Ammunition 15.3 VOTING AND PROMO THREAD

The story begins - Let the music sooth you into the tale.

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The scene opens up with Antonio standing in front of a large blue screen holding a small guitar. Music plays as he smiles at the camera, strumming his instrument all the while. Antonio opens his mouth as if to sing when the camera pans to the right, revealing another man.

???: You know he isn't playing that guitar right? You've just clicked on a cleverly placed link.

The man pulls the camera along with him as he walks back over to Antonio, the blue screen is now showing a beautiful view of an Italian vineyard. Both men sit down at a table and the camera pans back to encompass the entire shot.

???: My name is Narratore...the extra 'e' makes it more Italian. Babadaboochie mama mia.

Antonio shakes his head toward Narratore and points toward the camera hurridly, as if to suggest he should get to the point.

Narratore: Ah...you want me to get to the point. OK.

Narratore stands up from his chair and shuffles over toward Antonio, he motions the camera closer and points toward Antonio's mouth. As the camera zooms in, Narratore puts his right hand on Grimelli's huge jaw and forces open his mouth. He swirls around a finger in Antonio's mouth, only taking it out to tap on the camera lens. He pushes the camera back and the picture pans out so both men can be seen sitting at their table.

Narratore: So as you can see i miei amici, Antonio Grimelli has no tongue. He can not speak. I speak for him.

Narratore touches his nose and points toward Antonio, which gets a chuckle from the big man.

Narratore: We're on the same wavelength.

Narratore stands up, and strides away from the table. Leaving Antonio, and beckoning the camera to follow him. He assumes a comfortable lean against the blue screen, currently showing Italian wine country.

Narratore: Nice view, is it not? The perfect berries for a most potent red. Ah how I love wine. Such a tasteful accompaniment to a fine meal. I digress. Originally Antonio had wanted me to tell you about his childhood, how he was witness to his parents murder. How he was caught up in a mafioso lifestyle. Oh, and how his tongue was cut out.

Narratore turns to the screen and taps it a few times. A picture of a young Antonio with his parents flashes up. Narratore taps it again and the picture is replaced with one of teenage Antonio on the left side of Italian mob boss Giovani Baresi. Another tap from Narratore and the picture changes to Skyler Striker.

Narratore: Didn't expect that did you? I call that one a curve ball. Lead you up the back story path, and boom, match relevance.

Antonio's hand appears from right of the shot and slaps Narratore on the back of the head.

Narratore: Babadaboochie!?

Antonio's puts a wagging finger in front of Narratore then disappears off screen.

Narratore: He doesn't like when I do that. Not a fan of surprises, The Elephant Gun, not a fan at all.

Now, back to Skyler Striker. Firstly, nome ridicolo. For those completely inept in basic translations, that means you have a ridiculous name Skyler.

Narratore taps the screen a few times and a small video clip of Skyer Striker vs Anwyl appears.

Narratore: This morning Antonio and I sat down and watched this match. We watched it a few times. We laughed aplenty. You aren't a very good wrestler are you Sciopero Cielo, - a rough Italian translation of your name, much better by the way - in fact on top of not being particularly talented in the ring you are completely unfocused on your match with Antonio. Silly boy.

Narratore moves to tap the screen, but before he touches it a shot of Antonio hitting a rogue attacker with his now famed, ''Elefante Pistola'', while working for previously mentioned mob boss Giovani Baresi is shown.

Narratore: Che diavolo!? Slow down I.T guy in the back or instead of watching Antonio give an Elefante Pistola you'll be getting one.

I.T Guy: Sorry Narratore. Sorry Antonio.

The camera pans over to Antonio, who is frantically scribbling at something on the table. He bats the camera away, motioning it back to Narratore.

Narratore: Apology accepted. Now, where was I? Ah yes, Skyler. Mr. Striker, you signore are looking past what lies ahead. Stupido! Talk of fighting a principle, not for a title. Who do you think you are? A silly little ragazzo is what you are.

Narratore turns and taps the screen. Nothing is happening and he taps it again. Still nothing, he turns to the camera and motions it close. It zooms in, Narratores face fills the screen.

Narratore: I.T Guy!?!! MAMA MIA BABADABOOOCHIE!

I.T Guy: I'm really sorry.

The camera pans out and the blue screen changes to a picture of Anwyl, holding aloft his title.

Narratore: You are on your last chance I.T Guy, strike three and you are out as you American's like to say.

Narratore points to the picture of Anwyl then turns back to the screen.

Narratore: Have we been transported to the land of stupid names? Anwyl...Anwyl...am I saying it right? Stupido! Words should not come through the nose.

The large hand of Antonio appears again, gently slapping Narratore on the back of the head.

Narratore: Sì, sì. Siete pronti adesso?

Antonio's smiling face appears on screen and he nods.

Narratore: This hasn't went how I planned at all. I had such good intentions. Tell you of Antonio's tragic beginnings, build sympathy. His ruthless teenage years and early twenties, build fear. Talk about his opponent, and his aspirations. It would have been so much longer, so much more. Maybe include a few pictures or video...it was going to be perfecto. Dove si è sbagliato?

Narratore hangs his head and walks the camera over toward the table where Antonio has returned to his seat.

Narratore: I'm done. Over to Signore Grimelli. Arrivederci.

Antonio pats a glum-faced Narratore as he walks over. He approaches the camera and holds up a piece of paper, but quickly returns to the table and spends a few seconds writing more on his note. He taps the table then beckons the camera toward the note. The picture zooms in and focuses on the note.


The camera pans out and focuses on the smiling face of Antonio. He waves as the scene begins to fade to black. He raises his hand and stops before the screen goes black and motions the camera toward him. It slowly zooms in and Antonio opens his mouth, revealing only darkness. The shot slowly leads into his mouth, eating up all the light, leaving the scene completely black.

Striker: That is the dream I have. Every night.

Keita: Every night? Without fail?

Striker: I can stop it briefly, if I take a few pills.

Keita: But if you do nothing?

Striker: Then yes, every night.

Keita: Do you think there’s anything in this dream that reflects what’s going on in your life? The crossroads, the two men? The conflict? Even the fox?

Striker: I… I am not sure. It could be anything. There are a multitude of events going on in my life that could-

Keita: Stop overthinking. If there is something, you will know what it is.

A pause for thought.

Striker: There is. I think I know both of the men. Or rather, I know who they represent.

Keita: Good. Do you know why they meet? Do you know why the hole in the second man’s chest is there?

Striker: There is a long-standing conflict between the two. And the hole… no.

Keita: …Interesting.

Striker: Are you not interested in the identity of the two men?

Keita: No. I am interested in your role in this dream.

Striker: What do you mean?

Keita: Your story betrays you. You cannot see anything but the fox’s tail because your eyes are the fox’s. You ARE the fox.

Striker: …

Keita: You are on the periphery, watching. Unable to do anything, darting from place to place. I imagine you are trying to avoid this conflict, although you still wish to know what is happening. So what I want to know is this: Why are you hiding?

Striker: I… I don’t know.

It’s an old gym. The musty air and dim lights disguise the sentimental meaning that permeates the place. In the middle of the room is a wrestling ring, covered in dust. It clearly hasn’t been used in a year or more. Old training gear litters the floor – a ragged towel, a glove without its partner, sweatbands and discarded drink bottles. If it wasn’t for its total unimportance and obscurity, it would have been torn down. But it remains.

Skyler Striker sits on the apron, serene as ever. This gym is not only familiar to him, it is a home. He has memories of almost fourteen years ago, when he first came to America. Back then, the gym in the middle of nowhere – for it was in the middle of nowhere, alone on a long, long street – was filled with echoing noise every day as Skyler and his four friends made their way into the wrestling business, training, sparring and learning from each other. And on the fateful day when one of the friends decided to end his own life, the gym never saw action again. It was left to gather dust, and gather dust it did. The local council never bothered to demolish the place – the cost of demolition was far more than they could afford, and few people seemed to notice the scruffy vagrant who occasionally slept in the lonely ring.

But light flooded through the doors once more just two years ago, when Striker took a broom along and turned from student to teacher, presiding over the training of a TyranT’s daughter. Seeing the place back in semi-running condition had brought a smile to his face – dust still blanketed the corners of the wide, empty gym, but the ring itself bounced just like it always had. All good things come to an end, however, and the building remained empty once more after Crash Scene imploded and went their separate ways. Sitting on the apron, Striker can see out of the corner of his eye a small red bloodstain on the wooden floor – a memento of Caprice knocking him out after Skyler’s medication had driven him too far. In this second absence, the gym in the middle of nowhere became a local legend; residents of the nearest town called it what it was: the ‘Lonely Ring’.

Skyler’s nostalgia is interrupted as the big steel doors open with a squeal, and two silhouettes appear, hidden by the bright lights of the outside. One is male, tall and well-built, dressed sharply in a black suit and tie. The other is female, small and slender, with hair that drops past her shoulders. The man nods, and walks back outside where the sound of a car door opening and closing is heard. Once the silence returns, the woman walks towards the ring, confidence emanating from her every step.

Striker: Hello, Faith.

Striker’s second protégé – although he had come to realise very little had been necessary to prepare Faith for the ring – walks out of the silhouette and towards Striker with purpose, stopping a foot in front of him and delivering a hard slap to his face. The force of it knocks Striker’s head sideways, although he manages to keep his balance on the apron.

Faith: … I haven’t forgiven you yet.

Striker rubs his cheek. There’s a visible handprint where the blood has rushed to the point of impact, but the corners of Striker’s lips still turn up into an amused smile.

Striker: Good to see you, too. I presume you’re one to hold a grudge.

Faith: … If you were me, you wouldn’t forget your past either.

Striker: Still not the talkative type, are you?

Faith: … Are you serious? Did you really just make that joke?

An incredulous look passes over Faith’s face. The look itself is so strong it replaces the need for words in this instance. Striker scratches the back of his neck and looks away from Faith.

Striker: Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m… nervous.

Faith: … So you should be. You have a lot to answer for.

Striker: I, uh… I don’t really know where to start.

Faith instantly turns and begins to walk back towards the door. She knew she was wasting her time, and couldn’t honestly remember why she’d come in the first place. She did know an apology was going to come from Striker’s mouth any second now, and she knew that as soon as it did he’d call after her to come back – and she’d keep on walking, leaving him as deserted and alone as he’d left her so many months ago. Tit for tat, little man. No, not man – boy. He was just a boy. She stomped her feet on the old wooden floor, just to make the sound of her departure echo even more, to make it burrow into his childlike brain, so that he would never forget the memory.

Striker: Faith!

Faith: … Here it comes.

Striker: I won’t forget this… dad.

The TyranT’s daughter stops in her tracks.

Faith: … What… what did you just say?

Striker pushes himself off the apron, turning to stand and face his former protégé and friend.

Striker: Do you remember that day; the last day we trained together? Do you? Because I have never forgotten the one and only time that you SPOKE, Faith. You didn’t think it or write it down or spell it out in sign language, you spoke those words to me. And I can never hope to understand how much it hurt you physically to say that, but you said it. You called me ‘dad’. Maybe it was a moment of stupidity on your part, maybe not, and maybe you regret it now, but you said you wouldn’t forget it. So: do you remember that day, Faith? When I was a better man?

There is a tremendous, overbearing silence in the lonely gym. The very concept of nothingness would be louder. And Faith, slowly but surely, turns around, her eyes full of memory and emotion and one single, solitary tear in the corner of her right eye, with her vision now full of the man she had once and only once called ‘dad’.

Striker: You do remember.

Faith: … I remember.

Striker: You don’t owe me anything, and I can’t force you to stay, but I’m not sure you want to leave. You could have not come at all, or if you’d really wanted to hurt me, you could have told me you’d be here and then bailed. But you didn’t. Which means for whatever reason, you wanted to see me.

