(A/N: Not my best but i got a few months of rust. All the luck to my opponent. happy to be back)

I suppose this is where I make some pseudo-intellectual C grade poetic statement about the road you took here, tie it in with the career you left to fail so spectacularly at this one with the whole thing posessing the depth of a puddle of spit?

Maybe later.

For now, maybe it would be good sport to address why i’m back? Make some sort of chest inflating and subsequent pounding declaration of the Tai Pei death match only being round 2? Maybe I’m back to torment Mac and reclaim the SCW World Heavyweight T–

Oh…right.

He lost it.

Again.

Well, Suppose I could chase Ken for it. Man’s never beaten me and even got himself DQ’ed to evade finishing our second f–

Oh..

Oh damn, the Saviors are on the stru–

Oh my god, they broke up?

Christ…you’re really bad at this, Macentyre.

But no. No, jesting aside i’ll have no contrived declaration for my intent on the SCW World Title. No, that much is just a given and this time? I’ll earn the shot, outside of the favor already given to former champions. Although I suppose with the lot in the back I could go through biblical trials and unless I pledge myself to their silly fucking group, It will be unearned.

Wonder if Fenris is still a crybaby bitch about all that???

Focus, Matthew. We have a warm up to get through before any of that can go down.

So, An–one moment.

Right. Agostino. See, I thought your name was something more practical and widely known like Antonio. But no, not you. You’re a special boy, aren’t you August Rush in Italian? Your mother welped a true talent unto the world, chicken salad out of the chicken shit that was your father’s pathetic and watery seed.

It would have been of better use in the sock with all the others, truly…


The dreams had driven an anxiety all too familiar to spike to levels he’d manage to evade since getting clean, save for a few incidents. The stifling, strangling feeling of being crushed by everything he thought he wanted. Leave it with him to find or manufacture defeat in the midst of a total and flawless victory.

He was Matthew Knox, after all.

A low groan escaped him to match the one internal as his body cried out in a familiar and almost comforting discomfort. His toned, lithe form rising from the couch in his office at the Corvid Combat Academy. He hadn’t been home in a couple nights, reasoning that Alix was capable of helping Marika with anything she should need and lying through his teeth about being away on business for the school.

In truth, he had spent the past forty-eight contacting a handful of promotions and puting feelers out into the world. See if there was even one left that still wanted him within it. All had replied, two had stood out.

One, he was ecstatic for.

Sin City Wrestling…his tenure felt lost in the maelstrom of his personal hell, fighting so many wars on so many fronts that the blood feud with Macentyre over the supposed slight against his marriage served as more of a background piece ot his title defenses, running a company, and waging a blood feud with the spray-tanned pig.

Only he could sleep-walk through the brutality of a TaiPei Death Match.

In truth, he had hoped that Mac would put a nail in the whole thing. End him completely, cripple him and make it impossible to go on. The way God’s creatures had handled their disputes from the dawn of man.

But once more, Macentyre proved to not be enough.

It was no fault of his own, really. A long line of men and women to varying degrees of similar wrath had attempted the same. Page, Amber, Davison, SuMa, the Rat, Sebastian Byrce…

One by one, they all came for his head. And one by one, they all failed to leave with anything more than a pound of flesh. If they were lucky, it left a scar. The point remained however that for all their efforts, for everything they did to desperately try and end them? It wasn’t enough.

It was in those futile efforts that he took comfort in a lie that he had convinced himself was the gospel.

Matthew 69:420 : The Parable of the undying Idiot.

He plucked a white towel from his desk, left over from the previous night’s shower and began a slow limp to the showers in the back, his wandering thoughts silencing for a moment as he focused on the echoing pitter patter of his feet on the concrete floor. The images of the dream, the same damn dream nipping at the heels of his still fuzzy consciousness as he moved.

Those black eyes.

A whole life, a whole series of lives that he knew all about but could scarcely remember, and was trying to convince himself (with little success) that they were nothing more than elaborate dreams brought on by an excess of oxycontin and bourbon.

The chill of the shower room did little to distract him even as he disrobed and felt the chill bite at his entire body. He stopped in front of the mirror that hung over the sink briefly, taking a moment to stare at the scars that he could see reflected. He reached up to gently graze his fingers over the starfish shaped one in his left shoulder.

Briefly, the ghost of the burning and almost indescribable sensation of the jagged handle of a baseball bat being driven into his flesh and down to the bone surged through him. His teeth clenched along with his jaw at the memory, air sucking in briefly as he swore against all present evidence that he had just been stabbed again.

His fingers wander more, down to his chest and tracing over the line that seemed to follow the natural line dividing his oecs. A gift from when his beloved thought them enemies. Now, in the dark and damp room he heard the distant sounds of every scar being given to him once more, only tenfold.

The walls around him began to resemble a mausoleum then, his eyes staring into the ones staring back at him in the mirror. Desperately trying to grasp at the gaze as a form of an anchor.

The fool he was, relying on him when it’d been proven by so many that to do so was an exercise in absolute futility. Or so his eldest would no doubt tell anyone who would care to listen.
Hell, his second oldest might as well..

Tearing himself from the reflection that he swore bore a smirk and a gaze that became less and less familiar with each passing heartbeat he pushed through the echoing chaos of memories he’d never hope to repress and turn the shower on. The running water instantly brought forth a familiar zen feeling, drowning out everything that ate away at him.

Once more, Calypso granted him a mercy he never deserved.

He held a hand under the water, waiting a moment for it to heat up enough for him to step under it. He got lost in the thundering of the faux rainstorm that drenched his body, washing away everything but the numerous sins upon his skin.

SCW. That’s what was important right now. He’d sent in a cryptic video package, asked to be kept off advertisements. Element of surprise, a little flair for the dramatic.

But, what can one say? Bookers will always bee more carny than human. Card dropped and boom, he’s being fed the ex-racer and his presence is being touted. No doubt they needed to find a way to fill seats after the reign of the black hole of charisma that was Ken Davison.

Thankfully, Finn Whelan had solved that problem.

And presented him with a much more interesting problem to solve himself.

He squeezed a handful of shampoo into his palm, lathering up his hair as the smell of mint and green tea joined the assault on his senses along with the running water. He let out a satisfied exhale as he felt the lather run down his skin, toward the drain. Behind closed eyelids, he was treated to the flashing replay of his time in SCW.

Joined to help pull Amber’s head from above water, only to be demonized by the man who should never have let the depths take her and treated like a fucking Prince by the actual demon who looked to drag her into those depths. Made to submit to the whims of a monster who seemed equally keen to fuck him as it was to eviscerate him.

He’d never admit that he liked the nickname “Songbird”.

A sneer cracked his placid expression. Loose ends that needed to be tied up. Wrongs righted.

He needed to give them something new to talk about after all. Be more than the guy who stood by and watched Masque give Amber Ryan exactly what she’d begged for. He didn’t fault them for it, what else could they do? Simple minded fools that they were, this made them all look not-as-bad.

And then, he fueled their ire more by simply existing. Which was all it took for Mac to foolishly throw his title on the line and name him #1 Contender. Make the whole thing about his title, his self appointed place in the heirarchy of SCW, and to further stroke off the ‘moral authority’ cosplay he’d cultivated over a long career of shining men like Jack Michaels and Chris Page’s boots for the rub.

Then he took the title, and what could they say? Nothing..

He shook his head, the rest a fog that need not be delved into. All that mattered now? Is he had returned from the lie of a happily ever after. He found - or rather, finally acknowledged all the excess violence he was unable to exorcizre from him. No matter how many children looked him in the eye with that special sort of unmatched love. No mattter how many students looked to him in quiet admiration and appreciation of the fruits of his knowledge. No matter how Mari smiled at him so.

He wasn’t any more than what he’d always been.

A warrior.

And Warriors never left the war, less it was upon their shield.



Really, someone has to have had this talk with you by now right?

Or maybe everyone who ever meant anything to you has long been sated by the money you throw at them for what they tell you is love?

Doesn’t matter.

Really, neither do you.

I don’t hate you, kid. Hell. I admire you.. I admire anyone who can subvert expectations in this sport of ours. You did that simply by surviving your first match…but anymore? Anymore all you’ve gone on to prove is that you really don’t belong.

