leaping punch, as well as pipes of different colours, all the shades of the rainbow.

And not so far off in the distance was a castle, its ivory stonework and red roof standing out among the plains. It even looked like there was a small village or town of some sort around the castle. It may not have been as impressive as the city to some, but to Super Jorio, there was something charming about this strange, beautiful land.

Sighing to himself, he picked himself up and adjusted his red cap he absolutely wasn't wearing before he found himself on the hill, which offset his clunky overalls, which, quite honestly? He was pulling the hell off. His eyes widened, as he knew that to complete the look, he would need a moustache. Of course, he had to have a moustache. Moustaches make everyone infinitely cooler. He slowly raised his hand up to his face and then caressed what turned out to be his very vare regular upper lip. “Damn it!”

"Ok, might as well go along with the delusion. Save my friend and maybe see a therapist about these increasingly elaborate dreams I've been having."

And with that, he took down the grassy knoll.

Super Jorio walked across the wide valley and rolling hills, with mysterious bricks hanging ominously overhead; as he walked, he couldn't help but look up from time to time, trying to ignore the strange impulse that was threatening to overtake him.

Aw, screw it- He had to try at least once, right?

He couldn't help but to take a giant leap upwards whilst underneath one of these blocks and smack his head against and break the brick blocks that floated in place overhead...

...and instantly he fell to the ground clutching his head, screaming in abject pain and agony.

What did you expect? He just headbutted solid brick. Fortunately, Joe Burr was currently dreaming, so there was no long-term head trauma, but he did find a large gold coin right next to him, so net positives! Everything's coming up Jorio.

Trying to pocket the giant coins, Joe wondered what the exchange rate is and how many ladies of the night he could entertain with this currency (and by ‘entertain’, it is meant to cry uncontrollably at the end of the bed). Super Jorio could spy a town nearby, and so while dragging his nearly won giant coin, just as big as his torso, he ventured forth into town. The simple-looking cottages and houses, the brick road leading to a beautiful fountain in the centre of town...all of it had the makings of the quaintest town Jorio has ever seen and it was a darn sight different to New York.

But the vistas weren't the only thing his eye could see. All around him were the Mushroom people, each one sporting a large mushroom cap of varying colours. Some had braid-like mushroom balls dangling on either side of their heads; others sported a lock of hair growing out from underneath their cap and hanging in front of their face. Some were short and stock, while others were thin and tall...

This was a weird day.

“Stop!”

A loud and shrill voice shouted from behind him, so Jorio turned to see several of these people approaching him, each clad in a robe of different colours than the others and carrying spears. "Halt, you there!"

"Yeah, totally. I'm halted, totally halted.”

"Who are you? We've never seen you in this town before."

Jorio folded up his arms and tried to stand his ground.

"Who wants to know?"

"On behalf of the Crown of the Mushroom Kingdom outsiders are forbidden from entering the country. Now, out with it! Where did you come from?"

"...Brooklyn."

"Brooklyn? What is Brooklyn?"

"Brooklyn is a state of mind!"

The guards looked at each other, muttering among each other, before the red guard fixed his gaze on Jorio.

"Look, I don't want to get in your business; I'm just here to save my friend.”

"..."

"....My friend ....Lizzie Rose?"

"Ummm...The Princess?"

The crowd around them overheard this exploding into gossip among themselves. The guards were caught up in this as well before the red guard quickly shushed all their comments.

"Ah, my friend. My foolish...skinny...small...thin...smelly-"

"...Can you just get to the point?"

"The Princess has been taken by the most powerful sorceresses the land has ever seen..."

"The Coven?"

"What? Oh no, they're also a very powerful group of magical ladies who also do evil. Still, these two sorceresses are the OTHER very powerful magical ladies that do evil and it's not as all confusing."

"Right....."

"They're all powerful beings that corrupt everything they touch, no one knows where they came from or what they want, but no weapons work on them and they've turned all our best armies into dust in seconds....What can you do against that power?"

"....I got a pretty good roll up."

"....a roll-up?"

"Yeah, I kind of push an opponent over, trip them up and pin their shoulders to the mat for three seconds...no problems."

"...and that's all you'll defeat super powerful evil? By rolling them up?"

“It might not sound like much to you, but it is very effective! I have defeated many opponents with my roll-up, thank you. I have fought giants, cowboys and wizards!”

The mushroom people all gasped in excitement. “You’ve fought wizards? Maybe you’re the perfect person to save the princess! We have been blessed by your arrival!”

“Yeah, you guys have really caught a break with me showing up, huh?” Joe said sheepishly, as he was content omitting the fact that he lost to the wizard twice. “That’s why I’m here though, to save the princess. I am the only one that can save her, though. No one else has looked out for her the way that I have… that’s why you’ve got to let me help her!”

The guards huddled and discussed things between themselves, and then seemed to come to some sort of agreement and they turned back around to face Jorio. The main guard in the middle interlocked his fingers and wore a smirk on his face. “We’ll be taking that coin off of your hands and we have a few problems that a seasoned fighter such as yourself can help us with and then we’ll let you go on to the castle. Now, hand it over!”

It filled Jorio’s heart with anguish that he was being forcibly made to hand over the coin that he (in his mind) had worked so hard for, but any price was worth paying if it meant being able to save the princess.

**********

Darkness and fire. That was all he had ever known here in the dark lands. Was it night, or was it day? The kingdom the Eternal Koopas had established was always covered by a thick cover of smoke and clouds, and the sun was only allowed to share a thin sheen of light across the bleak landscape if there was no other reason than to keep its inhabitants safe from death.

Inside the castle, two Koopa guards hurried across the velvet carpet cushioning on top of the pale stone floors. The carpet ended, and they stepped across the arched stone bridge suspended over the bubbling pond of lava that cut through the entire ground floor of the castle, a small tributary of the large lake of lava they had passed over prior.