Faith’s eyes turn away from Striker, an embarrassing admission. He was right. She had wanted to see him… although her anger had not subsided. She was here because she was angry. Because he had something to answer for.

Striker: I’d love to know why you came.

Faith: … Because you owe me something.

Striker: Look, I’m just gonna talk and see what comes out of my mouth, maybe I’ll get to a point if I ramble long enough. Bear with. You know how you’re never afraid of anything or anyone? I envy that. I really, really do. I’d kill to have that kind of resolve, to just face up to battles honestly and with every intention of breaking faces. But I’m not that type of guy. Maybe it’s because I’m older, and maturity or experience or whatever just makes you more able to understand and accept fear. I know when I was younger I thought I could take on the world. But now I know I have to pick my battles, and when I think about it, I’m scared of facing the battles that mean the most to me.

Faith watches Skyler take a seat on the old wooden floor. He faces the wall, speaking to it calmly and methodically, clearly trying to work through thoughts to get to what brought them both here.

Striker: I hated your father. You probably knew that already.

Faith: … Understandable.

Striker: But I envy him, too, in the fact that as old as he is, he’s still picking fights, winning battles that mean something to him.

Faith: … Mean something? All he wants to do is hurt people. You don’t want that.

Striker: I mean, those battles are pointless sometimes – but he’s got his reasons like anyone else. Come to think of it, that’s probably where you get your fearlessness from. You remind me of him in that way, I guess. Anyway, I’m younger and yet older than most. I’m in the perfect position to really go back and try to remedy some mistakes that I made before. I owe a lot of people. I owe some people in the ring – I owe Chris Austin, even though we never had beef. I owe Hannibal a match, as payback for when I busted his neck. I owe… one more big debt in the ring.

Faith watched Skyler’s eyes as he paused, drifting off. He didn’t say the name, but she knew who he meant. His eyes practically screamed ‘Drew’.

Striker: And they’re all fights that I know I can fight, even though I’m afraid. They’re debts I can pay. But outside the ring… I owe even more people. I owe Leah and John and April for the months I stole from them, from abandoning them. I owe Leon for the times he looked after me and my family, even though I wasn’t there to look after him. I owe Derrick for what he taught me, even though he wasn’t interested in being a mentor. And I owe you. I owe you, Faith, because you had high expectations and I didn’t meet them. It wasn’t that I couldn’t, it was that I didn’t.

Faith: … And what are you gonna do about it?

Striker: It took my so long to get the courage to come here, to try and meet up with you and fight just one of these battles. I have a feeling I may have already screwed this up too much, that the wound is too deep to heal and it’s gonna be an ugly scar to remind me of how much I fucked up. And I have another feeling that’s more than a hunch – that just asking you what you want me to do to make it up to you isn’t what you want. You want me to figure it out by myself, and so if that’s the case, then all I can do right now is say sorry, because I can’t do anything here and now.

Faith: … That’s it? You brought me here to be your psych, to listen to you blather on about your pathetic life, and then tell me you’re not going to even try to make amends?

Faith’s anger boils over and she rushes Striker, who puts up a hand just in time to block Faith’s knee. The force pushes Striker onto his back on the floor, but he manages to roll away as Faith tries to contain her fury. In her attempts to do so, Faith makes the sign language signal for ‘fuck you’, a trick which often got her out of trouble with her guards in times gone by. Striker, on his feet and watching Faith intently in case of a second attack, smiles at the signal before roughly signing back ‘you haven’t forgotten how to fight, then’.

Faith blinks twice, staring at her once mentor.

Striker: (signing) No need to hide this anymore, I think.

Faith: (signing) When… when did you learn?

Striker: I started taking signing class after we began… fighting.

Faith worked hard to conceal a wry smile of amusement – Striker’s signing was rough, and he’d used the sign for 'fighting' in place of 'training' or 'sparring', but he seemed almost totally fluent. And he had no trouble understanding what she was saying, too. Faith hadn’t signed for a long time, but only because neither TyranT nor her guards had bothered to learn.

Faith: Why?

Striker: Because I wanted to talk with you better.

Faith: Why didn’t you tell me this when we trained?

Striker: It was going to be a surprise.

Faith: You idiot.

Striker: Faith, I owe you. If you ever considered me to be a father, I let you down. Big time. And right here, right now, there isn’t much I can do to fix that. I don’t even know if you still want anything to do with me. And that’s fine, I don’t want to push myself into your life. But you have to know that I think myself to be in your debt, and one day I will find a way to make it better. You have my word.

Faith could only smile, still amused by Striker’s knowledge of sign language. He looked hopeful, and he seemed honest. Men like that had hurt her before, though. Faith had seen this look on his face when they’d trained.

Faith: I haven’t forgiven you.

Striker: I didn’t expect you would.

Faith: Then for now I’ll hold you to that. But you hurt me once, Striker. Badly. I’m still more your enemy than your friend. If you don’t find a way to make amends, I will come back for you. And I will show you the meaning of ‘hurt’. Are we clear?

Striker: Very.

Faith: Good. I have a question for you.

Striker: Go ahead.

Faith: Of all of these debts you spoke about – you could have dealt with any of them first. Why come to me? Why not your family, or Leon – or Drew?

Skyler’s eyes darted up at that, and he stared right into Faith’s. Faith knew it was a cruel blow to sign Drew’s name in the manner that she had, but any pain that Striker felt was fully intentional on her part. He couldn’t get off completely scot free this evening.

Striker: That was uncalled for.

Faith: It wasn't completely undeserved. Answer my question.

Striker: I… I came to you because… because of what you called me. The day you called me ‘dad’ is one I’ll never forget, for good and bad reasons. Fixing things with you – with a… daughter… is important, but it might help me with my biggest debt.

It was only then, looking into Skyler Striker’s eyes, that Faith saw what he was most concerned about.

Faith: … Jade.

Faith looked one more time into Striker’s eyes and then turned, exiting through the doorway in silence.

Some things are better left unsigned.

Striker watched Faith leave. He was determined to find a way to begin repaying his debts, and Faith was one of his biggest concerns. As he listened to the rumble of wheels on gravel outside, Striker looked around the gym one more time. Having been focused on getting his sign language right, it occurred to Skyler that the room had been silent for a good five or ten minutes now. Although he couldn’t smile yet, Skyler knew that he’d made a step forward today, and in more ways than one. He wondered whether he should have told Faith about Jade, but Faith’s biggest concern was herself – bringing up Jade would have only complicated things.

Some things are better left unsaid.

Keita: You are on the periphery, watching. Unable to do anything, darting from place to place. I imagine you are trying to avoid this conflict, although you still wish to know what is happening. So what I want to know is this: Why are you hiding?

Striker: I… I don’t know.

Keita: Jade. What are you afraid of?

Striker: That the wounded man… is fighting a battle he may not be able to win.

The scene opens to Damien exiting Robert's basement. As he closes the door, he drops the enchanted blade the old man had given him, finding it useless to him now that the torture is done. He walks into Robert's den and takes a seat in a large, soft brown chair and puts his head in his hands.

He can feel them struggling within his mind; his demons, the dark parts of him that once dominated his life and made him kill and hurt anyone he disapproved of. His "crimes" stretch from Texas to Nova Scotia. An Austin man found hung in his basement, beaten and mutilated for having abused his young daughter. A woman in Oklahoma drowned in her bathtub after she'd done the same to her young son. A group of fugitive Klansmen hiding out in Halifax, sliced up for reasons the police still haven't figured out.

Damien caged up his inner demons not long after he left FMW last time and vowed to never let them out again. But, even though the thing he had just finished torturing ruthlessly is far from human, his demons still feel closer than they have in some time.

"Damien," says Robert as he enters the room. "Are you alright?"

Damien ignores the old man and sinks into his mind to confront his inner demons. The landscape in Damien's mind is desolate, parts burning eternally, but controlled, parts in various stages of rot and decay. Seven cages surround him in a perfect circle, each with a creature within them, pulling and banging on the bars, desperate to finally be free of their prisons. Suddenly, sensing their captor's presence, they cease their clamoring and turn to face him.

A foul breeze passes over Damien as his demons focus on him. The demon directly in front of him, a giant, red, muscle-bound brute with the word "WRATH" carved all,over his body in various languages, smiles, showing off his pointed teeth.

"Well," it says, its voice deep and guttural, "if it isn't our dear friend Damien, brothers. Come to visit us, have you?"

Damien turns to look at each of the monsters within the cages. Each one has a word carved into its flesh in various languages.

Avarice.

Lust.

Pride.

Gluttony.

Envy.

Sloth.

Damien turns back to Wrath and glares at him.

"Listen up, fuckers," he snarls. "This is my head, my mind. I'm tired of you all tryin' to claw your way out and back in control of me. You're lucky I didn't just destroy you all."

Wrath laughs menacingly.

"You can't destroy impulses, Damien. Especially not us."

"We are not just simple ideas," says Pride, a slight smirk on his face. "You're a sin-eater. You have the power to see the darkness in other's. . . And punish them for it!"

"Pretty fucked up, huh," remarks Avarice with a deep chuckle.

"I don't want it," Damien says through gritted teeth. "I don't want this curse. I shouldn't have to deal with this bullshit."

"It's not a curse," shouts Greed, pressing his face against the bars of the cage. "It is a gift! It can bring,us everything we want! And more!"

Damien and all of the other sins turn toward Greed in disgust.

"Shut the fuck up," snarls Damien, and Greed shrinks back into its cage.

"You have us all caged up like rabid dogs," Pride says, "Yet you still tap into us constantly. Wrath and myself in particular."

"Indeed," growls Wrath. "You fancy yourself some sort of fucking bad ass, but in the end, you're shit without us."

Damien suddenly reaches into Wrath's cage and grabs the beast by its throat and squeezes hard. The anger shows on Damien's face, but the demon just smiles.

"You tap into him even now, Damien," Pride says for his comerade. "Even attacking him, he exerts his influence upon you. You are nothing without Pride and Wrath."

Damien reluctantly releases Wrath and turns to face Pride.

"Bullshit. Gray 'n me won the Tag Titles while you were both trapped here. Explain that, asshole."

Pride's smile becomes predatory in nature as Wrath chuckles within his cage.

"You didn't. We may not be rampaging around in here anymore, but we are still as much a part of you as we ever were. I am the force behind every punch you throw, the fuel of every spell you've used of late."

"And don't think we haven't noticed the way you refer to yourself and your partner. The greatest tag team in the world? You always were a proud man."

Damien looks back and forth between Pride and Wrath as they speak, unable to refute their claims. The demons turn their noses up at him.

"Alright," says Damien, admitting a modicum of defeat. "So, what's you're point? Either way, your asses are still trapped in these cages."

"Indeed. That is something we wish to remedy."

"You need us, Damien. Whether you know it or not. Jack is right. You need to be the ruthless motherfucker you once were, and we can help you with that."

"I don't need your fuckin' help," Damien growls closing his eyes to leave.

Before Damien can disappear back into the real world, Pride frantically searches for the key to their release, and realizes what he'd missed.

"You'll never get David back without us! Joseph will smite you down if you try!"

Damien opens his eyes and looks back and forth between Wrath and Pride.

"How can you help? You're just impulses. Worthless. You've only ever caused me problems."

"We helped you do what was necessary," roars Wrath. "When you were still destroying people with Gabriel, we made it possible to exact vengeance on those that deserved it. We helped you save Jess from those fucking red necks!"

"And I won the Tag belts with Gray after I trapped you here."

"And you've lost everything else!"

Damien lowers his head and breathes in deeply, trying to think of an arguement. Unfortunately, none comes to mind.

"Alright," he says, dejected. "I'll let you two out. But. . . on my terms."

Damien's hands suddenly burst into flames, and he smirks evilly.

"Hold out your hands, Wrath."

Wrath reluctantly extends his arms out beyond the bars, and Damien grabs him by his wrists. The demon hollers in pain as shackles of flame materialise where the wizard's hands touch. Damien releases him and the cage disappears.