See, what i’m saying it….your act has worn thin.

The plucky underdog is only an underdog when he works hard enough to be put in situations where he has a chance at greatness.

Whereas, the greatness you achieve maxes out at continued employment by SCW.

You’re a loser, Augostowhateverthefuck. You’re an easy pull that I feel insulted by, frankly. Clamor to usher me back in, put my name on the roster page and the first meal you serve me comes with someone to spoon feed it?

Ah well, who am I to refuse free food?

But really, barbs and bullshit aside? Hear me now, Agostino and hear me well.

Throw yourself back into your old sport, because the waters are far too deep here and you’re not much of a swimmer. Right now, your best outcome is the cruelest sort of irony. You, who made his fortune and found his fame in a sport based on outrunning everything. Out of evading danger, and running farther and quicker than the rest?

Has brought you face to face with the one thing you can’t run from.

I am your inevitable reckoning, and the hard truth. All wrapped in the worst sort of damage to whatever ego you still possess.

I am the universe, God, and all the saints telling you that you don’t belong. And it’s high time you stop pretending that you do.

See Agostino, you and everyone in the back? You’re probably the most tightly-packed pack of dipshits on God’s green earth. The piety of it all, the judgement you dare thought yourselves worthy of that you passed onto me?

Fuck you.

Fuck all of you.

Because, at Climax Control? With that mental image of me watching Amber get exactly what the fuck she asked Masque for rattles in your fucking peabrains? Stop and think about how you all just watched what I’m going to do to Agostino.

And Agostino, you remember each and every face that didn’t do a thing but watch. And you count how many come to see you when you wake up. Realize, if you have the capacity to, how fucking lonely it is compared to the winner’s circle.

The End has come for you, Agostino.

Can you stop it?

How often has man told stories of seeing figures out of the corners of their eyes? Fleeting gossamer of people who aren’t really there.
Or are they?

Tonight, in this Hospital in his home state, Matthew Knox was one such apparition as he moved through the halls mostly undetected, the surgical mask and black scrubs doing enough to not warrant the second glance of a dejected night shift.

His limbs were as cold and ghostly as his pallid, damp skin. Arctic sweat caused a few stray bangs to cling to his forehead. His destination wasn’t very well hidden, between the whispers and the lackadaisical leaving of charts at the nurse’s station.

Well, that and the 6’6 enraged giant standing guard.

He walked past first, before stopping and standing much too close to arm’s length. After a beat to be sure no other scrubs were near, he began to speak.

“I had no idea what she was planning. I thought it was going to be mind game bullshit….hell, I was almost assured as such.

At first there was no reply from the other side of the door. Then the sound of a man's deep baritone voice that has a light tremble can be heard. "You stood there and let it happen, what am I supposed to say to that?"

“Nothin’ with your mouth and not enough with your fists…” he couldn’t help the chuckle, briefly putting himself in the shoes of an outside. Looking at it from the surface level “But, the fact that this door isn’t off the hinges and i’m not flying out a window tells me that you know something got fucked up..” a pause, a shake of the head.

“You were right, Macentyre. Everything you said about me, about me sticking my nose where it didn’t belong…I tried putting out this fire but i grabbed the gas can instead of the water jug.” a deep sigh comes from Mac, a sharp intake of breath. "You were someone that I considered family. I asked you to stay out of this because I was already working on amber to try to wake her up to what masque was trying to do. I finally got thru to her 3 days ago. "

There was a momentary pause, "Please tell me you didn't try to seduce that monster." Then a chuckle comes from him, "of course you did, and now she's got her hooks do deep in you that there is no escape. " The door swings open as a very haggard looking Mac Bane stands before him.

“Seemed like a solid play…awful as it is. Flawed, lonely, somewhere i’ve been…” he narrowed his eyes at the wall, keeping his guilt-laden gaze off what once was one of his best friends before everything went tits up “She is…impressive though, in her ability to go undetected. But i guess a life of people not wanting to look at you, and see those deformities allows some sort of benefit..”

Finally, he turned his gaze to Mac and shook his head.

“You should go get some rest. I know you don’t trust me, but i’m telling you: She’s done here. She thinks this is enough and is content to lord her accomplishments..” Mac's gaze hardens as he looks directly into msg Matt's eyes. "It's a smoke screen Matt. You can't even see the level of corruption and the control she's got on you."

Mac shakes his head in dismay. Matt exhales through his nostrils, shaking his own head as he chuckles once.

“I know exactly what she has on me…and it’s something that I can’t make go away any better than I did before, and the second I step out of line, i am powerless to stop it and..” he trails off, shaking his head “I can’t be ruined, not when so many are suddenly dependent on me.” he breaks their gaze, shame causing his body to twitch as he lets out a scoffing chuckle.

“God…I don’t even have words. I probably shouldn’t have even came but, on some fucked up level? You still matter to me, Mac. Your word carries an annoying weight. And I couldn’t just have you thinking that this was..” he shrugged “I don’t know, sour grapes over not bagging the redhead…my hands are tied now. I gave her the rope, and I will own my share of this guilt and play my part..”

He shakes his head, another scoff.

“Fuck do we do now?”

Mac's posture straightens, and his fists clench so tight they are a scary shade of white. Through a tightly clenched jaw, "You're forgetting one thing, there's a price to pay for this Matthew." He let's his fists relax, "not today and not in the hospital." He reaches back and snatched the rubber band that held his hair back. "Know this, I would not treat any of my brothers any different. I'm going to hurt you. I could say that it will hurt me more but that would be a lie. You and Masque couldn't have hurt me more. You two ripped the heart out of my chest."

“I won’t berate you, Mac. But I will say, that perhaps the best route for you right now? Is to be where you should have been this whole time..” he let out an exhale, daring to find the gaze again. He set his feet, posture shifting and ready to disappear as quickly as he had appeared “This whole thing…nothing but fools pride and ego. I won’t berate you, like I said..”

“But I also said, that this was coming. That Masque was dangerous and not to be ignored. Yeah, I fucked up but I did my best. I did something. While all anyone else did was get angry at my presumptuous nature…
Sure, you had right. Plenty of it. But you let it blind you and…that in there?”

He motioned to Amber.

“Is Caesar. And sure, Masque may be Brutus but we’re all Senators here, Mac. We’re all guilty of this murder…and now we are all under her thumb..”

He turned his back then, starting to walk away while adding “Bring your receipts when you come to collect, brother.”

Mac snorts a laugh as he starts to shut the door. "Same old Matt, only listening to respond instead of comprehending what's been said. I've always been where I was supposed to be. I was working on this before you set foot in this company. Don't worry about receipts. I accept the fact that I'm at least partially to blame for her. This one will be impossible for you to walk away from. You don't even know if she'll keep your secret dumbass, ever considered that?" Mac allows the door to close quietly.

Pausing, Matthew considered it, before speaking to the empty hall, but knowing it would reach him.

“Has she lied yet?”

It was getting more and more difficult to do this.

Not physically, really. He was in the best shape of his life just about, and was no doubt the most in shape ex addict in the world. Well, hemisphere maybe. What did it even matter, though? For all his strength, for all his determination and grit he showed to drag himself to the success he had endured nothing ever changed.

Here he was, in another hotel room in another country but in the same black pit of misery.

The barbs never got to him, not anymore. Whole world could think he was undeserving of a shot at Mac, it rolled off his back. What did he have to gain from listening to the lamentations of people he’d never had a conversation or a cup of coffee with? If anything, it was a brilliant move by Mac. Rattle the cage, reshape the image and take the focus off how big a piece of shit he’d been and turn the ire onto the new guy who was gifted a shot at a title he didn’t rank for.

God, how mad were they going to be when he won the fucking thing?

The thought brought the ghost of a smirk to his tired face as he sat, long legs stretched out over the rest of the mattress. He lulled his head back as the endorphins of the thought quickly left him as the reality of his current situation bit at his stomach.

Ken Davison. Again.

Kat Jones. Again, although it had been a moment.

Baltimore calling, again.

God, he was so sick of Ghosts….