The Eternal Koopas had turned this hellscape into a thriving war machine thanks to the lava sea; they mined the heart of its resources and refined it, turning the metal into weaponry and armour for a militia waiting for their moment in the sun. The sound of the forge was alive and well, echoing in tune with the march of the guards patrolling the castle's chambers...

...And a Koopa Guard was running like the devil was chasing him

"Shit, shit, shit.”

Sweating under his dark uniform, he turned the corner and came to a room with the door ajar and a cold bunk bed where sat in ruined royal garb the Princess Rose looking somewhat confused at how freaked out her guard was

"Oh thank God-! You're still in your cell?"

"Um, yeah? You have me behind this magical invisible forcefield."

".....YES. WE DO. THE FORCEFIELD is ABSOLUTELY STILL UP-! So you've trapped for-"

"...Wait, is the force field down?"

"What?! Noooooo. Hahahaha. That's crazy!"

"Because the forcefield usually makes a noise."

"......BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOPPPPPPPPPPPEEEEEEE"

"Actually, it was more like a beep.”

"BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEPPP...See, perfectly normal...BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEPPP"

"Did the forcefield just stop while you were talking?"

"...No..."

Frowning and somewhat suspicious the Princess reached forward towards the place where the forcefield is, and she noticed that the hand she went to touch the forcefield with was no longer there; the final pixels of her fingertips eroded away into the ether. She diverted course and used her other hand.

"No-! Wait! Stop! Your hand is gonna melt!"

"....Melt?! The old forcefield didn't do that."

"Well, because you escaped once before the Eternal put it on a higher setting....vaporise....destructionate"

"What does destructionate do?"

"Touch the forcefield and find out!"

"...Kay."

The Princess reached forward again

"No, no, wait-! That was reverse psychology!"

"Was telling me not to touch the forcefield reverse psychology or telling me TO touch the forcefield reverse psychology?"

"...Yes..."

Awkward silence.

"So just sit tight, and the forcefield repair man will be here shortly-"

"Why?"

"To congratulate me! For doing such a good job keeping the forcefield up! I'm getting an award for how stable the magic is!"

"...There are awards for maintaining forcefields?”

"There are now!"

"Ok, you know what? I believe you. I guess I won't touch the forcefield."

"Do you promise?"

The guard puts out his hand to shake.

"Promise-!"

And The Princess happily shook hands with the guard.

The penny dropped for both of them at the same time.

"Oh..."

"Huh..."

"...."

"Please don't tell the Eternal Koopas! Besides, it's not as if you'll be able to go anywhere; the entire castle has a magic aura keeping you in whilst they… you know… transfer you from one kingdom to the next. The Eternal want you ready for the...ritual soon."

The Princess stood there, somewhat annoyed but otherwise untouched by this hard truth.

"I gotta say, you're unusually calm; most people standing in the same position you are right now would be weeping at the mere idea that you have to face down against The Eternal Koopas. Princess Nova and Keres will show no mercy."

"Oh, I know."

"...Then why aren't you afraid?"

"You wouldn't understand."

"Try me."

"Because I know Jorio is coming for me, and I know that because I'd do the same thing if it was him stuck here.

Ever since we met three years ago, we have had each other's back. When you come from the place we do, you learn to understand that you come into this world with nothing, and you leave with nothing but the love of the people you met along the way. Everything else is just borrowed, so no matter what happens to me, no matter what those Eternal chicks do, I take comfort in the fact that he'll always be there for me, no matter what."

The Princess leaned back, sat down on the bed, and took a deep breath, fortifying herself accordingly.

"That's something those two will never understand. They have a bond… no question about that; I don't understand it, I don't think anyone does, but it's there, but it's a bond based in lust for power, for corruption, to cause pain and misery for everyone around them.

That's what they’ve got. Me and Joe, though? Family and friends going through the worst and helping each other go through it. That's what we got, and nothing in this land or any other can break that. So those two can do whatever they want to me, as long as I have Joe? I can take it. They might think that they’re breaking me down and removing me from myself, but as long as part of me still lives inside of Joe, they won’t be able to do it."

"You're putting your fate in the hands of someone who can't possibly be a threat to the Eternal?"

"That's about the size of it."

"...Why?"

"Because no one does, no matter what he does and what he puts himself through, everyone expects him to fail.

No one believes in him.

But I do, and that's a strength no one else is going to understand. But he's the toughest person I've ever met, and if they don't believe it? They will soon.”

"Wow, that's a really nice thing to say about him."

"Well, that's probably because I'm a subconscious manifestation in Joe Burr's head while he's dreaming."

"Huh?!"

"Don't worry about it...."

The princess laid back on the bed and she closed her eyes, feeling that she was being torn apart piece by piece, because that is what was happening to her. She knew that the Eternal Koopas wanted to remodel her in their visage and to do that, they’d need to remove the very essence of Lizzie Rose from her body and change what makes her who she is.

There was only so long that she could resist this force, though. That upset her; why would they want to do this to her? What had she done to deserve it other than be herself?

The hope was there, though. The hope that the person that she could always count on no matter what would come through for her once again. The person she could trust to do whatever he could to better a bad situation no matter what and wouldn’t let things like a shattered larynx stop him. He was her hero; her Super Jorio.

Realising that she was now missing a leg, and her pixels were decreasing in number at an increasing rate, she scrunched her eyes. “Please, save me.”

**********

“Okay, I really need to go now. The princess needs my help!” Jorio said as he landed on top of another strange creature which the mushroom people called a ‘Goomba’, flattening it and ending its life. “These things really aren’t that hard to fight, I don’t get why you don’t just deal with them yourselves!”

Despite the urgency of his situations, the mushroom guards seemed more than content to allow Jorio to carry out as many menial tasks as they could. After cleaning some windows and crushing more Goombas, he decided that enough was enough. “Screw this.”