"That'll keep you from thinkin' you can gain control again."

Damien turns toward Pride's cage. The slim demon, almost human in appearance, looks on in fear as his comerade falls to his knees.

"Your turn," says Damien, as he slowly approaches the cage.


Damien's eyes snap back open to reality. He's still smirking, and he feels better than he has in a while. He stretches as if he's just awoken from a deep sleep and stands.

Robert, sitting at his bar, takes a sip from a glass of brandy and watches Damien. He senses a change in his student, not necessarily for the better.

"What did you do, boy," he asks, concern coloring his voice.

"Came to terms with one or two things," Damien replies, smiling wide now. "Things I'm gonna need to get David back. And this time, Joseph's gonna get his. I've got a plan."

Robert stares at Damien, bewildered at his sudden attitude change.

"What did the abomination downstairs tell you?"

"Bunch'a bullshit, mostly. Something about a Great Old One. He says I'll find Joseph in Innsmouth."

". . . Innsmouth. You're sure that's what it said?"

"Positive," Damien says, raising an eyebrow. "Piece of shit was screamin' it by the time I finished. I thought Innsmouth was a fictional place."

"It is, in our world."

Damien shakes his head.

"I know that since you're an avatar of a god, and all this cryptic shit is normal for you, but it's pissin' me off. Now, explain."

"It isn't that simple," says Robert, taking another sip of his brandy. "There are many worlds . . . parallel to ours. Some are only slightly different, while others would seem completely alien. Lovecraft's stories may be fiction here, but in another world, they're reality."

"Fuckin' multiverse theory," quips Damien, rolling his eyes. "Next thing you know, my antimatter counterpart'll turn up to try n' kill me."

"Anyway," says Robert, ignoring Damien's sarcasm, "if Joseph is based there, he's planning something big."

"Well, fuck. Can we even get there?"

"This house can appear where ever I want. Even another dimension."

"Show-off," says Damien with a roll of his eyes.


Damien walks through the Pavilion Center with a big smile on his face. His fellow competitors and other FMW employees give him plenty of room, his sudden new attitude unnerving to them. Ignoring them all, he walks into his locker room and tosses his bag onto the ground. He finds his tag-team partner, Nicholas Gray, digging through his bag, half-way shoved into his locker, and, as always, wearing his fedora. Gray turns from his locker to look at his partner. He studies Damien for a moment as he approaches. After a second, Damien pats Gray on the shoulder

"Nick," he says, smiling unnaturally compared to the norm. "What's up?"

Suddenly, Gray jumps away from his partner. He grabs a steel chair lain against the wall and brandishes it threateningly at Damien.

"Don't touch me, pod person! What the hell did you do with the real Damien?"

"Uh, what," Damien says, raising an eye brow at his buddy.

"Don't bullshit me. The real Damien doesn't smile."

"He does now."

Gray holds onto the chair for a moment, before shaking his head and dropping it.

"You scared me there for a second. Why the suddenly sunny disposition?"

"Not sure," Damien lies with a shrug. "All I know is I feel up to my old self again. I haven't felt this good about myself since. . . well, since Danse Macabre."

"Danse Macabre," Gray repeats with a raised eyebrow. "Oh, yeah. Back when you were Scorpio's little bitch. And you powerbombed me through a table."

"How many times do I gotta apologize for that?"

"None. I just like messing with you over it."

Damien shakes his head slowly, still smirking.

"All I know," Gray continues, "is that if you're more in touch now with the ruthless s.o.b. you were back then, but still the great wrestler you are now, our opponents are all in for some extreme pain.

"Speaking of which, we need to talk about this match tonight."

"What about it?"

Gray fixes Damien with a stern look.

"I don't know what your thing with Eastwood is, whether you're friends, associates, or magical adventure buddies or what ever. But it can not be a factor tonight. Even if you consider him a friend, you have to admit the Pack does not deserve a shot at us.

"You were the one who first claimed you wanted to bring meaning back to the Tag Team Championship. Too many teams have disgraced it; HavOc, the Cancer, the Together Demons. After all of their accumulated dishonor they brought on the belts, we have to give them their meaning back. And Eastwood and Prideman are just a road block in our way. We need to decisivlely knock them down."

"Couldn't agree more," says Damien. "In fact, I've got a plan. I think it'll make our point to 'em really easily." Damien begins to grin sadistically. "I say we test out Skullcrusher Mountain on both of 'em."

Gray's eyes go wide once Damien finishes.

"Wow," he says with a bit of a smile. "And you're Eastwood's friend? I'd hate to find out what you'd want to do to someone you don't like."

"Ain't like me n' Jack are best god damn buddies. And in any case, he just sees me as a means to an end, just like his little Pack. So, I need to show him he can't use me like he does Prideman and Rotunda."

"Well, works for me," says Gray.

He walks over to his locker and retrives his championship belt.

"Now, I'm gooing to get ready. See you later."

Gray swings the title onto his shoulder and turns to walk away. As he reaches the door, he turns back to Damien.

"By the way," he says. "Whatever the reason, it is goid ti see you smile."

Gray taps his temple twice with his index and middle finger, then points them at Damien and simultaneously winks and clicks his tongue to "fire". He them turns and leaves the room.

Damien walks over to his locker and starts putting his bag im before he hears a familiar voice behind him.

"You lied to your best friend. That's pretty fucked up."

Damien turns around to find Eliza sitting on a bench behind him. She stares at him thoughtfully.

"If he knew why I was acting this way, he might've freaked out and this ain't the time for that."

"Still," she says with a sigh. "You should tell him."

"Later," says Damien quietly. "For now, we need to focus on the Pack, or we'll lose the belts."

Damien looks at her, still unsure if this real or just a figment of his insane mind.

Eliza stands and hugs Damien.

"I'm real," she says, as if she is reading his mind. "As real as the gods will allow me to be."

Damien slowly embraces her, smiling at being able to hold Eliza once more.

"The gods?"

"Yes. They've sent me to make sure you follow the right path."

She looks up at him slowly and smiles gently.

"And now you need me more than ever."

She pulls him into a kiss that ferls more real than he has ever felt. As the two of them hold each other tightly, the scene fades.

I'm barely aware of things as Hippy tries to walk me to the car, me collapsing repeatedly as I go in and out of consciousness. I go out again as he's pushing me into the backseat, and I only kind of register the car moving, and later stopping. The comedy routine begins again as he helps me into the house, me collapsing repeatedly again, like this was a gag we'd spent weeks planning. It's bad comedy.

Faintly I can make out another voice, female, going from annoyance to shock and worry as she realizes who he's carrying, and then someone else is helping me walk, and they manage to drop me down onto something soft without more problems, as I go out again.

I don't know how long passes before I come back again. It's not like they keep a calender next to the couch specifically so I can know how long I've been unconscious.

Though, with the amount of times I've found myself here, they might as well.

The living room that never changes. Every time I end up here I find myself in the exact same room. Slightly knackered yellow couch, green walls, coffee table with the same novels on it, flat screen to the side. Same pillow under my head, and same handmade quilt over me to keep me warm as I try to battle my way back to consciousness. For someone as obsessed with chi as Hippy, he never rearranges things. Coming back into this room is always like taking a step back to the past, when I first arrived in the city...when I still had my power...

My thoughts are broken by Hippy walking into the room, smile on his face that tries to hide how worried he is and failing. He waves, realizing a moment too late how futile a gesture it is when I likely can't raise my arm to respond. It takes me a second to move my mouth, that little movement sending jabs of pain radiating out into my head and leaving little spots floating in my vision.

Gray: How...long...?

Hippy: It's been..about five days? It's Saturday now.

Gray: Rafael...?

Hippy: Well...the news is reporting him as missing, believed dead...

Gray: By me?

He nods. Not surprising, of course it'd make me public enemy number 1 in the public eye. So if I heal up, I won't be able to leave the house without being chased by a mob.

Gray: Shit...how bad's my body?

He reaches over, grabbing an edge of the quilt and pulling it up, careful not to touch my body in an attempt to save me some pain. I'm reminded of any number of mummy movies, my torso wrapped multiple times in white bandages, some of which blotted with red stains from whatever injury they cover. Smaller bandages are applied to cuts, and what flesh is visible is tinted in various shades of violent purple.

Gray: I was...wearing a shirt when I came here...

Hippy: I knew you'd reject going to a hospital, so I had to check you myself.

I look down again, but beyond my chest slowly rising and falling.

Gray: Better have kept my pants on.

Hippy sighs, shaking his head. You know, people use to find me funny. Well, one person, but...

No, Christ, I don't need to be going down that hole too. I won't get out.

Hippy: I only looked at your torso injuries, though your right leg's royally broken. You're not in good shape. Most of your ribs are at least cracked, if not outright broken. One was even poking through, so I had to...push it back in, and bandage it up. I think your collarbone might be broken, your sternum is at best bruised, and I was worried your lung might have been punctured buuuut that seems okay, probably bruised though, and it's not the only organ that is, and that's not talking about all the surface damage to your body. You left a lot of blood back on that road...and in my backseat.

Gray: Your backseat...can go fuck itself.

Hippy: I don't think it can, it doesn't have any genitals...

Hippy. Knowledge of a thousand skills, master of none.

Hippy: Well, I THINK your healing will be able to fix you up if everything's kept clean, bandaged, and set...Nicholas, what happened?

Gray: ...I was an idiot, I rushed in...got ripped apart.

Hippy: A strong one?

Gray: One of Them.

His eyes widen, he might be incompetent but he knows what that means.

Hippy: If that's the case, then we need to move you! If they find you here then they'll-

Gray: Shut up. It...won't. It knows I can't get back at it...so it just has to wait for me to die.

Hippy: Why would it wait? You could heal up and take it on again.

Gray: No...I can't.

Hippy: Huh?

Gray: It took...the disc....I can't transform.

A silence falls over the room as Hippy stares at me, trying to process it. I don't blame him. The entirety of our partnership is built on my transforming. He finally breaks the silence, his normal fast tone that shined through even when worried or sad now slow, carefully choosing words.

Hippy: Then...what do we do now?

I settle back, looking up at the ceiling so I don't have to look him in the eye. This is my fault. My fuck up. I finally answer, as I drift off again.

Gray: I...don't know....


It's a few days later when she finally decides to come out and greet me. A redhead with glasses, she's cute enough I guess, but the resemblance is there enough to be nope. Bowl of some liquid in her hands, Hippy's little sister sits on the table next to me.

Sally: And how is our esteemed patient today?

Gray: My everything's broken.

Sally: Everything? Are you sure?

Gray: Feels like it.

Sally: Wow. It'd be a shame if some parts of you were broken.

She leans in with a grin.

Sally: I can check those for you though, if you want.

I don't think it was Hippy I needed to worry about taking my pants off while I was out.

She takes one look at my expression and leans back, laughing. Business as usual.

Sally: I heated some soup up that was in the cabinet. Couldn't tell you what it was supposed to be.

Gray: Better than what your brother calls edible.

Sally: Now see, that's not cool. He dragged your butt here after you apparently got hit by a bulldozer. The least you could do is pretend anything he makes won't kill you.

Gray: But isn't lying to him just as bad?

Sally: Not when it improves his mood.

Gray: His mood isn't important.

Sally: And that's the bad kind of lying.

Gray: Tch...haven't we done this bit before?

Sally: And you enjoy it just as much as the other times.

Gray: As much as I enjoyed hitting the bulldozer.

She laughs again, standing back up with the bowl still in hand.

Sally: So I guess you're not interested in the soup?

Gray: Not especially, no.

Sally: Oh well, I expected so.

Gray: Then why walk over here at all?

She smiles.

Sally: We're seeing how long we can make you forget you're in pain. I'm in the lead.

I blink, looking at the doorway to see Hippy watching with a smile on his face. Stupid game, one I should have expected from them. But, she was right, I didn't even realize I was in pain while going through the old bit with her. I look up as she goes into the kitchen and starts to have a conversation with him. Can't help but let a bit of a smile come on.