He shifted again, the thought making him uncomfortable in his own skin. Kat Jones…Katarina, Wildkat. The history there was deep, ripe and buried. To most it was obvious that they had some sort of thing at least in passing. The depth of which was lost on many and anymore ignored by him. It was a pleasant thought at one point. A vivid, wild dream at another.

Now, it was a stain.

He didn’t regret it, but he hated how it changed everything. He and Kat had gone from enemies to lovers to strangers back to enemies, or so it seemed. Sure, the mature thing might be to talk to her but anymore? Every word out of her mouth was dripping with a sadness he saw his fingerprints all over and spoke of a finality that he’d rather tune out than acknowledge.

Why should he, anyway?

Truth was, fate had conspired to put everyone where they were for reasons they would never understand. Could he have had the future he is forming with Marika with Kat? Probably. Did he want it more than what he had now? No, but to be truthful there was nothing he wanted more in this world to be the father of Asahi Joseph Knox.

And honestly, he was sick and tired of feeling like he should feel bad for that.

With a small grunt of effort, he pushed himself from the bed and walked out onto the veranda, snatching his pack of camel non filters and nickel-plated zippo lighter as he passed the bedside table, sparking up and exhale the noxious fumes into the crisp greek air as he looked out over the view, wishing to be young enough to lose his breath to such a simple sight.

He had been joking about another fight with Ken Davison, personally feeling as though it was resolved with the match at Blaze of glory. He told Ken he’d be the one to take the Internet title off of him, and even though Jack Washington’s memory and awareness went no further than a centimeter past the tip of his nose, the entire world saw the end of the “Godly” one’s brief reign over the Internet.

Red faced, trapped, reaching out to his enemy for mercy.

And finding none.

Yet, once more, here he was. On the precipice of Ken Davison acting like he’d somehow won both their previous exchanges. Disregarding him and his ability as a fighter, burying him as nothing more than a loudmouth despite the fact that in two chances Ken never got the better of him in the ring, never pinned him, never made him submit.

But, he voices that, then it’s whining?

God, this industry was taxing on the common sense.

He took another long drag, pacing the veranda quietly. His long lithe form a silhouette in the dusk’s light, plumes of smoke steadily rising from it toward heavens he could only hope to reach at this point. His pacing stops as he leans over the rail, gripping it with tired hands one of which clutching what was left of his smoke between middle and pointer finger.

The failure was the bitterest, most familiar ghost with him this day though. His partner, the whole reason he kicked the door in on SCW? The undeniable, infamous and wrathful Amber Ryan. The details of their relationship remained muddied and odd to those who cared to look. Though they teamed, and had n the past gone out of the way to look out for one another? All the public ever saw were the barbs, the arguments, the posturing.

He never really minded. When dealing with a Lioness, even one who has decided not to tear your throat out and consume you, would never be as loving or affectionate as a domestic tabby. He knew Amber and accepted her and she, him in kind. The world had left them for dead long ago and neither one would give that world the satisfaction of rolling over and accepting what had been offered.

Which is why on the occasions they had stepped into the ring as partners, however few, he felt more confident in victory than with anyone else in that particular setting. Hell, it took an entire organization to bring them down and lateral their titles in Thunder Pro Wrestling to some lesser masked comedy act.

And any reinforcements for the two unfortunate souls that stepped into this ring now would be stayed by the hand of their leader and Amber’s husband.

They’d need to endure and overcome on their own.

….and he was confident, they didn’t have that in them.

---

The camera fades in on an overarching shot of the Amphitheater in Zakynthos, Greece. A bright blue sky looms over the rows of empty seats and the empty stage, save for one black metal folding chair that seemed to swallow all the light that dared touch its surface. As the camera pans in, distant footsteps ring out and become closer, and closer until from stage right enters the man of the hour.

Matthew Knox grabs the chair, dragging it closer to the edge of the stage as if coming to meet the rapidly approaching shot from the camera. The grating sound of steel on concrete grates out, no doubt curling the hair of whatever ghosts lingered in the empty theater. Eventually, he drops it and sits his own form in it.

He brings his hands up, steepling them in front of his lips for a moment, his expression somewhere between pensive and exhausted. After a few moments of silence, save for the air and the nearby sea, he spoke in an equally exhausted tone.

“My god, I'm sick of seeing you…”

As venomous as it was wary. He followed the words with a heavy sigh as he leaned back into the chair, stretching out leg out and resting his forearms lazily upon the pair he owned. After a moment, he brings a hand up to stroke the stubble on his chin once before he speaks up once more.

“Dream matches are only dreams once, you run the same thing over and over and over again? It becomes monotonous…now, I can’t blame booking here. The second one, they had to yield to the will of a champion and we saw how that ended. Now, I get it…you have to book me against Mac’s cronies, sell the big match…”

A sound both a scoff and a chuckle rolls from his chest, eyes casting off to one side in bemusement, longing for a time that this business still surprised him.

“Kat Jones and Ken Davison, two of the only people on this planet more arrogant than myself. A God and a woman who can’t decide if she’s a victim, or a harbinger of doom. Both of you second fiddle to your ‘siblings’ in every way imaginable.”

Now, his lips curled into a venomous sneer.

“It’d be tragic, if it wasn’t so fucking pathetic.”

Pushing up from the seat, he snatched it and carelessly disregarded t into the rows of empty aisles with little regard, the banging clang of its landing ringing out for no one but him to hear the calamity of its misfortune. He paces the stage as if it were a cage for a heartbeat before carrying on, tone both reserved and venomous.

“Ken, I've run out of things to say about you and as much as I like the sound of my own voice? I loathe a broken record. Which, frankly, is probably why I loathe you. Because three times now, three, you’ve cut the same promo on me. You’ve approached it with the same attitude, and frankly all it’s done is serve to make you even less interesting than you already were.”

He brings his hands together, leaning toward the camera, seemingly begging for his next request.

“So, please, prove me right. Pontificate endlessly about how i’m nothing. Bring up my working in multiple feds but leave off my dominance in just about every one of them. Sure, some Dogs might bark about one or two places i’ve slipped but from Uprising, to the IWF, to Pro Wrestling Valor I am a goddamn force to be reckoned with, and now it’s time to be that man for SCW.”

His hands drop to his side before one comes up to cover a toothy smile, chuckling into the palm a moment before carrying on with his verbal assault.

“You speak from such a place of dishonesty, Kenneth. It’s like you don’t pay attention to the world around you. Content to drift between Chicago and SCW, either riding Kyra’s coattails like Jack Michaels before you or picking up whatever table scraps are left in a singles division that you are sliding into the deepest pit of, a pit I'll gladly leave you to drown in.”

“Do not frame my ability to handle a schedule bigger than yours, to handle a stage bigger than yours, to fight fights bigger than any you’ve been in in the past year as a negative you old husk of a shell of what once was a pretty okay wrestler. I know Johnny likes to talk up Joe and Hide as his best clients, but honestly? He ought to prop you up. Because at this point in your career? You’ve become identical to him.”

The humor drains from the Morbid Corvid’s face as he stares into the lens, and into the eyes of both his opponents.

“An irrelevant blowhard, taking up space that could be given to those that matter. Those with a purpose. You should leave, Ken. Take your ball and go home after this loss because it’s never going to be as sweet in that ring as it is on the couch with Kyra and her kid. You’ve done enough, you’ve proven all you’re going to prove.”

A thoughtful pause, before he adds in a tone devoid of any real emotion to sway it between insult or honest statement.

“And frankly….Pro Wrestling doesn’t need Ken Davison anymore.”


The sands and sea were always his greatest comfort, so of course on a night where rest could not find him he decided to seek her out. His Calypso. A synthetic version though, as he never quite felt her pull, their connection when he was faced with the Atlantic and the sands there as opposed to the Pacific he grew up and lived next to.

Still, there was enough of a bond to bring about enough peace to drive him to sit on the shoreline’s shifting sands, the silhouette missing only one black feathered wing. Hell, he wished for two so he could fly away from all of this. A year ago, when the wounds were fresh he would have reveled in this attrition but now he just wanted it over.

He wished, selfishly, that his Calypso would swallow that wretched ‘charmed’ city so that he may never be faced with its existence ever again. Be it by skyline or being faced with its ‘elite’.
God, the grouping barely made sense to him.
When last he saw those facing him down, they were at one another’s throat.