In a frustrated rage, he ‘accidentally’ stomped on one of the mushroom people instead of a Goomba, causing the entire town to revolt against him. The small people chased him with spears and other basic weaponry, but he was in the Mushroom Kingdom now, and he wasn’t going to allow anyone to stop him from doing what he set out to do.

He became even more frustrated when he realised just how easy it was to escape from the angry mushroom people and before long, he found himself outside of the castle where he knew that the princess was being held. Through a conveniently placed series of escalating blocks, he was able to hop from one to the other until he was high enough to simply jump over the castle walls onto a balcony.

Once he was in there, he took another moment to consider his surroundings, but more appropriately his plan of attack. He knew that the princess was in danger of being taken away. Not just from him, but from herself. She had been targeted and he didn’t understand why. Although she was the strongest person he knew, Jorio feared that even she could succumb to a force that seemed limitless in power and allure.

It pained him to doubt her like that, but he really did not know. What he was sure of though, was that he was not prepared to give up on her and he was willing to do everything in his power to protect her. He loved her, not in that way, but that love meant that he could not bear something bad happening to her. That’s why he would go to the end of the world if he had to to fight those who would do her harm.

Jorio saw another block above his head on the balcony and even though he knew that it was going to hurt, he jumped upwards and smacked his head off of it once more. This time, a flower emerged from the top of it. Joe reached up and touched it whilst rubbing his head and he felt something inside of himself change. He felt more powerful and this was confirmed when on a wave of his hand he shot out a fireball which bounced along the floor. “That’s awesome!”

It was awesome. Especially when he then charged into the castle in search for the princess and used his new fireballs to incinerate every single being in his wake, until he was certain that he had wiped out its entire population. All that remained for him to check was the highest room in the tallest tower. Jorio ran as fast as he could up the spiral staircase and then kicked the door in…

… to see a solitary mushroom person standing in the middle of an empty room.

“What is going on? Where’s the princess?”

“Thank you, Jorio! But your princess is in another castle!”

Jorio dropped to his knees and removed his hat, holding it closely against his chest. A tear rolled down his cheek as he quickly learned the lesson that sometimes no matter how hard you try, sometimes, people just can’t be saved.

Through his tearful eyes, he looks up and spots a portrait of Princess Rose. On either side of her though are the two Eternal Koopas, and it is very much clear that they have her now and there’s nothing that Princess Rose or Super Jorio can do about it.

“It is never too late to not give up on someone, Jorio. If you keep fighting, you can save her. It just depends on how far into this thing you are willing to go to save her.”

Super Jorio rose to his feet and looked defiantly at the painting in front of him. “You have no idea, baby.”

​

 

[Comeback Kid]

SHAWN SUMMERS IN
A MAN CALLED JUSTICE

The crowd was restless as they waited for the announcement of the next match of the night. The FWA had taken over Chicago for the Grand March event and produced a card that resulted in a sell-out of the United Center. Shawn stood on the side of the stage and looked out into the arena with repugnance. Seeing them openly support Tommy without any knowledge of the man that he honestly was confused him. They endorsed him blindly because he had a funny accent, paraded his family around for them to admire, and played to their emotions with his hero complex. He was like a wolf in sheep's clothing, and they were too blind to notice it.

"What happened to morals and traditional values that this country was built on?" he thought to himself as he avoided being noticed by those who were eagle-eyed and attempting a glance at the wrestlers before they made their way to the ring. If this were the same country years ago, they would've seen Tommy for who he was. Thomas Bedlam - the man who had wreckless impregnated a young woman out of wedlock. Thomas Bedlam - the man who presented outwardly as a noble gentleman but internally was as corrupt as the men he claimed to be nothing like.

Shawn peaked his head into the arena again and hoped that he had overlooked things, but to his dismay, he hadn't. In an arena that could hold upwards of 16,000 people for events, not one of them was there in support of him. Being alone wasn't new to him, but it still hurt nonetheless. If you were to ask him how it felt to be the most hated man in professional wrestling, he'd give you a canned answer that would make you understand why he had no support. However, inside, it hurt him to know that he had no one in both his professional and personal life. No one to celebrate his accomplishments. No one to will him back into a fight that he had all but given up on.

Shawn clutched the leather strap of the Television Championship - pulling it upwards and clutching it against his chest. It was the only thing that comforted him in this life of aloneness. He loved the championship in private because he couldn't afford for anyone to see how much it meant to him. If people knew how much it meant to him, they would do everything they could to remove it from him. That was a lesson he had learned from his father. It hurt not to be able to show how much the championship meant to him in public because it was the only thing that kept the feeling of loneliness at bay.

"Hey! Fuck you, Summers," a fan shouted at him as he quickly retreated to the seclusion of the backstage area. As he crouched down against the cold wall of the arena, he couldn't help but wonder - if he died in the ring against Tommy, would anyone care? Would anyone fight to bring Tommy to justice for what he did? Would they write it off as a casualty of the business? Or would they celebrate him for getting rid of the biggest bastard in the industry today? He chuckled to himself as he knew the answer. They weren't like him. They wouldn't go to the lengths that he went to.

Spoiler

Shawn lets out a deep sigh as he leans back in his seat, resting his left arm on the windowseal of the car and steering the vehicle with his right hand. Dust kicks up behind the tires as he travels down the gravel road passing by broken fences and land that looks like it has yet to be tended to in some time. A smirk forms on his face as he passes a sign welcoming him to Sweetwater.

As he pulled into Sweetwater, he couldn't help but feel a tinge of nostalgia mixed with aversion. Sweetwater resembled a town stuck in what an old prospector would describe as the golden era of America. In a time when the majority of the country held conservative values, men went to work to provide for their families while women tended to things at home, and people knew their place in society. The buildings looked as though they hadn't been updated since the mid-1990s - the most modern building being the local Walmart that no one in the town wanted. Shawn surveyed the people as he drove into town and couldn't help but notice the lack of diversity he saw. Sure, there were a few people of color (a couple of Blacks and Mexicans), but they seemed to self-segregate themselves. He couldn't understand why anyone would want to live in a town like this. It was a town stuck in the past - opposed to the necessary societal changes. And yet, this was the place that Tommy called home.