Suddenly I think of what will happen if my injuries don't heal, of them both being crushed by Them. I frown, as the pain makes it's way back to the forefront of my mind.


He's taunting me.

After repeatedly refusing to, I finally forced Hippy to grab the remote and turn the evening news on for me. Top of the hour, start of the program, and they're talking about me. Aren't I special? 'Update on Dangerous Fugitive' the banner below the talking head lady says. It cuts to it, the beast in chief's clothing, in front of one of those podiums that for some reason have an unsightly amount of microphones crammed on it, like someone took having a backup mic too far.

Looking at him now, I can see what others won't notice about it. It's gotten pale, fake white flesh clinging to cheekbones, jaw, eyesockets. Everyone else would write it off as his health suffering due to the chase. I can see what it is. It hasn't eaten. Curious. I wonder why.

Chief Behemoth: At this time we still urge all citizens to, if they see this man, to immediately call the authorities. Do not try to apprehend or restrain on your own, this man is incredibly dangerous. He has already taken the lives of three distinguished officers, along with our sheriff, who was literally torn to bits by this animal of a man.

Three officers? One is Rafael, so the other two would be...those two pricks I had caught and interrogated. God damn it. I had assumed that when I left them rolling to the police station that the sheriff was the guy, and that it would have ended there. Instead two more guys, pricks though they were, they didn't deserve to be killed. More failure.

It looks into the camera, but I get a feeling in me that it's not the camera he's looking at, but beyond the camera, through the television, directly at me. A shiver runs down my spine.

Chief Behemoth: However, police officers should feel at ease. I know for a fact that, due to recent events, this dangerous fugitive has been injured and has lost his weapon. Thus, he is far less dangerous than before. Indeed, due to the aforementioned events, it is my opinion that we vastly overestimated his intelligence!

The crowd of reporters half laughs, half cheers as it just stands there soaking it up. Hippy grabs the remote again and shuts it off, but it's too late, it's message got through.

Hippy: Nicholas, don't worry. We're gonna get you fixed up, and then we'll figure out what to do to get your disc back, and then you ca-

Gray: No, no...he's right.

Hippy: What?

Gray: I was foolish....ran into the fight without thinking, and rightfully got...beaten down. I was incompetent.

Hippy: Nicholas....

I raise my hand enough for him to register it and weakly wave it, telling him to go. He looks at me, and sighs, shaking his head as he walks out. He doesn't want to admit it but it's the truth. I should have put thought into it before I decided to just ride head-first at it. Taken even a second to sense that it was one of Them, and taken a moment to actually think of a plan. Because I didn't, there's blood on my hands.

I look up at the ceiling, thoughts drifting between those I knew, that would soon be ground to dust because of me as I drift off again.

Gray: My...fault...


I'm not healing.

It's taken me a while to realize. The pain I expected to remain bad, and I hadn't seen my torso since the first week. Hippy changes my bandages and all while I'm asleep, I guess to try and spare me any additional pain he might cause. This time, I told him to do it while I was awake, because I wanted to see how it was doing. As he took the bandages off, I could see.

It hadn't changed.

A few of the cuts were closing up a bit, but everything looked the same as it did three weeks ago. He doesn't meet my eyes when I look up at him, and I realize he had come to this conclusion earlier than I did.

Gray: You should have told me.

Hippy: I didn't know how to say it...

Gray: “Your wounds aren't healing.” There, you're welcome.

Hippy: Now isn't the time for sarcasm...I don't understand why you're not healing.

Gray: Because it doesn't want me to. It's easier if I just bleed out and die.

Hippy: Oh no...

Gray: ...it's fine.

Hippy: What?

Gray: I'm getting what I deserve.

Hippy: Nicholas...

He sits on the table, looking down at me with worry.

Gray: Because of me, people are dead. Because I was an idiot, more will be dead when I'm gone. I'm getting what I deserve.

He starts to say something, but I raise my hand and wave him off again. His mouth tightens into a line, suddenly looking on the verge of anger.

Gray: Go. I'll be out of your way soon enough.

Hippy: Listen...

Gray: I said go!

He slams his fist against the table, standing up. Shaking slightly and looking down at me in anger. I can see it well up in him, paragraphs of anger ready to flow from his mouth, to let loose at me. But he doesn't. Instead, he shakes his head and starts to walk to the door to the kitchen. He stops at the door and looks at me, opting instead to use far fewer, but much more painful words.

Hippy: You're starting to remind me of the you I first met.

And then he's through the door and gone, leaving me alone, staring at the ceiling.

The me from then?

I remember him, and how whenever I think of him I'm filled with disgust and disappointment, knowing how close I came to staying in that dark side if it wasn't for that idiot in pink and his sister.

But I've put so much distance between the me of then and the me of now, haven't I?

A life devoted to helping those who cry out for it. So many people who, when they think of me, think of me with gratitude and happiness. Not the old me, who only inspired anger and fear in others. Countless people I've snatched from the brink of despair, clawing and fighting for them because no one else would.

But with one loss I immediately revert to the me of then?

Was my identity so tied to the disc, that without it I can't even help myself, let alone those who are counting on me? Of all the people I helped, only a handful did I help with the disc. The rest I helped by myself. With my own hands, without armor or a staff. Why can't I help myself now, without them?

I feel something rise within me. Not anger, or disgust, but something else. Something that tells me, that I should remember those I helped. To find strength from my memories of their gratitude. The strength to overcome.

I look up at the ceiling and make a promise.

I will not lose.


My ribs are cracking.

Hippy pushes open the front door with his foot, his arms occupied with a plethora of grocery bags. He drops them at the door as he realizes Gray isn't on the couch anymore. He walks forward, and sees him on the floor. He's laying, hands behind his head with his knees bent up in a situp position. He sits up, twisting his body as he comes up until his arm is resting over his knee, his face twisting into a grimace as he falls back, and then sitting up again to repeat it, twisting the other way.

Hippy: Nicholas, what are you doing?

Gray: It's...18...called....19...workin' out...20....

Hippy: I know that! But you're in no condition to be doing any kind of exercise!

Gray: 23...yep...24...that's the...25...point.

Hippy: You could aggravate your injuries!

Gray: Yep! 26...also the point!

Hippy: What?

He sits up again, this time holding the position, making him wince as he replies.

Gray: We've established...I'm not healing. So, the plan is...let my body know that it's either...gonna start healing, or I'll break myself.

Hippy: That is ridiculous!

He shrugs and drops back down, continuing the routine, Hippy watching in fascination. Suddenly, as he sits up, there's an audible crack from his midsection, making him drop back down.

Hippy: Nicholas!

He rushes over, kneeling down to check on him. He's surprised to see Gray smiling.

Hippy: I told you! I think that might have been a rib cracking!

Gray: No...that was a rib going back into place.

Hippy blinks, and presses a hand to Gray's side. Where one of the ribs had been pushing out before, it now feels like it's slotted back into place, though the rest are still cracked. He stares for a moment, then shakes his head.

Hippy: You idiot.

Gray: Yeah....hey, tell me.

Hippy: Hm?

Gray: ...would the me from before do something like this?

Despite being worried as hell, he cracks a smile at me.

Hippy: No. No he would not do that. That's a stupid that's exclusively of the you of now.

With that I can't help but smile back, even with the pain.


It finally cracked before I did.

I got Hippy to turn the news on for me again as the evening news came on. It didn't even bother with the talking head lady this time, instead going straight to it's home. It looks worse than before, the fake skin taking on a kind of translucent quality, sticking hard to the bone beneath. Like someone who hadn't eaten in six weeks. I can guess what it was waiting to eat now.

Chief Behemoth: In the interest of the public, I have decided to offer Nicholas Gray the chance to turn himself in personally to me tonight. I am advising all citizens to remain in their homes for tonight, as I open my home to him. My subordinates have expressed immense concern over my plan to do this, but I am certain that this will convince him to turn himself in.

Once again he looks through the camera, into me.

Chief Behemoth: He is as tired of this game as I am.

He's right.

Hippy grabs the remote and turns it off, and when he looks at me his frown deepens. He knows I'm going to go.

Hippy: Nicholas...

Gray: Don't. This is my best chance to get him alone.

Hippy: To try and get the disc back?

Gray: That's the idea, basically.

Hippy: You said he was strong though.

Gray: Yeah...having an idea about that. Did you get anything from my office?

He nods, looking over at a closet. I slowly stand up, unsteady on my feet but able to move, and walk over to it. I open the door and find a few of my suits, and a sealed box marked 'important.'

Hippy: I saw that one and thought you'd want it. And of course you'd want your suits.

I grab one of them, and start to pull the shirt on. It's a bit difficult to button it, so Hippy reaches over and buttons it up for me, and helps me into the jacket. I grab the box and slit through the tape, peering in. Just where I left them. As quickly as I can with my injuries I slip them into my pockets before Hippy can see them and realize what he brought into his house and suffer a panic attack. Then I slide the other parts of the plan into my waistband, which Hippy does see, but doesn't say anything. I toss the box back into the closet and turn to the door, starting to limp to it. I stop, and look back at him.

Gray: And Hippy? ...thanks.

He grins, bringing his hand up with a peace sign, looking at me through it.

Hippy: Not the first time I've had to help you out of a rut!

I catch myself before I can say “and it won't be the last.” I don't want him thinking I need him. I grab Sally's car keys off the table and start to limp out the door. I shouldn't have to worry about someone recognizing me and calling me in. Everyone's going to be home behind locked doors. Can't blame them. After all, there's suppose to be some kind of horrible monster walking the streets.

After tonight there won't be.


Appropriately enough the dash informs me that it's just a few minutes past midnight as I pull up to the building. As expected there's no one on the streets. Unexpectedly though, no lights are on in the building. Would they really hide a trap underneath what was clearly a trap? Trap-ception?

Yeah, I have to be injured, I'm making inception jokes.

I close my eyes and open my senses, and I can feel the overwhelming force of it from inside. That's reassuring, I think.

I push past the door and start ascending stairs following my senses, my leg creaking from having to ascend. I reach the top floor, past a secretary's desk and into it's office. It's as dark as the rest of the building, and it's not here. But I can feel it, beyond the wall beside a bookshelf. I walk up to it and run my hand over the wall. I can feel it beyond the wall. But how do I get in? I look back at the bookshelf. Would it really be one of those? Someone's been watching old spy movies. Well, besides me.

My eyes scan over the books, and the obvious one stands out. Pride and Prejudice.

You've got to be fucking kidding.

I reach up, grabbing it and pulling back. It resists, sliding out slowly, as whatever it's attached to is pulled as well, which causes the wall to slowly slide to the side, opening up. At least if I die I can say I found a secret passage, that's kind of worth it, maybe?

I step in and have to bring a hand up to shield my eyes. Incredibly bright lights cover the ceiling, illuminating the entirety of the windowless room. Rather bare, with only a table and a chair to one side, and a desk with a computer at the other. When I look behind me though, I see the main attraction of the room. Two, what are those pods? Stand side to side in the back of the room. Not much in the way of fancyness, they're filled with some kind of green liquid...and people. One holds Rafael, with Derek, the man I had been searching for when this started in the other.

Chief Behemoth: Admiring them?

Gray: ...what are these?

Chief Behemoth: Stasis pods, made by our “glorious” leader. Beings placed into them will enter a state of suspended animation until released. So do not worry, those two will be fine. Though, once you are dead they won't be required anymore and I imagine will be devoured.

Then I hope for their sake this works. I slide my hands into my pockets as I turn to face it.

Gray: Speaking of devouring...you don't look so good.

Chief Behemoth: I have not eaten in several weeks. Waiting for the ultimate meal.

Gray: Krystal's?

Chief Behemoth: You. Even with your transformation taken from you, you should be filled with enough residual energy to power to the heavens.