God, was he truly so wretched that others would lay down their swords and raise armistice amongst themselves just for a shot at culling him?
Was this some cruel design by an orange ghost to pay him back for his transgressions?

Of course he was that awful.

A small chuckle escaped him, lost forever to the night air and the roaring waves as he stared out at the endless expanse of the sea. He was everything none of them could ever be. He stepped out of the wreckage, and became more while their wheels spun. It disgusted them, and he could understand why. Being stuck in one place for more than ten minutes was usually enough to drive him mad.

He couldn’t imagine being as stagnant as the two of them.
Hell, Mac was just as bad but at least he had gold plated validation set on leather for his efforts in mundanity.

To the simple minded, to those content with defeat and laying down n the rut they’d created, anyone who progressed past where they decided to stop their own progress and dared outgrow them were no doubt inherently nefarious by nature and everything they did in the after of shared lives and relevance came from a place of dishonesty. Undeserved and served upon a silver platter.

Because, how dare anyone even entertain the notion of hard work paying off when your own hard work only got you…here?

A tired body offered itself to the earth as he stretched out over the sand, bringing his hands behind his head in hopes his tired mind could find solace within.

A new son, an unborn consequence of a tryst, and now Marika was speaking in an incredibly self assured tone that another was on the way. All the ‘surprises’ of his reckless youth come calling seemingly all at once, bringing him joy and overwhelming him all the same. Time marched on and he was for the first time finding it difficult to stay in lock step and balance the two sides of him.

How does one resolve to be both a Good man, and a Wrathful Warrior? How could he leave one arena with blood on his hands and step into a nursery to hold a newborn that he took up half the entire world of with those stains still on his skin and soul?

Oh well…

Pity it might be, he’d lied to his children before. He could lie to AJ for as long as he needed his father to be held in a shining, flawless regard. When the time was right, as with any son, he’d come to learn about the sort of man his father was. Where it went from there he couldn’t predict and didn’t dare to anyway. He was just happy to have moments like that coming his way.

Peaceful, easy moments as a reward for surviving the violence to come.

Four companies, Four matches, Four titles. The reigns that would follow would no doubt be the last reigns in his career. Final, brutal penances for all the savagery he had wrought and all the awful he had done. Time was running out, and the man was beginning to rise as the warrior faltered. For the first time since he got into the business, he could see clearly a world without wrestling in it.

He cared about the world without wrestling in it.

He could almost taste the freedom, the horizon almost taunting him with all the sweet promises of seeing his youngest grow, and his oldest find themselves and have children of their own. And all that lay between here and there…

Ghosts…

---

“I’m sick of fucking sick of you ghosts, too.”

He drops to his knees upon the stage, arms held limply at his side as he arches backwards for a moment, before righting himself and shifting to a seated position, legs crossed with his forearms resting upon the points of his knees.

“Reminders of mistakes I made, chances I never took, and opening myself up when I never should have. Kat, Ken, Mac, Supreme Machine to a lesser extent. You’re all from chapters of my life that I closed. Closed with reason that your continued persistence in my world only serves to disregard.”

His head bowed once more, chest heaving as a sigh escaped him. The tone that rolled from within that chest was the least venomous he’d had all night, his words carrying an even more lethal weapon…

…Honesty.

“Kat….Kat, this applies less to you.  Your kindness to my wife while she was with child, means the world. But you cannot play both sides of the board, and with you across the ring from me, you have chosen your side because we will not leave this conflict on good terms. You will see me decimate your brother’s favorite sibling…but, maybe that would be cathartic wouldn’t it?”

A chuckle, as the mirth and the venom returns to his tone and a smile to his face.

“Seems to me, all you’ve ever really wanted was to be the favored one. The apple of some eye somewhere. Desperate to belong…The Wild Cards, Unstable, and now the Saviors? You drift on the breeze, longing to belong and longing to be valued but…you never will be, until you can exist on your own and love who you see in the mirror, instead of looking in someone else’s eyes for that validation.”

He returns to a vertical base, almost slithering to it as he pushes off the ground with only his legs. He returns to his pacing, eyes cast up toward the sky for a moment as he mulls his thoughts before sharing them. A rarity, no doubt.

“So, once more just as I did with the Wild Cards, I've come to break up your little family. Except it won’t be you taking the worst of my wrath, it won’t even be Cy or whatever that jobber you parade as a sibling’s name was..it will be your big brother’s favorite. And when Ken is laying, defeated, staring up at the lights? Or, when you’re staring up at the lights as everyone’s favorite sister walks away, and leaves you in the ring?”

A pause, his gaze finding the camera. Finding Kat Jones.
“Take inventory, and find what you’ve been looking for. I guarantee you’ll find it within….but enough of the niceties, because frankly there’s no reason to be nice.”

He slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans as he returns to pacing once more, briefly stopping center stage to mimic orchestral conduction before laughing the silliness off, and returning to business.

“I know why you both have come to despise me. I know that one of you secretly despises Amber, and i trust that the other one will only serve a plate full of platitude so as not to incur the wrath of his suddenly big brother. I know that you’ll both serve your most scathing comments upon my plate hoping it will shake me, hoping it will put me off my game but you need to realize just like Mac has…”

He raises a hand, jabbing a thumb toward himself as he shares his point.

“I’m a threat. I’m every bit as good as you claim I'm not. Hell, I'm better. I brought an entire company to relevancy through my dominance within their four walls. I showed up in another and in my first night there ended a reign that lasted over half a year. I chose to ignore the count and kick the shit out of you Ken, just like I chose to let Jack choke the life out of you while staring in your empty, dull eyes.”

He chuckles to himself, raising his hands to his throat and miming strangulation for a moment, before adding.

“But…choking on a big stage isn’t anything new, is it Ken? Maybe after this one, you can finally ascend to a new understanding of your place in this world.”

With a chuckle, pressing the tip of his tongue to the inside of his cheek he dropped his hands from his throat. Apparently, he didn’t find throttling himself near as fun as others seemed to. At least in that moment.

“This entire company is convinced that I don’t belong in the spot i’ve been put in. I invited each of them to voice their opinions to me directly and ask for a match, and what did I get? The mighty Fenris backing down and laughing it off as ‘positive conflict resolution’. Piggybacking off a joke I made - getting a reserve seat on the coattails kid? And Mark The Dragon what-the-fuck ever subtweeting and then replying with greek puns. Because you both know…”

He drops to one knee, beckoning the camera closer and whispering his next words.

“Maybe I don’t have the record to back it up, but I’ve got the skill to take on anyone in the back. You know that when the Saviors exhale that death rattle, and fade into the footnote they were destined to be it was not a pack of wolves that tore them apart, but just one single Raven.”

He pats the top of the camera, shooing it away as it pans backward.
“So once more, because clearly you both are not the type to be able to pick up on subtleties, one way or the other after this? I’m done with all but one of the saviors. If you step to me, I won’t wait for a bell and i’ll send you off hearing sirens…”

“I came to SCW as a labor of love, trying to right a ship I saw go off course. And since i’ve been here, my desires have shifted from love to the other end of that spectrum. I could not stop the rapture, but I can cut off the head of the serpent that could have….but that would be too quick, wouldn’t it? So we go with the gauntlet metaphor. Two final fingers and this is over.”

He holds up those two fingers on his own hand, before slowly folding them back into his palm.

“In the after? When the fire dies and ashes remain, I doubt either of you will. Second fiddles never stick around too long, desperate to find an orchestra that lacks the same standards as their current ones. I know you’ve got a cushy gig with the Coalition Philharmonic Ken…but for how much longer?”

“Kat…I imagine you’ll just leave the music behind…”

He gave a half-hearted shrug and a distant smile to accentuate the point but moved on from it as quickly as he broached it.

“As for me? As for Amber Ryan? Wherever our paths go from here, they have diverged for this one last night. The most successful tag team of 2022 with only one loss to our name that took an army to give us reunite to cast a pair of bankers from the temple before the band breaks up and we both aim for the mountaintops we deserve.”