How pathetic, he thought to himself as he cruised through Sweetwater. To think that someone would choose to live in a place like this. It was a mystery to him, just like Tommy. Until Tommy stepped up to accept the open challenge for the Television Championship, Shawn hadn't given much thought to him. The most he knew about Tommy was his abysmal record in the F1. What happened to the guy that had seemingly come out of nowhere to claim a spot in a tournament that Shawn wasn't considered for?

If there was one thing that Shawn despised, it was the idea of deja vu. For some, deja vu was a neat moment that made them feel like they were psychic, but for Shawn, it was him reliving the worst moments in his life yet again. Shawn had won many championships throughout his career, but one thing remained the same during all of his reigns - he could only defend his title once. On the second defense, he had always lost his title. The CWA Tag-Team Championship? Lost it after the first defense. The CWA High Voltage Championship? Lost it after the first defense. The FWA Television Championship? He lost that one after the first defense as well. He needed to learn Tommy Bedlam and not underestimate him because he didn't want to experience the deja vu of loss again.

Shawn couldn't help but notice a giant billboard as he drove further into Sweetwater. The billboard looked relatively new and had the photo of a man, probably in his late 20s or early 30s. Try as they might to find a decent picture of him; it was evident that drugs and life had taken their toll on him. To the left of his photo was a text that read, "$25K reward for answers regarding the murder of Robert Gallimore (Bobby Ray)." Shawn was surprised that a town as backward and small as Sweetwater would have trouble finding the murderer of one of its inhabitants.

As he turned into the parking lot of the motel that he would call home for the next two days, he couldn't help but notice an older woman sitting alone in the town square. She sat in a wheelchair and wore a tattered-looking gown that hung off her shoulders. In her hands was a sign similar to the billboard he had passed earlier. The way the people of Sweetwater avoided walking near her made it seem like some invisible barrier was erected around her. Her face lacked emotion as she sat in the baking Texas sun holding the sign. The fact that no one acknowledged her or the sign was worrisome, but that wasn't why Shawn was there. He couldn't be distracted by matters that had nothing to do with him.

Shawn stepped out of the car and seemingly fit in with the townspeople. He wore a white tank top tucked into a pair of blue jeans and black boots. His pants were held up by a black leather belt with a gold buckle. He entered the car and removed a black, short-sleeved button-down shirt from the passenger seat. He quickly put the shirt on over his tanktop, deciding not to button it up, as he retrieved his backpack from the trunk of the car and made his way into the motel.

A bell rang as he entered, and the floors loudly creaked when he walked across them. An older, portly man came from a room behind the front counter, beaming with a welcoming smile. "Well, hey there, friend," he said with a wave as Shawn approached. "We don't get many guests outside of the high school kids trying to have a good time away from their parents," he said with a hearty laugh that elicited a light chuckle and smile from Shawn. "What brings you to Sweetwater, my boy?"

"Work," Shawn answers curtly with a smile as the man opens a logbook and flips through the pages.

"Ah, I should've known. I'm guessing you work for one of those corporate farmers, ey? We get a couple of you guys throughout the year. Whose farm you all planning on buying this time?" he questioned.

"Ahh, I can't tell you that. We're trying to keep things quiet for the owner's sake," Shawn says with a wink. The man catches Shawn's drift immediately and ceases his questioning. It had become frowned upon as of late to sell out to the corporate farming industry amongst the people of Sweetwater, so Shawn's response was believable.

"Well, we'll get you settled here in room 205. It's about $80 a night. Is that alright with you?" Shawn nodded his head. He had no choice, as this was the only motel in the entire city. Anything else would have him staying about 35 miles outside the town, and he couldn't afford to travel back and forth just for information on Tommy.

Shawn received the keys to his room and set off for the room. The motel had seen better days. The wallpaper barely clinged to the wall in places, and the floor alternated between a maroon carpeting and spots of bare wood. He opened the door to his room and was greeted with the smell of mothballs and used cigarettes. He at least had a balcony in the room that he could toss himself over if his time in Sweetwater became too unbearable. He took a seat on the bed, and the mattress barely moved. It was as stiff as a board.

The room was quiet. He tried to turn on the TV, but it didn't work. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, wanting to check his social media or find a video to distract him, but there was no service. Shawn was alone, in this shitty motel room, with just his thoughts. He reached for his backpack but quickly stopped as he realized that the Television Championship wasn't there. He left it at home as he didn't want to risk losing it here. There was nothing in the room for him but himself and his insecurities that were starting to occupy space in his head.

Shawn quickly exits the room and heads for the hotel lobby, where he is greeted again by the man from earlier. The two have a brief conversation about what there is to do around Sweetwater, and in that time, the man recommends Shawn check out Larry's Longhorn Steakhouse. Shawn takes him up on the offer - anything to not be left alone.

Larry's Longhorn Steakhouse was as appealing as any other establishment in town. As Shawn entered he noticed the inside was just as empty as the parking lot. He sits at the bar and can't help but notice professional wrestling on the television. Although a local wrestling company was on the screen, Shawn couldn't help but become nervous that someone would recognize him since they were wrestling fans.

"What're you drinking, friend?" says a voice from the kitchen. Shawn looks up and locks eyes with the man. He must've been in his late 60s. He was frail but friendly as he approached and placed a coaster before Shawn. "Bud light, if you've got it," Shawn answers as the man nods and pours him a glass. "Wrasslin' caught your attention, I see. I prefer our local companies over the glitz and glam of those big touring circuses they call wrestling. Those companies are just aint right. They do too much talking and not enough wrasslin'. Then don't even get me started on the whole men wrestling women stuff they can't seem to stop with."