Gray: If you can take it.

Chief Behemoth: Hah! You cannot transform, your power is taken from you. How can you hope to break through the power of my pride?

Gray: Banking on your human form being vulnerable.

His eyes widen a bit as I yank the pins out, them dropping from my pockets as I pull the grenades out and toss them. I quickly hit the desk and flip it over as cover and though I wish I could say it was a Bruce Willis type flip and duck, it was just me stumbling from trying to run and hitting the desk. Still it protects me as the grenades go off in it's face. I had a choice between taking the offered grenades or demanding cash from a guy who was already in debt. I took the grenades, of course, because they're fucking grenades and you never know when you might need those.

I pull myself up from the desk, finding a cloud of dust had been thrown up by the booms, but I can make out a leg still standing, so I pull the pistols from my waistband and fire. I go through the entire magazines before stopping. The dust is still floating, but I can open my senses and I can't feel it anymore. That actually worked. Not bad for a stupid plan.

I drop the guns and turn to walk to the pods, to see how to free them, when I hear a growl behind me, and a sudden flare in my senses. I turn to find it, transformed, charging at me. I try to throw a punch, but it grabs my fist, yanking my arm to the side painfully and slamming it's knee into my gut. I double over, my breath suddenly disappeared and pain from my inside rupturing. It takes hold of my arm again and flips me head over heels onto the floor, slamming it's foot onto my chest as I yell out in pain.

Chief Behemoth: You idiot!

It's foot leaves my chest. Not like it has to worry about me suddenly springing up, I don't think my heart would take it.

Chief Behemoth: With all that power you held, you chose to help these humans, these lesser beings!

♫"Through the pain and the hardships..."♫

It throws a hard kick to my side, and I think that leaves all of my ribs broken. The kick leaves me face down on the floor, hacking up blood, each cough making my ribs stab around in me.

Chief Behemoth: Had you only remained with us, you could have ruled over these pitiful creatures.

♫"Through the tears of the past..."♫

Gray: Never...

Chief Behemoth: And for what? The gratitude of a few of those lesser beings. Tell me. Now that you are beaten. Broken. Soon to be dead. Was it worth it?

Images flash through my head. Hippy, hand outstretched, smile on his face despite the bruises on his face from my fists, ready to accept me. Sally, looking up at me with joy, tears flowing as she realized someone had fought to save her. More people I helped. The confused and angry teenager I fought for to show demons can be defeated, the old man who couldn't find his way home, the little girl who realized she couldn't run away.

Her face, smiling at me without judgment, letting me know that there is a good man somewhere deep down in me.

♫"Never forget the promise made that fateful day..."♫

I cough, getting a knee under me and pulling myself to my feet. I stumble, but manage to stay standing as I stare it down. The feeling from before rising up from inside of me, filling me.

Gray: Without a doubt. Because what you call disgusting, foolish, beneath me...


Gray: Is what I take PRIDE in without question!

I can feel something slim wrap around my waist, locking in with a click. Looking down I find the belt, the center of it glowing a light blue, filling me with warmth. I understand. It's eyes widen as I slide one foot behind me, and yell. Something stupid, something foolish, something that feels right.

Gray: Emotion Change!

A black substance flows out from the the belt's buckle, covering Gray's body before solidifying into a light underarmor, allowing full ranger of movement and speed while providing a layer of protection. The overarmor is next, covering his torso, arms, and legs in heavy armor, all the same shade of light blue as the belt buckle, the chest plate getting an insignia of multiple rings in one another, like the belt buckle. On his hands gauntlets materialize, oversized and heavy, covering his fists entirely and extending a few inches outward from it. The helmet is last, materializing in one piece, brighter blue shining on the faceplate from where his eyes are. The power of his pride made manifest.


It stumbles back, shock apparent in it's eyes as it sputters, trying to make the words leave it's mouth.

Chief Behemoth: How is this possible?! I took the disc, and with it your transformation! This is impossible! ...what are you?

Gray: ...The Emotional Detective, Spectrum.

Something stupid, something foolish, something right.

It lets out a roar of anger, charging at Spectrum and throwing the first blow, which he parries with one hand and slams the other into it's chest, slamming the other after and beginning to slam left and rights into it's chest, thunderous booms sounding with each blow. He gives it a kick to the stomach, sending it stumbling backwards, coughing. It looks up in time to see him rearing his right arm back.

Gray: Pride Rocket!

He punches forward, the gauntlet on his hand flying off at it. It ducks at the last moment, the gauntlet veering upwards and back. It looks up to see Spectrum jump into the air, the gauntlet sliding back into place with a click as he slams his fist into the behemoth's head with a loud crack, sending it rolling backwards. It stumbles to it's feet, light blue fluid running from a crack in the side of it's head. It throws it's hands up and multiple concussive blasts go off at Spectrum's feet, throwing up a cloud of dust to obscure the battlefield.

For a moment there is silence, as the behemoth slowly starts to shake with laughter, believing it had put him down. However, a light begins to shine through the dust. The light soars into the air, and through the dust comes Spectrum, diving towards the behemoth fists first. The gauntlets fire, speeding into it's chest where they hit with dual small explosions, sending it stepping back, coughing light blue fluid, it's chest heavily cracked. The gauntlets reappear on Spectrum's hands as the belt buckle begins to glow bright, along with the gauntlets. The yell is let out.

Gray: PRIDEFUL SMASH!

He hits it fist-first, smashing through the behemoth, hitting the floor behind it and rolling to his feet, looking away from the behemoth as it slowly tries to bring it's hands up to the man-sized hole in it's chest. It looks up at the sky, stumbling backwards, realization coming.

Chief Behemoth: You...you knew....you would dare? To your...own...race....AAAARGH!

It collapses face-first, and explodes, leaving nothing but a glowing light blue cloud, which floats over to Spectrum and into his belt causing it to shine bright once more, before the light fades, taking the armor with it.

–

It stood, arms folded behind It's back, looking out the window at It's city. It could feel the brief rumble that It's “brother's” death had caused, like It was certain the rest of It's “family” would. For many, it would be a new feeling. The feeling of one of their own perishing. And the knowledge that would come with that. That they were not immortal, that that man could destroy them and end their existences. They would feel fear, and would likely act rashly, as youths were want to do.

Weaklings.

The behemoth had been one. It thought it's power would crush everything in it's path to perfection, including It. How convenient, then, that that man had removed it before It would have to raise It's hands against it. While that would have shown It's power and reminded the rest of them that It was their leader for a reason, it could foster problems later down the line that It simply did not have the time to bother with, as It's plans required It's attention at all times.

Such as the disc It held in It's hand.

It looked down at it, turning it over in It's hand, running a finger over the top of the old stone. It smiled.

Him: I'm quite proud that you proved me right and yourself wrong, Mr. Gray. Or should I say...

It crushed the disc in It's hand, feeling the useless trinket turn to dust in It's grip. Worthless, a hurdle on the road to his destiny that had to be removed. Having to sacrifice one of their own was worth it for what was gained. It let the dust drop to the floor. It had been worth it to keep his healing at a rate enough to keep him alive.

Him: Spectrum?

It started to laugh, loud and hard. Everything was moving as thought.

Exactly according to plan.

–

My body's suddenly hit with all the exertion it just did on top of the injuries it had already suffered, and I almost collapse, having to grab onto a desk to keep standing as I try to get my bearings back. I look back to where it had been standing before it exploded, and all that's left is some burn marks on the floor. Guess what I take pride in was stronger than what it took pride in.

My head stops spinning and I feel safe enough to push off the desk, my legs unsteady but standing, and I limp over to where Rafael and Derek is. At least the designer's nice enough to have a big button on the side of it, and I press Rafael's first. The liquid he's floating in slowly drains out to somewhere, and the door slides open, him falling out. I do my best to catch him, which is a bit awkward considering I think some of my organs legally count as liquid waste now. Still, we don't fall over as he comes to, slowly looking around the room in confusion.

Rafael: Gray? What the...I remember the chief was...behind me and then...

Gray: Yeah...long story.

Rafael: It got a good ending?

Gray: I thought it wasn't bad.

We limpwalk to Derek's pod thing, and I hit the button. With two of us there's no chance of collapse. He coughs as he comes to, staring at us like we're magically appearing spirits. We probably look the part at least.

Derek: Who...are you?

Gray: Your girlfriend's been missing you.

That alone is enough for him to trust us, which is good considering I'm too exhausted to tell the whole thing right now. We collectively hobble through the walldoor, down the stairs (that was fun), and out the door. As we reach the car, I realize the problem. I look at Derek, who looks like he's going to fall over from months of his body not moving at all, then look over at Rafael, who looks the same with an added bump to the head. And I already know I look like shit.

Gray: I don't think any of us are gonna be able to drive.

The other two shake their heads, and I sigh. Luckily, a solution to this is pretty easy to think of.

Gray: Well, it's the middle of the night...we might as well get some sleep in the car. Front seat, passenger, backseat...that's enough for three.

They both nod, sleep sounding like the best idea in the world even though they had been in stasis or whatever for weeks. Guess it wasn't very comfortable a rest.

Gray: Backseat's mine.

Neither argue, and we hobble over, pulling the passenger door open and we help Derek in, then move over to the driver's side. As I start to open the door, Rafael looks at me and smiles.

Rafael: Gray...thank you. I owe you one.

Gray: Don't say that. I'll make you pay it back plenty of times.

He laughs a bit, coughing right after from it, though he still smiles.

Rafael: I look forward to it.

I help him into the front seat and then open one of the backdoors, crawling onto the backseat and shutting it with my foot as I curl up with my head on my arm for a pillow. As we all start to drift off, I can't help but smile.

This is a life I can take pride in.

How am I supposed to feel?

Jonathon King, clad in one of his finest black suits, squirms uncomfortably on the hard church pew.

These people are all sad, most of them crying, but what am I supposed to do?

On the pulpit, the priest offers the Requiem Mass to a solemn crowd, his words covering the mass of black-clad listeners, echoing throughout the cathedral.

This is the man that haunts my nightmares, he ruined my life from day one.

The priest closes the book and calls for prayer, the entire chapel falling to their knees, King following suit.

I should be glad he's dead, he can't hurt me anymore from here.

The prayer ends and the congregation rises to their feet, lining up in the aisles.

Yet, he was still my father. He raised me, for better or worse, as well as he knew how
The line slowly inches forward as the crowd pays their respects to the departed.

I am the man I am today because of that asshole, every beating I took made me tougher. Every time he tried to crush my spirits I got more and more determined to prove him wrong.

King reaches the end of the casket.

I guess I could have done a lot worse.

The last person before him walks away, leaving King staring down at the face of his tormentor, his teacher, his father, the man who made his life hell. Slowly a small smile creeps over King's face.

King: Goodbye, Dad.


Sitting at his oversized desk, tucked away in the back room of his Manhatten penthouse, Jonathon King shuffles around some important-looking documents. Grabbing one, he presses a button on his phone and waits. After a few moments the phone rings, and King picks it up angrily.

King: What is the meaning of this? . . . . .. . No. I don't care. Get over here now.

The door to the room opens quickly and King leaps to his feet, grabbing the bo staff leaning against the wall. A short, stocky man slips in, either tired or lazy, a few days worth of stubble grows around his mouth and up his cheeks until it disappears beneath his bowler hat. The man flashes an insolent grin and starts to speak in a light British accent.

???: I'm already here, sonny.

King: Who gave you permission to come in here, Dorian?

Dorian: Since when have I needed permission? You might pay me, but you need me more than I need your cash. So wipe the stupid look off your face, drop the pride and let's get to work.

King: No! This is my-

Dorian cuts him off in mid-sentence, leaving King speechless.

Dorian: Thirteen million. You owe thirteen million fucking dollars, just over one to me, so drop the attitude, sit your ass down and shut the fuck up.

Shocked and embarrassed, King sits down in his chair.