“So, all these plans of mine, these machinations…ask yourselves. Really, Really ask yourselves. Much as you want to, much as you’d love to…”

“...Can you stop me?”

As the toothy, arrogant and self-assured smile returned to his face the camera slowly pans out as it fades to black.

“Come forth, all ye of little faith. Lay upon me your doubts and fears and let me show you…that they’re true.”

“Hello Ken, it’s good to see you in such good health. Vibrant, Youthful, Powerful…i’m sure you’d like me to say God-like…or perhaps you’d be offended at me attaching ‘like’, hm?”

“Oh my dear friend Kenneth, this has been a long time coming hasn’t it? We’ve barely held a conversation between us and a handful of seconds where our eyes locked, but those seconds? Oh, they were weighted as any other great purpose. Weighted with the knowledge of our impending impact.

“Weighted, and soaked in the kerosene of destiny. Begging for a match. A match no one had the temerity to strike, and one I failed to secure. Really though, it makes this better doesn’t it? That time, that precious time allotted to us to think about it. To fantasize over it. To be lost in the reverie of ‘what could have been’. For you, the relief that it did not come to pass…”

“I wonder, is the terror of it finally coming deeper in feel, or have you even acknowledged it yet?”

“It’s fine not to. It’s a ridiculous feeling after all isn’t it? Because, who am I to fear after all? A man with a middling record who lost every big fight he was in, in the one roof we shared. An utter failure in your new Chicago home, reviled by all who have the displeasure of meeting him. Who is that man, to a God?”

“Well, thank you for asking Kenneth. You’ll be happy to know I’ve got the answer for you right here….” a pause as he unfurls an invisible roll of parchment “Oh, my….it appears to be a multipart answer. So, do bear with me Ken. I promise Kyra won’t grow cold for you in the time this takes. You might miss her signal to betray Mac, though..”

“Anyway, onto the point. Which, I do have most of the time contrary to popular belief and heavily in spite of myself…I’m not JUST a man, Ken. Like you, I've gone into the deep end of grandeur. However, where you have come to demand reverence and admiration? I have chosen the path of giving. In most cases, a sign. I’m a harbinger, Kenneth. One for the end, in this particular instance for YOUR end.”

“Because it is coming to your end, Kenneth. Your part in this am-dram is, in the end, smaller than my own in Madison Tower. While you may be Baltimore’s Elite in the worst part of Illinois, here in SCW?

You’re just another one of Mac’s fingers I get to cut off.”

---

It was always tradition, no matter how tight the schedule for his bookings were. He took an extra day to recover quietly in the hotel suite the day after an event. This time however it was more a requirement than any sort of enjoyment in tradition.  His body cried out in an all too familiar symphony of pain. The more his age advanced, the louder the chorus seemed to become. The alto of knee cartilage bemoaning the rapid decline of its brethren.

The sweet bass of his lower back, serenading sweet fantasy of a body torn in two and torn from the constant, gripping pain of more than a decade of physical abuse. His long, lithe form lay bare except a pair of black cotton boxer briefs, stretched over the blankets of a hotel bed. Pale fingers flex and fan open before curling shut as he fights to get his blood moving, to return the sensation of touch to those hands.

Briefly, within the maelstrom of thoughts that kept him awake at night and anxious during the daylight he wondered if this is how Masque always felt? No wonder the woman had gone so mad, who wouldn’t under the circumstance? He pushed the thought out of his mind before it could fester, before another monster could sink its claws deeper into what remained of his mind.

For a while now, Sin City Wrestling had dropped the hints of him being in a title hunt and now on the heels of a decidedly humbling elimination from the Blast from the Past tournament, those promises had come to fruition. Not quite the championship he was after and not quite the Champion either.

There was a time where Matthew “The Raven” Knox vs “Godly” Ken Davison was a match all the little smarks chomped at the bit for, with gold on the line. But that world was long gone, and now that particular title match was worth little more than an upper-mid card spot. Of course, he was grateful for the opportunity as he was with any. Championships hold value no matter where they are in the figurative pecking order.

Even the lowest ranked, the workhorse titles that changed waists like the competitors ought to be changing socks were physical points of pride and validation. Out of a roster full of people, you were one of the select few who fought hard enough to earn hardware for it.

For now though, most of this mattered little to him. Because there was a greater purpose to be found here. Real, actual advancement in the path he had set for himself in Sin City Wrestling. Knocking Ken Davison out of the equation and rendering him to just another face on the roster made the Saviors even weaker than they were now.

Through the pain a chuckle escaped him, although the grimace that came across his face made clear the price good humor had enacted upon him. When he arrived, they were four strong with Amber Ryan in their corner. Now? One had disappeared, one had detached and distanced herself. Some could even wonder, and after their phone call rightfully so, if she hadn’t switched sides in the war.

The biggest finger of the gauntlet, he made Mac cut off himself. Now it was just Ken and Mac, brothers against the wolves. Picked to pieces and bits by a Raven. The thought almost brought forth another painful chuckle, but he settled for a sincere smile. Slowly, he sat up from the far too forgiving mattress, a choked whimper fighting its way past his lips from his chest as his body protested the movement.

He cast his eyes down to look over the scars his body wore as he was apt to, spending precious seconds reliving the memory attached to each. Fingers trace over the one happy scar above the tattoo of his second oldest daughter’s name, given to him by the love of his life the night they left, before they’d come to trust one another let alone love the way they do.

The thought of her brought forth a small pang of guilt. His Mari. The only person who did more than reach out with empty congratulations when he reached the professional pinnacle once more last July. And yet, she reached through it all and touched his heart while he had another woman with him as both traveling companion and bedmate.

Hell, the day he flew back to Reno he’d shared a kiss with another, in their apartment. Covered in glass that tore at their skin in physical semblance of the sin they had committed. He’d wanted desperately for her to stop him that day, that moment. Stop him from leaving, set him on a different course entirely.

However, the pining of them in no way meant that he regretted embarking on the path he had set on. God, how could he? While one was a mystery based around a kiss, the other was the softest bit of reality he had ever found. A woman who understood and loved him despite all his flaws, who was pregnant with his first son,

Yet, it wasn’t enough to keep him away when he saw the fantasy drowning, was it?

---

“And what’s more, your particular finger comes with a pretty little band of gold, doesn’t it Kennth?”

“Only took a year and a half, but the fans finally got what they kind of wanted. “Godly” you against me for a strap. However, even I have to quirk an eyebrow at how this went from top of the marque to mid-shelf at the market…”

“Back then, I was punching up. You were a path to me proving my worth. Lord knows that I had everything to prove, and nothing to lose…except of course, the match for the right to face you for that particular World Title. Now though? My, how time changes as quickly as it flies by us doesn’t it?”

“Since we last shared an arena, I’ve been a world champion. For longer than you were, if you don’t mind the subtle flex. I’ve spread my wings, if you don’t mind the pun. I’ve become more, I’ve ascended, although not quite as high as those in Seattle. And you, Ken? You’ve grown complacent. Stale. Stunted.”

“When we last parted, you were on top of the world. The roster you lead marched to the beat of your drum. You were, and still are, the only person to defeat Amber fucking Ryan for a singles title in the 2020s. The old man with no hair and a questionable ticker was as undeniable as that little stoner I trained in Indy..”

“....And now, what are you?”

“Second fiddle, it would seem. The rhythm guitarist in the cover band of your least favorite band of all time. Because, let’s be honest, The Saviors never were much more than a dollar store Paragon, were they? Which, in that light, makes this about like Zakk Wylde joining Limp Bizkit, doesn’t it? No matter…not that you really do.”

“My point is, Kenneth, that our roles haven’t reversed so much as I have outgrown you, and your ilk. You cling to others in an effort to belong, leaning upon ancient declarations of brotherhood and a love built upon reviling another. I simply belong, and every arena I enter belongs to me along with everyone and everything in it.”

“And that includes the SCW Internet Championship, Ken. The golden validation to match that of your brother and leader’s. See, the weight I spoke of earlier? It’s not just shared, is it? No, you have the weight of expectation resting upon the cueball you keep atop your neck don’t you? The expectation of championship gold, the desperation to evade the gut punch of losing a title on your first defense.”