"Amen to that," Shawn says as he sips his beer. He was surprised he would have anything in common with the people here. He wondered to himself if Tommy felt the same way about the FWA. Was Tommy just too polite to bring up his displeasure with men wrestling women and all the glitz and glamour of the company?

"You know, one of our local boys used to wrestle for this company. Maybe you've heard of 'em? Tommy Bedlam," he says, causing Shawn to take his attention away from the television and focus on the man. "Yep. Tommy used to work here for me and I'll tell you what, I'd do anything for him. Such a good kid." Shawn nods and smiles at the man as he beams with pride, talking about Tommy.

"I'm sorry. Where are my manners? I'm Larry, the owner of this here steakhouse," he says as he extends his hand out for Shawn to shake. Shawn takes a moment before giving Larry a firm handshake.

"Names, Jacob. It's nice to meet you, Larry."
"Likewise, Jacob. Now, what brings you here to Sweetwater?"
"Just here for work. Doing a little bit of investigation for my client. Shouldn't take too long."
"Oh, yeah? Who ya workin' for?"
"I'm part of the cattle industry, and we're considering possibly buying one of the ranches around here. Just doing a little investigation on things here in Sweetwater before we close the deal. My client likes to get a lay of the land before they sew their roots into the community. I'm sure you understand," Shawn says with a smile as Larry nods and leans against the bar.

"Well, I've lived here my whole life, and I can tell you about pretty much anything here in the town. What questions you got?"

Shawn was taken aback by the forwardness of the questioning he was receiving from Larry but figured it was just how the people of Sweetwater operated toward outsiders. He couldn't help but be impressed by this.

"Well, I guess I have to ask about the billboard and the lady with the sign looking for answers about the death of Robert Gillmore," Shawn says as he notices Larry adjusting his posture - standing tall, with his arms, crossed over his chest. Shawn takes the cue and tries to smooth things before he loses Larry's friendliness.

"You see, something like a serial murderer or the drug trade or even a record of violent crime would be something my client would see as a dealbreaker in purchasing any stake in the town, so I ask. My client wants to invest in the community and town they set their roots in, and I know something like an unsolved murder would cause them concern."

The mention of investment into the community catches Larry's attention, causing him to let his guard back down slowly. He sighs deeply before answering Shawn.

"The situation with Robert Gillmore, or Bobby Ray as we all knew him is kind of complicated," he says before pausing, attempting to think of the right words.

"Everyone in the town knows what happened to Bobby Ray. The problem is that not everyone agrees that what happened to him was right. Depending on who you ask, Bobby died in a meth-lab explosion, and that's that. That's what was in the police report and what was told to his mama. However, some believe that Bobby Ray was killed and that his murder is being covered up to protect people, and because Bobby Ray was poisoning Sweetwater with his meth dealing and with him gone, the town is a better place."

"I'm sorry; who do they think is being protected?" Shawn questions as he interjects during Larry's story. Larry shakes his head violently and throws his hands up before beginning.

"I'm not getting into that. That's not for me to discuss, and it's not for you to think about. Just know that the whole thing about Bobby Ray's death is a battle of opposing views. To some, it was a matter of Justice finally being served, and to others, it is an example of outlaw madness that plagued the west before it was civilized. It's an isolated incident and shouldn't be of any concern for your clients."

Shawn nods in understanding as he takes another sip from his beer and turns back to the wrestling on TV. As he watches the country boys wrestling, he can't help but think about Tommy. He breaks the silence between himself and Larry with the following question.

"Tell me, Larry. You said that the town has opposing views on the Bobby Ray situation. I have to know, how does Tommy view the situation? He lives here and seems to be a pretty fair guy, right? What're his thoughts?"

Larry quickly grabs the beer bottle from in front of Shawn and tosses it into the trash. Shawn looks at him bewildered as Larry turns off the television and looks sternly at him.

"I think it's time for you to leave, Jacob."
"I'm sorry?"
"You need to leave. We're closing up."

Shawn takes a moment, trying to figure out what just happened before getting up from his seat - he didn't want to cause any trouble while he was here. He reaches into his wallet and drops $20 on the bar before exiting as Larry picks up a phone and makes a frantic call.

---

Shawn parked his car near the town square early in the morning and waited as the older woman made her way to the spot she had occupied the previous day. She didn't speak to any of the people who passed by her, and they, in turn, avoided her and the space around her as if she were contaminated. It was hard for Shawn to understand why no one interacted with her, even though many in the town believed what had happened to her son was wrong. The situation was a genuine moral dilemma that Shawn wasn't expecting to encounter when he arrived. On the one hand, he could understand why the townspeople would be okay with someone taking things into their hands and taking the life of a drug dealer. This wasn't weed that this guy was selling to people. He was selling meth. Shawn had gone through the drug awareness resistance education program growing up and knew the effects of meth on the users and how it could quickly take hold of communities and destroy them. Getting rid of someone willing to poison the community for their profit was something he could get behind. However, taking the life of another was indeed the worst crime a person could commit. Who are we to decide who gets to live or die? Society had implemented laws and procedures to deal with those who broke societal rules. If you allow one person to take the law into their own hands, what's stopping another person from doing the same without any consequences? Then there was the fact that a family had suffered a loss that no one cared about except them. That's heartbreaking to have to deal with.

As the hours passed, none dared to approach the woman. Shawn thought about Tommy and how Larry had become oddly defensive when asked about Tommy's view on the situation. It didn't make sense to get as defensive as he did. To abruptly end the conversation and put him out of the bar was just weird.

Shawn didn't know much about Tommy, but from what he had gathered, he knew that Tommy was a man of good respectable morals. Tommy would have to be one of the people against the vigilante justice served toward Bobby Ray. Right?