Dorian: You owe just over twice what you make in a good year, do you know what that means?

King starts to answer, but Dorian cuts him off again.

Dorian: It means you can't pay it off! It means you'll go to jail! You're still living like you're on Daddy Carter's dime, but Daddy stopped paying for it months ago! You have nothing!

King: What do I do?

Dorian: You get lucky is what you do. Depending on whether or not your dear old Dad updated his will in the last eight months, him dying might be the best thing to ever happen to you.

King: How so?

Dorian: Your dad has a net worth of over thirty-five billion dollars. Fifteen of that is tied up in his shares of the company, ten are tied up in investments, banks, trust funds and the like, leaving ten billion dollars in liquid assets. You are his oldest child, and his eldest son, making you the de facto heir. A traditionalist like Carter would leave at least half of everything to his eldest son, so your money problems might have been taken care of. We'll know for certain at the will reading next week.

King: You're a very manipulative accountant, has anyone ever told you that?

Dorian: Dorian Alistar Reynolds is no mere accountant, kiddo. I'm the Grand Vizir, the Aide de Camp, the chief advisor and the brains behind the throne of your father's company. I'm the reason your family has as much money as it does, so you can kiss my ass, punk, because if I stop liking you, I can pull this whole house of cards toppling down.


Comments: 1

J-King: For those of you who don't feel like listening, here is the general idea.

• Smoochy Da Frog is a useless faggot who couldn't beat me on his best day.
  
• Blake Vendetta warrented a mention, but I was too lazy to actively insult him.
  
• Sharpedo King can kiss the smelliest ass in the arena
  
• Due to a slip of the tongue, Apostasy and Edible are apparently the same person, and he/they/it will be your next Full Metal Champion.

The funeral was held at the Balfair cemetery, and he didn't care why that particular one was chosen. The only thing he cared about was his little girl, who he currently watched disappear beneath the earth in a small coffin. The person he loved most stood the farthest from him, as if he was the reason everything happened. It wasn't his fault, wasn't their fault, but the blame did lay somewhere. He just had to find out where it rested at this point.

Leon couldn't look away from the small grave. He was the only person still there, standing in the same place he'd been after he got to say something over her previously in the funeral, where both the small immediate family and his colleagues of FMW paid their respect. He hadn't been able to cry then, but strangely now he could, and he refused to wipe them away. The tears would stain his cheeks with red streaks, and everyone would eventually know he cried. Everyone, except his angel.

He wanted to scream and yell his fury, but he couldn't. Instead, he fell to his knees, and his grief ran anew through him. A rustle at his side let him know that someone was there. His red tears still fell down his face as he glanced up at the unknown figure for a brief moment, and stared back down at the fresh grave.

Leon: What do you want?

The man was none other than Hannibal Frost, a gentleman who sought to continue his respect after the service in which he attended. Yet standing beside the grieving father he said nothing. There were strained lines on his face, where usually there wasn't any. Although there were no tears on his face, the hurt and grief were evident. Unlike Leon, he couldn't cry. He had no emotional outlet for his pain that couldn't cause pain or discomfort for others. He had to fight within himself to keep the stinging words back, a true gentleman.

He knelt down beside Leon, started to lay his hand on his shoulder, and then withdrew it. That's not what Leon wanted from him right now. He sighed, and read the words on the headstone.

Frost: I know what you're going through.

Leon: Do you?

Leon rhetorically asked, rocking back on his heels. He scrubbed a hand through his dark brown hair, a gradual frustration radiating from him. If only he knew where to start; what to look for. He had no clue who had done this, and it only infuriated him further.

Frost: I do.

Frost nodded with his words, answering the question even though Leon hadn't wanted him to. He felt the earth-shattering pain that his tag partner felt. He could feel the deep hole in his soul where Leon’s daughter belonged.

Frost: I may not be the most relatable guy to speak, but I have been hurt just as deeply and as much as you are now.

Leon: I don’t disagree, you always came across that way.

Leon would agree with Hannibal’s remark as he swallowed back the tears that burned the rims of his eyes. He took a deep breath, refusing to wipe the Leon away still. His legs shook with strain as he stood; he'd been away for days, and he hadn't eaten or feed in even longer. His body was barely moving, and it took considerable force for him to walk.

Frost grabbed Leon by his arm, just above his elbow. He knew that he'd been starving and depriving himself the necessities of life. His heart thumped hard within himself, hardening into more emotional pain as he stared into the grey eyes.

Frost: Love.

Frost whispered, slightly pausing on the rest of his words. He simply pulled Leon close, and wrapped his arms around the brittle and emotionally shaken body of his current stable member.

Leon said nothing, he wouldn't know what to say in return. His mind was struggling with his daughter's death, just as much as he wife Sarah probably was as she rested with friends back at home. Frost never considered his feelings through this. Of course, Frost almost seemed to have to; he was just like that. He was that person who didn't care much about anybody, except for a select few, and those people were the luckiest in the world.

Frost continued to hold Leon gingerly against him, an edge of weariness surrounding the both of them, as if they didn't know each other. He knew Leon felt hurt, and wished for the first time that he could encourage the man to fight on, to find the self belief that no-doubt resided in the man. And then a sudden relief as Leon' arms came up around him to return the embrace.

Leon: Love, how cruel it is, to intoxicate and to drown. How blinding it can be.

Leon’s words, this time, did not die there.

Leon: I loved you so much Joy. You had a life that wasn’t fully realised, a potential that was never seen. I miss that already, to see you grow, to see your giftings come to life. I miss you…

Leon pushed back, tilting his head while catching a glace from Hannibal as Hannibal returned his comment to Leon.

Frost: We all know you’ll miss her, probably forever…

He didn't continue, there was no reason to.

Leon: I...,

Leon coughed through his attempts to speak, and then sobbed, his soft tears landing on Joy's grave once more.

Leon: We'll never get to know who she would have been.

Frost shook firmly the weakened body of Leon as he slowly released his grip from his partner, allowing Leon’s body to be self-standing and self-supporting.

Frost: I know.

Hannibal spoke confidently, he could relate, though he’d never admit how.

Leon: I'll never see my little girl grow up, and become a woman. I'll never hear her laugh, and call my name again.

Leon's legs tried to collapse beneath him as he gasped for breath and cried harder. His tag partner, the only person who seemed strong enough to support him, would rest his hand on Leon’s shoulder, showing the level of sympathy that was needed. No doubt Leon would deal through this himself.

Combining the lust for answers and his unfailing love for his family he would push through. Though currently his dark brown hair was in a massive disarray, his face had twin red lines running down them, and his brown eyes were dull with grief and pain.

He didn't care though how silly the two of them looked. One grown man crying deeply for his loss with another being emotionally supportive, yet what Leon now began to care about, was how he could duplicate this back to his enemies.

How an eye for an eye could truly be dealt out.

Over silence a clip reel begins; highlights of John Derrick, starting with him climbing to the top of the virst Mt. Vesuvius. His hand just inches away from the torch, as his grip fails, an old, tired voice begins to almost croak over the pictures.

I wish I could be in that moment again, not to have a second chance, to pry success from my greatest shortcoming, but to be that man again because despite this being my most famous shortfall, it was the truth when I was at my greatest, because I knew that I was capable of doing this. I have been doing this in some form or another for what seems like my entire adult life. I have seen the absolute pinnacle, I know what it is like to get to the very top, I know what it is fail just because you weren't just enough better. Truth is, my legacy is secure and every time I come back all I seem to do is tarnish that sterling, all I'm doing is proving Steele right in the first place. That every failure now is just cementing that legacy, the true legacy, coming up short because I just couldn't bring it together.

Truth is, I'd gladly take that that image of my hand slipping a being the lasting memory of John Derrick, because that is a moment when I knew I had put every thing into that match, that I gave it my all. That isn't the case anymore, and that is what is killing me, not that I can seem to win a match any more, but that I don't have that much more to give, that as my life continues that I'm being left behind. That this profession that I love so much is leaving me behind, but because my passion is gone but that I just don't have anymore left to give.

Transition to a clip of John Derrick pining X in a three from the Ultraviolent title.

All of these moments, and all of these people, these relationships have shaped who I am, and more importantly, saved me from the worst aspects of my personality. I have loved doing this every moment, and every time I participate I do because I love it. The thought that I just can't do it anymore is killing me, because unlike most people that leave and fade away, I don't want to give it up, I want this so much it hurts. I want to live up to that man that image more than anything but time has a way... time crawl through your life like a cancer and steals things away from you, thing precious and inviolate, what you don't want to give up, somehow has given up on you.

Now, John Derrick stands in the ring, staring down Alex O'Rion in the midst of the War against the Original Sin

As I said, I feel the worst about what I have been putting out not because it isn't up to my own standards, but because it not up to yours. This place, Full Metal, has meant a lot to me, more than I have ever expressed, because it has allowed me to be the man that I have always wanted to be, because even at the hardest times I knew here that there was recognized in me, something great. That acknowledgment, is both a palliative and a potent narcotic, because it gets to the point where I feel I need it more than is healthy to. That's what's become worrying to me, is it just a selfish desire to feel like I have something great in me still, or is that greatness something that still deserves respect and a chance to be expressed.

Doc stands in the middle of the ring, as the beaten form of Eric Scorpio lies, and he hold the title aloft, tears streaming down his face.

There is a long breath in the voiceover, and a catch in his throat

Of course it is both, but to the first point, I need to make it to clear how much it has meant to me, to be here and to know that I was appreciated, by all of you listening. I said it saved me, and that wasn't an exaggeration, Full Metal has been bright spot in dark moments many times, and like I said, your acknowledgment is almost narcotic, at times when it seems like I'm a ghost walking through life and nothing I do matters, at least here, my effort, my personality and my words have weight and substance to them, and that is both comforting and intoxicating.

The flipside to this that I also believe that I have more left to give, not because I want to feel that old way again, or because I need the fix, but because there is something left in me to give and that is damnable frustration, because no matter how much leeway I'm given, all it seems to amount to is a rope to hang myself from. I don't know why, beyond the gross material reasons, the simple practicality of it that I'm flailing in every chance I'm given, or that all my efforts seem to create is just the dust of a memory of what I once was. It kills me even to contemplate that this is something that I have to leave behind. Because how do you live, leaving behind the best of yourself?

Abel Steel, and the rap of brass knuckles on spine, the shot holds on him lying prone in the ring.

How I am supposed to let go the one thing I knew in my heart that was special at? Am I just supposed to pretend like it was just some phase, a thing I did to pass time? I can't because that doesn't honor it, and it doesn't honor what it means to me to Doc. To be your Doc. Doc is all the best of me, wearing all the worst of me like bondage and chains, but unlike myself alone, Doc is able to free himself and aspire to something transcendent. As I review the things I've done and the people that touched, or contaminated, I feel pride, and I feel regret, for the things that didn't work out.

But as I stand on the precipice of the end and think on giving up the ghost, all it feels like bitter work left uncompleted. I want to be that man again, I want to arm myself, and cloth myself in the persona of John “Doc” Derrick, but time is stealing him away from me. More than being feeling like I've burnt out that last end of my talent, I feel outrage that at the idea that I don't have any more to give. I have to be able to summon that last chance to go out with rag of pride and dignity, not like a goddamned sad joke.

The question that still remains for me is do I have anything left, and as much it wrenches my heart to stare “no” in the face, the true angst, the real hurt is the idea that I don't know. I can't feel as though I have anything left on the table. I can't leave that behind, because more than leaving behind the glory and accolade, it would a betrayal to that man.

Crossfade, to another time, where Doc is lying bloodied and defeated, but this time to the very first Circus Maximus, as he fell from the very top.

To leave anything behind, would be shame that man, to shame that effort. I have failed before, but I always knew that there was more left give, more than I could show, but know I just don't know. I just don't know if anything is there anymore.

In the footage, as the paramedics rush to Doc's side, he begins to stir.