“We’ve all been there. It’s a hurdle, probably the highest and the one none of us ever speak of. Not near as openly as we do the hurdle of winning the damn thing. Because, if you lose it the first time you defend it? God, it feels like you never had any real business winning it to begin with does it?”

“And then, the much more personal weight. This one hanging from your neck, dragging the cueball and its crown slowly toward the ground they’ll be buried within. The weight of expectation that Mac has for you. Oh, i’ve no doubt he won’t speak it, but he feels it. Just as you do. The expectation that you will stop my advance toward him. That you’ll defeat me, and end this crusade of mine…”

“What sort of brother would ask such a thing?”

“Know this, Ken. On that front, no matter the outcome of our match? You will fail. You will fail more miserably than you’ve ever failed before. Because defeating you, and taking this title from around your waist? They’d be feathers in my cap, no doubt. A win over Ken Davison, even one of advanced age and diminished repute? That’s something to hang your hat upon. You’re still big game, Ken…just more a buck now, than a Lion.”

“And nowhere near a God.”

---

Rage was not a new feeling. Whereas cleanliness and purity brought one closer to the Almighty, Rage? Rage brought them closer to humanity. Because at the end of the day, Rage is a part of all things.  Rage is the spark that makes passion burn. And here, in the back of a Dodge Charger in Philadelphia? Caught in another web cast by Cam Roth? Matthew Knox passionately wanted a way out of the predicament he was in.

Initially, they had quelled his suspicions on the time the travel was taking by assuring him it was protocol for high profile and celebrity collars. Take the back roads so the dirt sheets don’t get a shot of him in the back of the cruiser. But the way they spoke in low voices, and the younger one’s eyes kept snapping to and away from him? He knew the score.

He’d never see booking, let alone the jail. With the smallest of grimaces he fought back the creeping, icy fear that rose to fight the rage. No, he couldn’t give into that right now. Think logically, Cam Roth? As bad as he was? He was no Marv Nixon. The child was wrathful, but he was no killer. That wasn’t going to happen. But it would do nothing but tickle his future son in law to know he’d dealt a blow to his ambitions.

When the Charger pulled into the alley, he had resigned himself to his fate. Gotten a jump on strategizing how to overcome the injuries. Decided to fall down to one knee after the first blow. His most injured one, to protect it. Tuck in the chin, try to minimize the facial scuffing. Get in a headbutt. Maybe a bite if he was cheeky.

He had been here before, although it was in a far different life. Live by a far different man. Then, though, the drugs were definitely his.

And so the thrashing came to pass. Fists at first, strings of mockery.

“That all you got, tough guy?”
“The pretty ones are all propped up, get wins off paid dives don’t you know that?”

Empty, mostly. The worst damage his face had been given was from the cheeky headbutt when the badged thug had dared imply that he wasn’t that pretty.

No room in life for liars, after all.

The batons came then, and the first blow drove him down to the knee he had planned upon. The ringing in his ears and the pain in his head caused the loose grip he had on reality to slip if only slightly. The gaping, grinning maw of The Raven some had taken to calling Corvus filling his vision in time with the white hot flashes of pain as each blow landed.

Eventually, he slumped to the side, the conversation distant.

“Alright, you got that bullshit ready to go?”

“Yeah yeah…seems a waste though, we coulda slipped it to Joe and gotten another cool couple bills.”

“Greedy fuck, that Roth kid already set us up better than any of them hooker-lovin’ politicians ever did.”

“Yeah, yeah…but more is more, right?”

The tug on his hair brought him up, more privy to the conversation. The glint of moonlight off a needle surged adrenaline and fear, he jerked against the cuffs and tried to thrash his head away but the needle was far too swift, and true. Before long an all too familiar warmth began to run through him.

No..No, No. No.

He didn’t feel the man’s grip release, barely felt himself hit the ground or them releasing his cuffs. Their voices were distant and muffled, as if millions of miles away and underwater. Through his body, the pain was numbed and replaced with a familiar and warming numbness. Fingers contracted into his palm, as if he could pump the poison out of his blood.

Poison? The living should be so lucky if death was this pleasant.

No..not pleasant.

He exhaled a molten breath, rolling onto his back to stare at the stars in the sky. When he was young, he was always sure they were the dead who hadn’t crossed over, dutfully observing the chaos of the living they could no longer weave themselves into. It brought an odd sort of comfort, knowing that his mother and father were there. Many a cold night waiting for the dawn to come, and for Deuteronomy to be hammered home to him once more.

To bring forth the reddened knuckles, for the pride he dared show when the book of Matthew was brought up. Such cruelty by those so pious, to beat the pride from a boy scared of his shadow. Or, try to anyway.

Lord knows, his pride endured. It survived with the rest of the pieces of him that did, precious few next to the heaps of the dead. Pride that kept him in depths and scaling to new heights alike. Pride that brought him Gold, and all the pain with it. Pride that wouldn’t let him let go.

Pride that brought him right to this alley, right to a relapse he had fought off and evaded for going on two years.

Maybe, he really was as awful as they all made him out to be?

The feud with Roth, driving his daughter into the arms of his enemy while doing nothing to stop the other from going insane. The realization that he may yet have another child on the eve of his first son being born, while a daughter gestated in secret with a woman he never really loved. And through all his best attempts to render Zeus to little more than Steve Urkel in the department of relations, the sin of his presence in Sin City Wrestling.

The drunken confessions, the throb in his chest he fought to dul. Boxes created, stuffed and sealed for the sole purpose of keeping his path as just and true as he claimed it to be. He was here because his friend was drowning herself while her husband measured dicks with the Wolf’s Lair and gallivanted with his saviors.

A thoughtful smile…well, one of them.

Ken…

Fuck you, Ken Davison.

Another man that death had just barely missed, who engaged in hubris fueled endeavors of wrath while exalting himself as better than the rest of the scum around him. Another man convinced that ring acumen made him the father of Christ. A man so blinded by the gleam of old gold that he couldn’t see his coffers had been filled with bronze.

A man who shouldn’t matter, a relic of a time in his life that no longer served a purpose and yet? Yet he couldn’t let it go. He couldn’t let the failure go. Not even now, with a win over JC and that monkey off his back could he get over the missed opportunity. The chance it could have provided. To save the home he thought he had. To be a guiding light before the darkest and most venomous of hubris’ came to drown it.

So focused on that thought, so focused on Ken and how to defeat him that he neglected JC. Disregarded him as a threat, and left Amber in his mind as a known commodity. The real danger. Maybe she was, like she still was now.

Danger..Amber’s in danger.

God, it’s so warm here…

A low groan cut through the haze of memory and hatred as he rolled onto his side, toward footsteps that echoed off old, chipped stucco. They were panicked, running from something. They had nearly passed him by when they stopped. A touch on his ribs, pale fingers brush hair from his face.

“Knox? Knox what the f–” the voice was familiar, as were the sharp features and dark eyes revealed as the hood was pulled back. "Jesus fuck you are a mess…"

More cursing as Avalon Blackthorn straightened back up, panic and concern sharing the rent in her facial expression as more obligatory curses fell into a murmur.
She knew the footsteps that her fury had left in their wake weren't far- revenge was a fools game and she'd paid her fair share to play tonight.

Knox would probably kill her if he knew what she'd done to Roth, and on his home turf as well. Even just the thought brought the brief curl of a smirk across her lips before she was back to Knox and the present dilemma.

A glance over her shoulder confirmed the worst of her fears, the decision to make and sacrifice that would become its consequence.
It was worth it. That's all that mattered.

Heavy eyelids lulled, briefly causing her to turn into a blot on his vision before he shook hsi head, forcing himself to focus. A hand lazily reaches up to grasp her sleeve, trying to tug himself up enough to brace against the concrete as he let out a small groan.

“You left your cape at the arena…” slurred, spoken more to the ground than the ear he meant to aim for. A forced laugh, as though macabre humour would do anything for them.

24 years old and already looking at a second stint behind bars for what… trying to do some good?
Avalon shook her head knowingly, trying to quell the nausea rising in her throat as the voices started resonating off walls.