Shawn didn't have much time to think more about the situation as he noticed a man approaching the woman. He was the first person he'd seen approaching the woman at all in the time since he'd been here. No one seemed to acknowledge his approach, making the gesture even more awkward to an outsider. The man spoke to the woman for a while, and from what Shawn could see, she didn't say a word back to him. He stayed with the woman for about half an hour before reaching into his wallet, placing money in her hand, and going to his car.

Shawn exited his car to approach the man. He wanted to question him about the woman and why he was the only person to talk to her, but the man had already taken off before he could get to him. Shawn quickly returned to his Trans AM and followed behind him - attempting to stay far enough not to alert him.

To Shawn, the places that the man went to were non-suspicious. His first stop was at an apartment complex where he visited with an older woman, presumably his mother, before leaving. Next, he visited a trailer just outside one of the cattle ranches. It was burnt to a crisp. He stood there looking over the charred remains of the trailer, almost admiring it before leaving again. His next, and final stop, took Shawn back to a place that he was aware he more than likely wasn't welcome at - Larry's Longhorn Steakhouse.

Shawn allowed the man to enter the Steakhouse alone before following shortly afterward. He sat at a table in the back of the room and kept his attention focused on the menu, not to be noticed. He could hear from the conversation between the man and the staff that his name was Scotty. Larry came from the back and was very friendly with Scotty. The two chatted until Larry noticed Shawn watching from a distance. Larry motioned towards Shawn, and Scotty turned and looked at him. Shawn nodded at the two, but they did not return the gesture. He was in hostile territory.

Scotty finishes the beer that was brought to him by Larry and makes his way toward the exit out the back of the restaurant. Shawn follows behind him in a non-discreet manner, only to end up alone in an alley. It was almost as if Scotty had vanished into thin air. Shawn tried to think about where Scotty could've gone, but his thoughts were interrupted as the stinging of a bottle forcefully hitting the back of his head caused him to fall forward.

Shawn catches himself before completely following over and notices Scotty approaching him with the bottle. Despite what the movies taught everyone, the bottle did not break upon impact with Shawn's head. It was very much intact, and Shawn didn't have much time to react as the back of his head began to pulsate with pain from the attack. Shawn shoots for his legs as Scotty approaches him, bringing him down on his back. Shawn manages to get a mounted position and repeatedly punches Scotty in the face with his right fist. Shawn thrusts his left forearm into Scotty's neck and pushes down hard. He takes a few deep breaths and maneuvers to pin Scotty's arms down with his knees. The fucker was slippery and kept trying to buck Shawn off of him but to no avail.

"Hey! Hey! Stop moving," Shawn yells at Scotty but to no avail. Shawn punches him in the face again and applies further pressure with his forearm to his neck. "Stop moving, dammit! I will crush your fucking larynx, you son of a bitch. Stop fucking moving!" Scotty must have sensed that Shawn's threat was solemn as he stopped moving—the two men breathed heavily in the alleyway as they stared at one another before Shawn began.

"I just got...a couple of questions, Scotty. You're gonna answer them, and then I'll let you fucking go. Okay? Why were you the only one talking to the woman in the town square?"

Scotty responds to Shawn's question by spitting up at him. Unfortunately for him, Shawn was able to move out of the way, and the spit came falling back onto Scotty's face. Shawn applied more pressure to Scotty's throat before asking his next question.

"What do you know about Bobby Ray, Scotty? You know something and I want answers! What do you know about him? What does Tommy know about him? Answer me, motherfucker!"

Scotty begins to squirm uncontrollably and almost bucks Shawn off of him, but Summers drives his knees deeper into Scotty's arms. Shawn responds to Scotty's unwillingness to talk with a few more punches to the face. Scotty knew what had happened to Bobby Ray, and Shawn knew it. The only thing that Shawn didn't know was how Tommy was involved. He had gathered that this had something to do with Tommy because this was the second person to get tense when his name was linked to the situation.

As Shawn is about to come down with another right hand to Scotty, he hears the cocking of a shotgun behind him. He slowly turns around and notices Larry pointing a gun directly at him.

"Get off of 'em, Jacob," Larry shouts as Shawn slowly dismounts Scotty. He knew it would be suicide to attack Larry and wrestle the gun away from him, so he followed the orders. Scotty gets to his feet and drops Shawn with a right hand for his troubles. Larry informs him that the police are on the way and that he needs to get out of there. Scotty obliges, and Shawn waits with Larry until the police cuff and places him in the back of a squad car.

---

Shawn and the officers arrive at the police station, where he is quickly brought in through the backdoor. This was not what Shawn had wanted. He wanted to keep his presence in Sweetwater a secret to make whatever he found out about Tommy a surprise. Getting arrested had ruined the potential 'gotcha' moment he would present to Tommy ahead of their clash. Shawn could feel his heart rate increasing as he was led into the station, and they approached the processing area. To his surprise, the officers led him past the spot where others were being processed - more than likely for petty crimes.

Shawn looks around anxiously as the officers open the door to a room with only a table and two chairs opposite one another. He knew what law enforcement could do when they wanted to keep something off the record. Would he become a casualty of the justice system he had put so much faith into?

The officers seated him and cuffed his hands behind the chair before leaving. Shawn had spent so much time in Sweetwater running from being isolated with his thoughts. It was ironic that this would be his fate. He was alone and his mind could only race and replay moments he tried to forget—his battle with Michael at Back in Business. Him losing the Television Championship. The beating from Eli. His encounter with Noah. It all came rushing to him, and he began to panic. He couldn't escape.

Shawn could feel his heart beating under his shirt. He began to sweat, and his breathing became erratic. He had never experienced anything like this before. He didn't know how to react. Fear soon replaced the feeling as he heard a knock at the door followed by its opening. In the doorway stood an older man. In the lighting, his head looked almost skeletal under the black-rimmed hat that rested atop his head. He wore a black blazer over a buttoned-down black shirt neatly tucked into a pair of black, creased jeans. The wristwatch gleamed and attracted Shawn's attention as he watched the man enter. The heel of his boots hitting the linoleum tile of the room echoed alongside the clink of his spurs against them.