I always picked myself up. More than anything right now I wish I could tell you that no matter what I would try and pick myself up one last time but the truth is I have no idea what is in the tank any more. I want to tell all of you that I'm not giving up and that I will fight to the bitter end, but when all you fight against is your own lack of ability it becomes clear that there just might be no winning that one. There was a time when I knew that I could hold my own in any match, that I knew I always had a chance as long as I had the will and the desire.
Now I face the fact that will and desire are not always synonymous, that I may desire to be relevant in Full Metal but the truth is that time has rotted and corroded away my will. That stings, because worst of all, it could be true.

I wish I could muster up the triumphant finish, the brio and confidence like the last I spoke, you listened, but it would be hollow because the truth is, I just don't know. The best I can offer you is, I just don't know if the choice is my hands any more.

But if it is, I'd always choose Full Metal.

Always.

The final shot is Doc, struggling to sit up, refusing any help and standing to his feet. As he limps up the rampway, the shot fades on his back, bloodied, but still carried with pride.

Left foot, right foot.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Show up, fight your guts out.




Repetition is the key to the human existence. It gives us a level of comfort that we are in control of our destiny. If I show up, work hard and bust my guts for the job I will get rewarded. It is the only thing that keeps us from disintegrating into collective insanity.

I can understand the reasoning behind it. No man likes to address the fact that we are all insignificant in the greater scheme of everything. That our fate is more likely than not predetermined from the moment we are born into our insignificant lives.

By telling ourselves that we can change out destinies, that our path is determined by the choices we make we feel empowered. That there is a reason for what we do and our actions, be they good, evil or otherwise are justified because we are striving to achieve something.

It is a perfect summation of the careers of my two opponents. Doc will fight the good fight because he can make a difference. Alex will be a “loose cannon” because no one can control him. Their careers are destined to go down in FMW history with the greats.

They have both done it for so long that the freshness has worn away. The lustre of their souls has faded to nothing and they are mere shells of their former selves. Yet neither of them will ever change, despite the fact that a new attitude would likely lend a new lease of life to their increasingly more pathetic attempts to tarnish their legend.

Doing the same thing repeatedly and expecting a different result is the very definition of madness. Does that mean these two former legends have lost their minds? If repetition is the key the sanity of the human mind, does that mean as a race we are all completely insane?

We all know the answer, but few will ever acknowledge it.




What do you mean it’s not broken? I can barely move my hand.

Abel listened to the voice on the other end of the phone impatiently.

Bullshit. I’m coming ‘round to collect the scans myself. I’m going to get a second opinion

The response from the other end clearly was not one Abel wanted to hear as he exploded angrily at them.

Listen here you snot nosed little fuck. I’ve had more injuries than you’ve had hot dinners and I know what it feels like when something is broken and this wrist is bloody well broken.

Abel paused again as the person on the other end responded.

don’t try to fob me off mate. Are you going to send me my scans or am I going to come down there and get them?!?!

Whoever was on the other end of the phone tried to explain but the response from Abel was quick as he slammed the phone down hard.

FUCK!

Abel grabbed up his keys as he made his way for the door. His frustration had been building all morning through conversations with doctors.

Whoops!! I nearly forgot you my little friend!

Abel turned and grabbed up his Magic 8 Ball™ before slamming the door behind him.





Abel sat in his car outside the medical suite where he had his wrist scanned the day before. He looked down at his Magic 8 Ball™

Humph!!

Slamming his car door with a little more force than was necessary Abel stormed up the steps and threw open the front door.

Get me my test results.

The receptionist, a young thing of maybe 21 years stared back at him in shock, unable to get a word out.

NOW!!

Uh, uh, uh…. Y, y, your….. n, n…..

Abel gave his Magic 8 Ball™ a shake and peered down at the result, rolling his eyes a little in frustration at the answer.

My name is ABEL FUCKING STEELE!!!!

As the girl turned to look up his details a young doctor came out from the office down the hall to see what the commotion was all about. As he got to the corner and laid eyes on Abel he spun instantly on his heel and scurried away.

Unfortunately for him Abel saw him as his head came round the corner and he left the poor girl at the reception desk floundering in her files as he stormed after the young man.

Come back here!

The doctor slammed his office door and as Abel rounded the corner he could hear the click of a lock turning.

Open up you little shit!

Go away!

Came the muffled reply through the locked door.

I just want to finish our little conversation…

Go away or…. Or ….or, I’ll call the police!!

Abel didn’t bother to respond to the threat, instead shaking his Magic 8 Ball™ as he stood prowling outside the door.

Finally!!

Abel grabbed a fire extinguisher off the wall nearby and charged at the door, using the extinguisher as a battering ram.

The first charge knocked the door off its top hinge, leaving it leaning into the office far enough that Abel could see the doctor cowering in the corner, shaking like a crack addict.

WHERE ARE MY SCANS!!??

Abel yelled through the opening. The doctor did not respond, instead shrinking further into the corner as if he could disappear by making himself smaller.

Please, go away….

The second charge knocked the door completely of its hinges, splintering it up the middle as pieces of wood flew about the office.

Abel stepped calmly into the office and took a seat in the chair as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.

Now Doc, I have this unbelievable pain in the ass. It’s about 5 and a half foot and 190 pounds with its hair wet. What treatment would you recommend?

The doctor was rooted in his corner, unable to even look at Abel, let alone respond coherently.

Mr Steele….

It was the young girl from the reception desk, standing in the doorway. In her hand she held a large yellow envelope.

Your scans…

Abel jumped up out of his chair and grabbed them from her. Quickly he pulled them out of the envelope and placed them up against a light to look at.

Well fuck me!!!…… Whaddya know? It’s not broken!

Now Go!

Abel raised one eyebrow at the girl, daring her to challenge him.

She’s got a backbone.

Please.

And a brain.

Abel stood down from his position towering over her in the doorway. Abel spoke to her reassuringly as he moved back closer to the still cowering doctor.

Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you love. As for our learned friend here well…..

Abel glanced down at his Magic 8 Ball™.

It’s his lucky day!

With that Abel grabbed up his scans and stormed back out to his car leaving a waiting room of onlookers staring on in astonishment.





Did the scans come through okay?

Abel sat in his study, the scans stuck up on the wall in front of him, covering his favourite picture on the wall from his boxing days.

Yeh they came through alright.

Abel hesitated, playing with the phone cord in his hand before the pain of his injured hand forced him to stop.

So what do you think Doc?

It’s not good Abel.

But it’s not broken is it?

No, no it’s not broken Abel….

But…?

The voice on the other end paused momentarily before answering. Able braced himself, knowing it would only take a couple of weeks layoff to put him out of the FMC tournament race.

Do you remember Jim Brady from your boxing days Abel?

No, who the hell is Jim Br…..

Or Dave Phillips?

No….

Or Jesse Wheatley, or Aaron Sloane, or Matt McIntosh?

No, I don’t remember any of those names Doc. But I boxed with a lot of guys…

Of course you don’t….Never mind. Let’s just say I’ve seen damage to a wrist like this before plenty of times.

And?

Maybe you should look those guys up Abel




Get knocked down, get back up again.

Train harder, fight on

Push to your limits, then push a little bit further.

Everything about this business is predictable. Half the time I can predict who my next opponent will be, who will win and what is the likely outcome.

FMW is about as unpredictable as locking a fat kid in room full of donuts;

Or, throwing a couple of old hacks into the ring show after show.

Sure it’s humiliating for all involved, but at least we’re in control of the outcome. At least it’s safe…...

The Asylum, Two Weeks to Anarchy 15.3

Daniel Prideman was sat in his usual chair in front of the fire in The Asylum. He'd been sat there for an hour at least that day, and before that had spent weeks before. The dream he had had, it felt so real and yet so unnatural that he didn't dare believe if there was any truth. Things for him had been strange lately, losing more and more of his time and finding himself in a different location to where he could last remember. He took a deep breath in. The rancid smell of sick from Jack's last party still lingered. It burnt his nostrils in an insulting manner that someone had dared to throw up in his favourite room, let alone his chair. Jack Eastwood strode through the door with his usual musk of alcohol and cigarettes.

Prideman: Don't think I don't know you didn't really do this. Who the Hell are you covering for? Elephant? Snake? Rhino?

Eastwood shrugged his shoulders and gave Prideman a look of pure nonchalance.

Eastwood: I told you Prideman. I did it. I came in here, chucked my guts up and didn't clean it up. I'm Jack Eastwood, I do what the fuck I want. It's like you don't know that.

He understood that a petty argument was not needed, but something inside of him didn't feel like letting this go just yet.

Prideman: I've seen you drink. I've seen you be shot. None of it phases you. I know you didn't throw up. I'm just pissed off with the fact you always cover for someone else. Do you not know by now that you can trust me? I have followed you for so long, and trusted in you. Why the Hell don't you return the favour. Since joining FMW I haven't won a single match. Yeah, a lot of that was my fault, but I've been stepping up and YOU have let me down. What in the FUCK do you call last month? Eh? That wasn't me taking the fall now was it. No. SO just-

Eastwood: Shut your mouth you cretin. Listen up. I hear you, alright? But I came here to speak to you about a couple of things.

He was taken aback, almost hurt by Jack's level of harshness with him. The red mist had cleared now and with a load of his chest Prideman listened up.

Eastwood: Firstly, we're on Ammunition this cycle. We've got our match. Our platform. We're taking on Gray Inferno for the Tag Team Titles.

Prideman: Yes! Now we're talking Jack. They have been so arrogant recently. I can't wait to punch their teeth down their throats.

Eastwood laughs. He noticed a flicker in Prideman's eyes. The reason that they had come so close within The Pack.

Eastwood: Now that, Daniel, is what I like to hear.

Prideman: I've got to ask though, what is the deal with you and Damien?

Eastwood: Look Prideman, you know I trust you, okay? But when you travel with Jack Eastwood there will always be things that it is best for you not to know. We're doing a bit of, well (Jack hesitates) business.

Prideman sighs.

Prideman: Alright yeah. Just keep me in the dark some more. One day this is going to do my head in.

Eastwood: But for now it's not. Besides, it's nothing you'll be interested in. Anyway, onto my second point. Time for another cull.

Prideman sat back in his chair, staring into the fire and cracked his knuckles. A smile flickered on Eastwood's face.

Eastwood: Don't get your hopes up too much Daniel. We're not going to the basement for this one. It's time we worked out how we can coexist.

A wry smile appeared on Prideman's face. A look he knew only too well as he was usually on the receiving end of such such an expression from Jack.

Prideman: Team building? That's essentially what you are having us do here Jack. What is it? White water rafting or some shit?

Jack chuckled. Without saying a word he stood up, lit himself a cigarette an d headed for the door. The dreams that had been bugging him re-emerged in Prideman's head.

Prideman: Jack! I still needed to speak to you. You know, about the dreams.

Jack turned in the doorway to look back at Prideman. He took a long drag from his cigarette, inhaled deeply before turning and leaving the room, exhaling as he went.

A Forest, North Canada, 10 days until Ammunition 15.3

Jack Eastwood was, at the best of times, unorthodox in his leadership of The Pack. So when on a cold winters morning he dragged every member of The Pack into the woods nearby to The Asylum they group couldn't say they were surprised. Each of them looked at one another. Prideman was noticing the many people stood alongside him, shivering uncontrollably regardless of the insurmountable amount of layers they must have been wearing. He stood still. Enough time had been spent in these words observing the wild animals and the weather had become second nature. It made the winters at home in London seem like a summer holiday on the beaches of Spain. Through the brewing snowstorm a recognisable silhouette made it's way towards The Pack.

Eastwood explained the idea behind the next round of The Cull although instead of fighting to the finish the format would differ.

Eastwood: In pairs. You have enough food to last ONE man for twenty-four hours. You have a two-man tent. In 24 hours I expect to see you all back at The Asylum. If you do not get there in time you will be gone. Now the pairs are as follows;

Prideman felt like he was back in the playground at school. Waiting to be picked for some kind of sport and hoping he wasn't put with the special kid.