"You'll be pleased to know I left all my common sense there too… along with what's hopefully remaining of Cam Roth's teeth." Fear drove through her knees, rage forced his weight off the ground and determination balanced his dead weight against her own as her footsteps echoed as loud as the thunder of her beating heart. Another chuckle, a weak hand motion and the strength he had no right to lean on brought him to legs he could barely feel.

“I’m sorry I dragged you here…figured you’d just be a clown bouncer..” words rolling out on heavy, molten breaths. Not labored per say, but clearly unusual. He leaned into her in what could be the parody of an embrace, ignorant to the coming danger “Be sure to let me know how wrong I was when I come down…promise never to lie to me, Avalon. Okay?”

His hand drifted to her shoulder, squeezing it firmly as he made the request from the fog of what would usually be left field but now might as well have been the interstate.

"Don't you dare apologize!" A low hiss escaped with the words as she lowered her volume, as though they weren't an obvious sight. "You knew… we knew… if thing were gonna go south…"

Avalon couldn't bring herself to finish the sentence. It was always implied that things would go wrong… that's why she had insisted on being there. If nothing else but to break the inevitable fall.
Right now she had no career to threaten, no real life or love to speak of - a blank slate, void of personal connections and commitments.

She'd made it easy for him to rely on her… cause they both knew she'd never just stand by and let everything go to hell without taking anyone else they could with them.

"You never asked… and I never told you." Firmly, she made for the lights ahead. Open street was dangerous for those on the run, moths to a flame that burned a little to bright… what were the other options though?
Another dark alley, another dumpster leaking into corrosive puddles. Silently Avalon had promised to make things right…

Whatever the fuck that would entail. He did his best to move with her, fighting being a further hindrance to the only friend he had in the world. He tried to focus on the lights without becoming blind, tried to watch their path without letting the blur of concrete sicken him. In the fog, he found another friend. Sentiment. Soft thoughts to distract him, and perhaps filled with enough saccharine to accelerate her heroism.

Or leave him on that comfortable looking pile of cardboard to rot. Either way, really.

“You’re such a…” he snorted “God, even I hate this word…you know, how special you are Ava? The one person, who two of the worst people tried to instill the best of themselves in..” a heavy sigh wrapped in a bemused chuckle “God, you roll your eyes like Red…makes me wish I could still land a kick on you..”

A slight misstep but he felt her catch him, a smirk coming to his face. That was like her, too. Although, technically he was the last one to catch the other…

Focus, Birdbrain…

“Cam…he’s not worth it. And he’s not worth hating, not worth sullying yourself with it….I deserve this shit, or at least part of it…” he leaned closer as they walked, a hissing whisper rolling past his teeth “He blames me for his mom dying…..he doesn’t know I know…and now, you know..”

“So…let this lie..don’t do anything foolish, Ava. You’re better than it..you’ve always been better than it..” a pause “We never got that Cinnabon, you know..”

Another forced chuckle, this one stuck in the younger woman's throat though and came out resembling more of a cough.

"It's a bit late for that. We both knew bringing me in would eventuate in… well… I'm not a bystander. Red hates it too, although she never admitted it. Told me heroics were for those looking to lose more than they gained. Told her it was a good thing I didn't have a hope with her training me then…"

A soft pause. Trying to focus on the words instead of the welling resentment of her own inability to leave well enough alone.

"She punched me in the mouth for that one. Thought I'd ducked it…" Instinctively, even with so much time in the rearview, Avalon could still picture the moment. A brief distraction from the lights- brighter, safer. Too safe. They were never gonna make it…

“She never misses…it’s why she’s going off the deep end….” he mumbled, shaking his head “Or something like it…weight of expectations, mostly her own…lashing out though? That’s love, i’ve come to convince myself…” his own brief pause.

“If it was hatred, we’d not be here talking about it. At least, that’s my theory…but I am INCREDIBLY high on heroin right now, so I wouldn’t trust a goddamn thing I say if I were you…” he let out a soft chuckle then, lifting his head to read a street sign as they passed it. They weren’t far.

Briefly, he thought of an old film. The warriors. A group of broken friends fighting against insurmountable odds to get home after their leader had been cut down. This was close, except they had no leader. Or numbers. Or vests. And there were no baseball bat wielding clowns…

…Yet.

Pushing the thought from him, he killed the silence with a more pertinent statement “The hotel isn’t far now…Just leave me on my side and go to bed when we get there. You’ve done more than enough, Ava..”

Avalon shook her head vehemently, forcing down the doubts and the guilt that she'd gone too far… it was stupid. It was impulsive.
She couldn't deny though that it felt really really fucking good.

"I never tried to understand Red. Found life a little more peaceful that way." A lie she found comfort in, Avalon shifted the dead weight slightly for what felt like an eternal home stretch.
She wanted to cuss him out and tell him that he was a furious, idiotic mess however concern and determination silenced those voices before they ever took hold.

There would be plenty of time later.

She hoped.

Her words rolled through his head, but in a jumbled mess more than anything. He couldn’t pick up his head, let alone any subtleties in her body language and tone. The pavement was all a continuous grey streak now, leading to the promise of a warm bed and a sleep he would only wake up in misery from. He wondered what he’d remember, if anything?

He wondered if it was real, any of it? Was he still in the alley? There was no way Avalon had really happened upon him, dragged him across Philadelphia in the dead of night just to save his worthless carcass, right?

It was in this reverie he remained, even as their luck run out. A pair of familiar faces, a third parked not far off, keenly observing even through a scuffed and bruised face. He was deaf to her bartering, appealing to their logic. He didn’t hear the slight bit of emotion that dared  creep in that convinced them to not let him die on the curb outside the hotel.

She really was special, wasn’t she?

The diamond patterns in the carpet swirled and ran together, forcing his eyes to shut. He felt like he was tumbling through a void as she finally relieved herself of his weight. Strong hands, however small gently rolled him onto his side. He felt her turn away, finding the strength to fire out a desperate hand to grab back upon the sleeve that had supported him.

“Ava…” he murmured from the darkness, pausing as he focused on moving the air from his lungs and out his nostrils until he found the space aboard them for the sentiment “I’ll be better..”

With the most genuine of smiles she might muster in the face of oblivion, Avalon gave him a nasty little wink… one he recognised on the moments before teeth started hitting the floor. Followed shortly before the rest of their bones…

No… No, you won't… and neither will I."

His hand fell like a stone in the sea then, fingers dragging over the carpet as the door closed behind her. He remained in the void, struggling against the grip of an all too familiar friend as he drifted to an ignorant sleep.

Ignorant of the cuffs being latched onto her wrists. Ignorant of her return to the alley they had taken him to, ignorant of how vigorously she resisted arrest according to their reports. Ignorant, blissfully ignorant of how she spent her night feeling every blow dealt by the imputent wrath of Cam Roth the Third while he drifted in a cloud of warm, poisonous numbness.

Because, as always, The best of us suffer while the wretched are spared.

The designs of a merciless God.

---

“So many of us fill that void where our self worth wasn’t fully allotted with monickers. I know, i’ve already said this, but I need you to keep trusting me here Ken. I’m wordy, I know but you need to hear every last syllable of this.”

“I’ve spent a large portion of my time in this business showing the mortality of the self exalted. Usually by means unbecoming of a gentleman, or any man really. You saw me emasculate, break down and destroy one such man back in Baltimore. Sure, most chalked his demise up to the theatrical ninjas in the parking lot but anyone who knows this business, the warfare of it?”

“I destroyed Insidious. I destroyed Sah’ta Thor. A man who thought himself as untouchable as a politician and mighty as a Deity. A man I once loved like a father…”

“And I’ve held no love for you, Ken…so what am I willing to do to you?”

“Now, I know you’ll likely be offended at the comparison. As you should be…to a degree. Thor was nowhere near your level there. He had no gold that wasn’t rusted, his coffers were filled with cobwebs and his kingdom was of ash…Things haven’t quite gotten that dreary for you. Not yet….but the first step toward that drear comes at Climax Control.”

“I’m sure you’re comfortable, wherever you are right now. Enjoying that domestic peace you’ve found. That you’ve earned. This match, this title? Maybe they don’t mean quite so much to you. Not near as little as I do, I'm sure.”