He smiled at Shawn, and at that time, he was able to get a better look at him. He was somewhat bald under his hat, and his face was gaunt - not as skeletal as he had initially thought. He placed a folder on the table before him and sat with his legs crossed and his hand resting atop them. He looked almost like a king sitting on his thrown across from Shawn, who could barely control his breathing and trembling.

"Hello, Shawn," he said with a low booming voice that bounced off the room's walls. Shawn sat up straight as the man addressed him by his real name. The man smiled at Shawn before beginning again. "Son, my name is William Harris, and I'm the Sheriff here in Sweetwater. Most people call me Sherrif, but because I like you, I'm going to permit you to call me Bill," he says with a nod and a smile at Shawn, who remains emotionless and quiet as he sits across from Sherrif Harris. "It's okay, son. You don't have to put on your tough guy persona with me. I'm just here to talk. That's what you've wanted since you arrived in Sweetwater, right? Someone, to talk to? Someone, to tell you a little bit about ol'Tommy Boy, right? I'm the guy you want to talk to, Shawn. I'm the guy that can tell you about anything and anyone here in the town of Sweetwater. It's why I'm good at my job, son."

There was something about Sherrif Harris that was oddly calming and reassuring. Shawn felt he had nothing to worry about as long as the Sherrif was there. It wasn't lost on him that the Sherrif knew precisely who he was despite his best attempt at concealing his identity.

"If you're not gonna talk, I'll just fill the void. Unlike many people, I like the sound of my own voice," he says as he gives Shawn a wink. "I was surprised when I saw Shawn Summers pull into my town, but..." he pauses for a second and thinks before continuing. "No, I wasn't. I knew the moment Tommy delivered that contract that you would be here. You'd be coming down here to Sweetwater to get something, anything, to get that psychological advantage over your opponent. It's what your boy Noah would tell you to do, isn't it, Shawn?" he says with a chuckle. He notices Shawn beginning to get angry as he continues.

"Relax, Shawn. I'm just teasing. You've been through enough, so let me stop. I mean, you came to Sweetwater to get an advantage over Tommy and found yourself in the middle of a very heated situation. My team told me that you got into it with Scotty, right? That boy's a hot head, ain't he?" he chuckles. Shawn doesn't laugh in return; this isn't lost on Sherriff Harris.

"Alright, I guess I'll get to what you want. Tommy and Scotty killed Billy Ray because he assaulted Tommy's girl, Randi."

Shawn's eyes grow wide at the revelation. The last thing he was expecting to learn about Tommy was that he was a murderer. That can't be true, though, can it? It wasn't in Tommy's nature to do something like that. It doesn't make sense why he would go to that level of extreme when he could've just beaten the guy up.

"Tommy got all hot under the collar when he heard that Billy Ray had put his hands on his girl. That's something you can use against him, by the way. That boy sees red when anyone he cares about is in danger." Sherriff Williams opens the folder before him and flips through the pages.

"Yep. Mmmhmm. Tommy did a number on ol'Billy. Multiple contusions and signs of blunt force all over the body. It's good that Tommy brought his boy Scotty with him to burn the evidence because, without that fire, I would have been put in a really tough place, Shawn.

You see, I've known about Billy Ray selling meth around here. But I could never get the charges against him to stick when we would send him to court. I wanted to get Billy Ray off the streets, but I couldn't do it legally. So, you could say that I was grateful for Tommy and Scotty killing Billy Ray because they did what I couldn't. However, I had to decide if I was okay with a pair of my townspeople deciding to dish out a little bit of vigilante justice. I had decided if I was willing to arrest Tommy and turn the hero of Sweetwater into a criminal. I had to make a choice, and I chose to cover Tommy's crimes up. Billy Ray wasn't murdered. He died in a meth-lab explosion. Case closed, right?"

Shawn can't help but feel overwhelmed by the information presented to him. This was different from what he had planned. He would get some info on Tommy or find out something about his family, his girl, or anyone close to him, and Shawn would exploit that.

"Case not closed, Mr. Summers. You see, I've got a grieving mother running around the city asking for answers she knows she'll never get. Her son is dead, and the man responsible for it runs around on TV as if he didn't commit the most heinous crime this town had ever seen. Tommy has to pay for what he did, right? You don't get to suffer internally because you can't control yourself. That's not the way things operate. And that's where you come in, Mr. Summers," he smiles.

"You wanted to dig up some information on Tommy? I've given it to you. Use it. You see, I know that a man like you could take some information like this and do some serious psychological damage to a man like Tommy. And I'm okay with that because that's what he deserves. But, now that you have the information you were looking for, I'm going to give you 24 hours to get the hell out of Sweetwater because your presence is causing unnecessary trouble."

Sherriff Harris approaches Shawn and unlocks the handcuffs from his wrists. He stares at Shawn with a satisfied smile before approaching the door.

"Wait," Shawn says, causing Sherrif Harris to stop. He turns to face Shawn, who is now standing.

"How much for the file?"
"Excuse me?"
"How much for the file and all your information on this murder?"
"Boy, I could be wrong, but it seems like you are trying to bribe an officer of the law into giving you evidence and documentation for a crime."
"That's exactly what I'm doing, Bill," Shawn responds, causing Sheriff Harris to raise an eyebrow out of curiosity. Gone was the man who sat unsure and almost scared of what would happen. Sherriff Harris was getting the Shawn Summers he had heard so much about.

"You know that that is a federal offense, son?"
"I'm well aware. That's why I'm asking you how much?"

Sheriff Harris takes a moment to ponder what Shawn's endgame is. He looks at the folder on the table before looking back at Shawn.

"The evidence is right there, son. You don't have to pay me a dime for it."
"How do I know that that's the only copy of the evidence you have?"
"You don't. But you do know that I'm not a man willing to lie to you. I'm a man of my word. I only ask that you ensure that Tommy suffers for what he did. It's what he deserves, after all."