Eastwood: Rhino and Elephant. Prideman and Cheetah...

The rest became a blur. Cheetah had benefits he was a fast sprinter, and he definitely wouldn't have needed a lot of food. But Prideman wasn't going to let himself be brushed aside. After his announcements were over Prideman called from the crowd of men.

Prideman: Jack! Oi! If we are meant to be tagging for the titles I'm going with you. Logical?

Jack was momentarily stunned into silence. Although it was Prideman he still wasn't happy being spoken to in such a brazen manner.

Eastwood: Fine, your with me. Snake, with Cheetah. I wanted to keep my eye on you anyway Prideman.

To keep an eye on him. What did that even mean? Why? There were moments when Prideman's confidence and trust in Jack faltered. This was one of them. But there were still questions that Prideman needed answers to and he was sure Jack was the one holding the answers.

That evening Jack and Prideman lay in their tent. It was a tight fit as you could imagine for two men over six feet four inches tall. Prideman was laid looking at the roof of the tent, turning his father's ring over in his hands, more out of habit than interest.

Prideman: Look Jack. I think you know what is going on with these dreams. The blackouts. All that. You've been through a lot. So what the Hell is it?

Eastwood: I wish you'd just go to sleep. I'm working on it. Trust me.

Prideman: I don't want to sleep. Why did you find me? Why did you bring me here?

Eastwood: I think you'll find, Daniel, that I did nothing of the sort. I happened to be in the bar you were. But you followed me. You decided to come and live in The Asylum. You decided to make a start in FMW. Not the other way round. So just leave it, okay? Get some sleep. We have a long day tomorrow.

Prideman still wasn't satisfied but getting information from Jack was like trying to get blood from a stone. Rolling over away from Jack he pulled his sleeping bag up further and closed his eyes.

There he stood. Once more in front of Prideman. The hooded figure who had been haunting his dreams was there once more. He moved ever closer to Prideman, his breath heavy and his body looming.

Hooded Figure: So Daniel. You're here again.

Prideman: Go away. Just leave me the Hell alone. I want nothing to do with you.

With those words the hooded figure came closer, saying nothing. Then he began to sprint. Prideman couldn't understand why but he was sprinting with the man. The surroundings were the darkest shades of red, almost as if Hell itself had arose. They ran for what seemed forever and approached a man lying in a foetal position on the floor. His face was covered in blood. The hooded figure stood over him. Looking.

Hooded Figure: I am so much stronger than you could ever have imagined. And as each day passes I grow stronger. We grow stronger. These dreams feel far too real? Don't they Daniel?

Prideman was nervous, scared. He watched on as the figure began to assault the man on the floor. Daniel urged himself to stop it and yet he couldn't move any longer.

Prideman: NO! Stop this now! It ends tonight. Leave me alone!

The figure was oblivious to Prideman's shouting. If anything, Prideman's fear urged him on further. Punching, kicking, scratching at the defenceless man.

Prideman: Please! I beg you. Stop.

The figure raised his foot high above the man's head.

Prideman: STOP!

He teased, waiting for it to come crashing down.

Prideman: STOP!

Hooded Figure: Not even Eastwood will be able to stop me now! I'm too strong.

The figure flinched as his foot rocketed towards the man's skull. Ever closer, the man's head about to become pate.

Eastwood: PRIDEMAN FIGHT IT!

It all went black. Head spinning, Prideman didn't dare open his eyes. He didn't want to see anymore. He begged to wake up in his tent.

Eastwood: Prideman wake up!

Eastwood slapped Prideman as hard as possible to wake him from whatever it was that had happened. Prideman opened his eyes. His sense turned back on. He could smell the forest still but now he could feel the twigs and leaves underneath him. He could see the blood on his hands and Rhino laying yards away, coughing and spluttering, fighting for his life.

Prideman: Help him! Jack. Fucking help him!

Eastwood scooped Prideman up and struggled to restrain him from attending to Rhino.

Eastwood: Snake, you sort this shit out. Daniel, you need to come with me.

#1 Contender to the C4 Title
Antonio Grimelli vs Skyler Striker

FMC Tournament Qualifier
Dazz Andrews vs Adam Smith vs Leviticus

Television Title Match
Jonathan King vs Smoochy Da Frog

FMC Tournament qualifier
Abel Steele vs John 'Doc' Derrick vs Alex O'Rion

Tournament Preview Tag Team Match
Leon Caprice and Hannibal Frost vs Harlequin and Derek Levy

Main Event
FMW Tag Team Championship Match
Jack Eastwood and Daniel Prideman vs Nicholas Gray and Damien Inferno (c)

Votes could change on a whim but that'd require lots more promos in the next 40 minutes.

Ammunition 15.3
LIVE from the HP Pavilion Center in San Jose, California

#1 Contender to the C4 Title
Antonio Grimelli vs Skyler Striker

FMC Tournament Qualifier
Dazz Andrews vs Adam Smith vs Leviticus

Television Title Match
Jonathan King vs Smoochy Da Frog

FMC Tournament qualifier
Abel Steele vs John 'Doc' Derrick vs Alex O'Rion

Tournament Preview Tag Team Match
Leon Caprice and Hannibal Frost vs Harlequin and Derek Levy

Main Event
FMW Tag Team Championship Match
Jack Eastwood and Daniel Prideman vs Nicholas Gray and Damien Inferno (c)

Ammunition 15.3
LIVE from the HP Pavilion Center in San Jose, California

#1 Contender to the C4 Title
Antonio Grimelli vs Skyler Striker

FMC Tournament Qualifier
Dazz Andrews vs Adam Smith vs Leviticus

Television Title Match
Jonathan King vs Smoochy Da Frog

FMC Tournament qualifier
Abel Steele vs John 'Doc' Derrick vs Alex O'Rion

Tournament Preview Tag Team Match
Leon Caprice and Hannibal Frost vs Harlequin and Derek Levy

Main Event
FMW Tag Team Championship Match
Jack Eastwood and Daniel Prideman vs Nicholas Gray and Damien Inferno (c)
-for hilarity.

Ammunition 15.3
LIVE from the HP Pavilion Center in San Jose, California

#1 Contender to the C4 Title
Antonio Grimelli vs Skyler Striker

FMC Tournament Qualifier
Dazz Andrews vs Adam Smith vs Leviticus

Television Title Match
Jonathan King vs Smoochy Da Frog

FMC Tournament qualifier
Abel Steele vs John 'Doc' Derrick vs Alex O'Rion

Tournament Preview Tag Team Match
Leon Caprice and Hannibal Frost vs Harlequin and Derek Levy

Main Event
FMW Tag Team Championship Match
Jack Eastwood and Daniel Prideman vs Nicholas Gray and Damien Inferno (c)

Antonio Grimelli vs Skyler Striker


Dazz Andrews vs Adam Smith vs Leviticus


Jonathan King vs Smoochy Da Frog

FMC Tournament qualifier
Abel Steele vs John 'Doc' Derrick vs Alex O'Rion

Tournament Preview Tag Team Match
Leon Caprice and Hannibal Frost vs Harlequin and Derek Levy

Main Event
FMW Tag Team Championship Match
Jack Eastwood and Daniel Prideman vs [u]Nicholas Gray and Damien Inferno (c)[u]

I'm allowed to vote on Ammunition right?

Ammunition 15.3
LIVE from the HP Pavilion Center in San Jose, California

#1 Contender to the C4 Title
Antonio Grimelli vs Skyler Striker

FMC Tournament Qualifier
Dazz Andrews vs Adam Smith vs Leviticus

Television Title Match
Jonathan King vs Smoochy Da Frog

FMC Tournament qualifier
Abel Steele vs John 'Doc' Derrick vs Alex O'Rion

Tournament Preview Tag Team Match
Leon Caprice and Hannibal Frost vs Harlequin and Derek Levy

Main Event
FMW Tag Team Championship Match
Jack Eastwood and Daniel Prideman vs Nicholas Gray and Damien Inferno (c)

#1 Contender to the C4 Title
Antonio Grimelli vs Skyler Striker

FMC Tournament Qualifier
Dazz Andrews vs Adam Smith vs Leviticus

Television Title Match
Jonathan King vs Smoochy Da Frog

FMC Tournament qualifier
Abel Steele vs John 'Doc' Derrick vs Alex O'Rion

Tournament Preview Tag Team Match
Leon Caprice and Hannibal Frost vs Harlequin and Derek Levy

Main Event
FMW Tag Team Championship Match
Jack Eastwood and Daniel Prideman vs Nicholas Gray and Damien Inferno (c)

#1 Contender to the C4 Title
Antonio Grimelli vs Skyler Striker

FMC Tournament Qualifier
Dazz Andrews vs Adam Smith vs Leviticus

Television Title Match
Jonathan King vs Smoochy Da Frog

FMC Tournament qualifier
Abel Steele vs John 'Doc' Derrick vs Alex O'Rion

Tournament Preview Tag Team Match
Leon Caprice and Hannibal Frost vs Harlequin and Derek Levy

Main Event
FMW Tag Team Championship Match
Jack Eastwood and Daniel Prideman vs Nicholas Gray and Damien Inferno (c)

Ammunition 15.3
LIVE from the HP Pavilion Center in San Jose, California

#1 Contender to the C4 Title
Antonio Grimelli vs Skyler Striker

FMC Tournament Qualifier
Dazz Andrews vs Adam Smith vs Leviticus

Television Title Match
Jonathan King vs Smoochy Da Frog

FMC Tournament qualifier
Abel Steele vs John 'Doc' Derrick vs Alex O'Rion

Tournament Preview Tag Team Match
Leon Caprice and Hannibal Frost vs Harlequin and Derek Levy

Main Event
FMW Tag Team Championship Match
Jack Eastwood and Daniel Prideman vs Nicholas Gray and Damien Inferno (c)

Ammunition 15.3
LIVE from the HP Pavilion Center in San Jose, California

#1 Contender to the C4 Title
Antonio Grimelli vs Skyler Striker

FMC Tournament Qualifier
Dazz Andrews vs Adam Smith vs Leviticus

Television Title Match
Jonathan King vs Smoochy Da Frog

FMC Tournament qualifier
Abel Steele vs John 'Doc' Derrick vs Alex O'Rion

Tournament Preview Tag Team Match
Leon Caprice and Hannibal Frost vs Harlequin and Derek Levy

Main Event
FMW Tag Team Championship Match
Jack Eastwood and Daniel Prideman vs Nicholas Gray and Damien Inferno (c)

Ammunition 15.3
LIVE from the HP Pavilion Center in San Jose, California

#1 Contender to the C4 Title
Antonio Grimelli vs Skyler Striker

FMC Tournament Qualifier
Dazz Andrews vs Adam Smith vs Leviticus

Television Title Match
Jonathan King vs Smoochy Da Frog

FMC Tournament qualifier
Abel Steele vs John 'Doc' Derrick vs Alex O'Rion

Tournament Preview Tag Team Match
Leon Caprice and Hannibal Frost vs Harlequin and Derek Levy

Main Event
FMW Tag Team Championship Match
Jack Eastwood and Daniel Prideman vs Nicholas Gray and Damien Inferno (c)

Sigh. Damn it Eastwood.

#1 Contender to the C4 Title
Skyler Striker

FMC Tournament Qualifier
Leviticus

Television Title Match
Jonathan King

FMC Tournament qualifier
John 'Doc' Derrick

Tournament Preview Tag Team Match
Leon Caprice and Hannibal Frost

Main Event
FMW Tag Team Championship Match
Nicholas Gray and Damien Inferno (c)

No brainers...

Skyler Striker
Leviticus
Jonathan King
John 'Doc' Derrick
Leon Caprice and Hannibal Frost
Nicholas Gray and Damien Inferno (c)