Sheriff Harris extends his hand out to Shawn. Shawn grabs the folder before shaking the Sheriff's hand and exiting.

 

[SupineSnake]

The following footage was released on ANZU.com last night at 11:58PM Pacific, with an edit made at 00:11AM.

RANDOM DISCLAIMER: I may have mostly just re-dubbed footage from an episode of Blue Planet II I watched the other day for this. I hope David Attenbrough doesn’t mind.

We open up on a shot of a seemingly endless sea, only broken up in the distance by a smattering of broken pieces of ice. A female narrator speaks in a familiar voice, in English but with a suggestion of a Japanese accent.

Narrator: "The Arctic Ocean. Nowhere on our Earth is the sea less accommodating, more foreboding, and less hospitable than around our poles. The seawater here is constantly around -1.8°C, hovering at its freezing point, so cold that you would enter hypothermia in a matter of minutes."

Past the camera swim two figures: a pair of walruses. One is a lot bigger than the other and protective of the smaller one, suggesting a maternal relationship between the pair. The younger of the two seems to be struggling to keep its head over the water as they paddle onwards towards frozen land.

Narrator: "Exhausted after a long hunt for food, this mother and its calf struggle to find a place to rest. Eventually, they stumble onto land, finding things a little overcrowded…"

The mother is first to push her body onto the snow, where around fifty other walruses are currently lounging. She uses her huge tusks and powerful torso to force a little bit of space amongst the heaving mass of bodies. Then, when she rests, her calf takes the opportunity to snuggle in next to her.

Narrator: "Although it's not just old family friends that have taken an interest in this exclusive, winter spot…"

In the background of the shot, we see a large polar bear padding through the snow. A silent killer. The bear keeps a close eye on the vast number of walruses relaxing in the sun in an attempt to rest up after a hunt of their own.

Narrator: "An adult walrus is far too large, heavy, and strong for a polar bear, but a walrus calf? Just right."

One of the walruses sees the lurking bear and sparks a slow-paced panic. One by one, only moments after our mother and calf appeared in this sanctuary for their much-needed rest, the walruses push themselves off the ice and into the sea. Our own walrus is the very last to abandon the outpost, along with her calf. She gives the bear one last lingering glance, full of bitterness and disdain, before shuffling herself and her young back into the ocean.

Narrator: "The hunt goes on. For both the bear, who needed this meal to survive, and the walrus, who still requires a place for her calf to rest."

Our mother-calf pairing is on the move again, paddling through the open water, the youngster's head barely able to remain above the freezing surface. The pup's pained yelps are louder, more frequent, and more frantic than they were at the start of the footage. There is a sense of urgency about the mother as she leads her young onwards towards a small, floating block of ice in the middle of the open sea. We see an aerial shot of the pair approaching the block, which already houses roughly a dozen of her kind who have all had exactly the same idea.

Narrator: "Floating blocks of ice like this one provide all the right ingredients for a walrus's recuperation, with the added bonus of being too far out to sea for a polar bear to strike. This one, though, has already attracted the attention of a few like-minded individuals."

The walrus mother swims around the circumference of the block in an attempt to find an opening. The pained and fearful groans of the youngster continue as the mother struggles to see a gap for them to fill. Becoming more panicked and more agitated by its offspring’s cries, the walrus begins to force its way into the pack.

Narrator: "But times are desperate. The mother has no choice but to try and gain entry onto the block."

There is, of course, resistance from the other walruses. As the mother attempts to bash and ram a path onto the ice for her and her young, the others are stirred from lethargy to defend their patch. They are not particularly territorial, but they are smart enough to know the perils of overcrowding. They understand what will happen if too many massive walruses climb onto the same small patch of ice.

A struggle ensues. Tusks clash and heads ram. Before long, the group of walruses on the ice begins to shift around, as some try to join the defense and others attempt to flee. The integrity of the block is soon compromised. It breaks apart, and then again, and then again, until it has disintegrated into nothing.

Narrator: "Now, nobody gets what they want."

One more cut, again to the open water, as the walrus and her young swim across it once again. The calf's fearful yelps can still be heard, but they are less frequent and less frantic now. Perhaps a certain fate has been accepted, or maybe the fatigue is now simply too strong. A gap begins to form between the mother and its calf, the younger walrus falling behind. This distance between them grows as the mother fights on to find sanctuary whilst the calf is too exhausted to continue.

Eventually, after realising that her young has drifted behind, the mother turns back. She prods at her calf's head with her own.

Narrator: "The mother knows that if they don't go on now, it will mean the end for her calf."

They swim ever onwards and, eventually, another floating block appears in the distance. This one is larger than the other, and as yet - perhaps by some miracle, or a mirage in this aquatic desert - remains unoccupied. The struggle is real for the youngster, but the mother forces her onwards, until finally they arrive at this sanctuary.

The mother is able to climb up onto the ice with ease, but for the calf the task is more arduous. The youngster is too tired to heave her already-heavy body up onto the block. Eventually, the mother has to climb back into the ocean to help with the lift.

Narrator: "The mother knows that even this hard-won and precarious safety is temporary. Soon, they will need to go on. The ice will melt, and other predators will begin to stir.”

With mother and daughter now both upon the ice block, they sprawl out lethargically. It doesn't take long for the calf to fall asleep. The mother strokes her head with a delicate flipper, the pair huddling for warmth on their floating island.

The next moment, a sudden eruption of activity drowns the scene in noise. From eight disparate positions around the ice block's circumference, tiger-striped tentacles are thrust from the surface, groping around the block like vile tendrils.

The tiger-squid's head appears in the water as the walruses groan and grunt and yelp helplessly and momentarily, the grasping, groping tentacles closing around them and dragging the whole block of ice down into the deep.

As the shadow of the leviathan gradually disappears, a thick, teal ink clouds the freezing water.​

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