“I await with baited breath your declarations upon me and my character. Mostly to see which version of me lives in your head. Am I the overgrown man baby acting like a goth kid? Will there be some jab at my abundance of bastard children? Perhaps a crack about me being a junkie who amounted to nothing in your eyes? I personally am pulling for you to lob another accusation of obsession at me.”

“Those have come to be a personal favorite. A guilty pleasure, like ice cream at midnight. Empty, full of calories and a help to no one..”

“I suppose though, whatever drivel you let stain the front of the shirt Kyra bought you just for this promo? It won’t amount to much. All that will matter is what happens between the time the bell rings a start, and an end.”

“You evaded me before, Fate kept you safe Ken. Loyalty, however? Loyalty to a fool blinded by ambition has undone all of fate’s hard work. Because win, lose, or draw? I’m going to send you back to her arms in pain. I’m going to make her daughter see you wince in pain while you do your best cosplay of a father. I’m going to make you wish that your heart had given out and taken you to meet the other Father you continue to cosplay as even today…”

“I am Raze. I am Ruin. I am The Raven, and in this land of Gods and Monsters? Only one of us gets to survive, Kenneth…”

“And I will make damn sure, that even if it’s you?”

“No one will be able to tell.”

There was only one way this was going to end.

Violently.

But, he had to drive home that he wasn’t going anywhere. He needed to know, really know. Not the fake sort of ‘know’ the camera could pick up. He needed it to be told to him in the way only she could. She. Her. Amber Ryan. Not the Hurricane, not the Lie she put up to keep any and everyone at bay. The walls so few dared to even face let alone scale.

She had once whispered to him a plea. One that resonated with him, one that he’d never forget or fail.

“Please don’t let me hurt anyone else.”

He didn’t plan to…

….If he could evade it, that was another question.

One that would soon be answered as one hand reached out, deftly flicking his cracked door open and the other found purchase upon a toned arm he swore was full of piano wire. A quick tug, a firm grasp and a pivot of the hips to drag them both beyond the threshold. The ‘click’ of a door shut as if he had just walked in from the continental breakfast. He raised his hands up above his head, leaving a lot unguarded as he spoke.

“It’s only like this because yo–”

Her state gave him pause, glasz eyes narrowing. A gleam of protective nature he didn’t have right to glazing them over.

“Jesus fuck, what happened?”

If looks could kill, Matt Knox would have been dead years ago. Now would simply be another in a long line of misfortunate deaths to be tallied as Amber Ryan stared an unimpressed hole through the base of his skull.

"Are you fucking serious Matt…" stepping back, she wouldn't make for the door right away. That was a telegraphed move he expected, best keep things off guard and out of step. Of course she knew what he was referring to, she hadn't exactly had alot of time to cover the cut above her left eye, the new bruises around her throat, face and wrist that bloomed in black and purple- mostly importantly though, she hadn't been able to cover the cut that traced her throat, peeking from just beneath her chin as she lowered her head to deflect.

"Like are you out of your mind? Are you so intent on getting murdered in the ring that you're actively seeking it out now?
Whatever it is you want, I'm not interested. I'm not playing. It's been a long night and I've got shit I really need to do…"

An annoyed side step didn't leave nearly as much space between them as she's have liked. It was so little, he simply leaned over to close it, shoulder finding a roost against the wallpaper as a brazen hand came up to tilt her chin upward, if only to be swatted away with the same warning a wounded animal would give in it’s only effort to evade a fight to the death.

“We’re not here to talk about me, not until you tell me what the fuck all this is.” a long, pale finger raised to draw a circle around her face and neck, hovering far enough away to snatch it should she choose to break it to try and get past him. He let out a small sigh, eyes drifting from her and staring holes into the wall. He let out another breath, trying to find firmer ground to stand on. Quell his temper.

Investigate, don’t accuse.

“Amber, i’m asking you for honesty here. Just as much as I’m begging you to quit acting like I don’t know you.”

A wry smile crossed her features, the remnants of a chuckle crossing her lips while the rest seemed to dissipate before ever hitting the air.

"Not sure if you remember this darling, but we're professional wrestlers… this?" Gesturing vaguely, she quirked an eyebrow curiously. "Is par for the course…"

Clearing her throat, Amber straightened up whilst maintaining the smile as it tried to flicker outwards. "I had a world title defense… this is the cost of being champion, you know, in case you forgot what that was like…" A verbal barb never went far astray between the pair as Amber attempted to slip past Matt's physical guard.A bump of the shoulder, enough to buy him a step which he matched in kind in the opposite direction, placing himself closer to the door and a little more space between them.

“Funny…never had anyone try to slit my throat over a title…” he mused pointedly, bringing a hand up to scratch at his goatee thoughtfully, or irritatedly.

"Probably didn't want it badly enough then." Sarcasm and derision, a language they both spoke far too fluently to be fair on anyone else.

“No doubt.” he bit back, hand dropping once more “But….going against every conversation we’ve ever had, stopping the music before this…fucking dance gets any more intricate, i’m going to be blunt. Knock it off, and quit bullshitting me. I’m not the fans, i’m not a Bombshell - shut up - and i’m not anyone in Mac’s happy glove club.” he pushed off the wall, freeing up the space a bit.

“You haven’t been acting right since Denzel started barking about physical altercations in Atlantic City involving you and a mystery woman. This whole ‘everything is fine’....this ‘Queenpin’ bullshit…” he tsked “The masks we wear to hide ourselves always look like our face, Red…”

A step forward, brazen for a man with such a long neck to snap.

“You don’t look a thing like you anymore.”

Matching the intensity in his eyes with her own, the smile never wavers from distant and airy. Amber cocks her head slightly, almost as though examining him from the inside out- or imagining what the inside would look like splattered across the floor.

"Ask yourself a question Matt… why the fuck do you care so much? Why does it matter so badly to you how I'm willing to go and ruin my life…" A small chuckle, dredged from somewhere that only seemed to bubble up on her worst days echoed in the space between them.
"Yeah… you just think about it."

A heavy pause followed that neither were willing to acknowledge.

"Perspective is a funny thing, you should really consider getting yourself a new one… I find it's quite… enrapturing." Deliberately soft, the words fell like whispers dropped from a cliff as she slipped on by with an unavoidable air of 'no fucks given', before Amber paused by the door.

"You're not a bad person Knox- so stop trying to get involved in the business of those who really are."

It wasn’t so much a knife being driven through him, as it was that the question brought pause. Pause like when you find a line, that once crossed could never be uncrossed. The stain it would leave would be eternal, far reaching. Lives would be altered…

The truth was powerful, in that way.

“I’m not.” his own voice smaller, brows drawn together as he stood still as stone, his back to her. He let it hand for a moment, begging to be shot down by another venomous stab that wasn’t meant to kill, but to cripple. To dissuade from a path he’d already set upon.

Their talks were always the same like that….

“And neither are you.”

Lighter than the air between them, there was that shred of laughter dancing between them again, as though it didn't really exist.

"Oh, honey… you really haven't a clue."

His own laughter crept out then, head craning back to face the heavens, asking his creator what he was thinking with this one for a moment before he turns to her, letting her keep the distance however little. However much a part of him wanted to reach out and shake her until something clicked. Until the right gears turned to pull her out of whatever this was. To draw her in and..

“There’s only one way I go away, and you already know it…like I know you’re not going to do it.” a pause “Not, right now anyway. You’re far too cagey and…cat like for all that…or at least, you were.” he we this lips, nodding once with a smaller, dryer chuckle.

“I’m not going anywhere Amber, and whatever you’re trying to drown yourself in is going to need to drown me too. Because i’m not letting you have this.”
“I don’t have that in me.”

"Well…" That smile finally showing signs of evolving into something else, although what was uncertain, curled with spite. "I suppose I'll see you at the bottom then...

Somewhere between here and eternity, he swore he’d make it work, for everyone.

Polarizing wherever he went, even down to his own flesh and blood, tension and ire were no strangers to Matthew Knox. Nor were the late nights that were birthed from their unholy, torturous pairing.

He took a sip of the bourbon sloshing within the glass he gripped with his right hand, the cigarette between index and middle finger raising to take its place a mere millisecond after its departure. The faint burn of the liquor mixed with that of the non-filter Camel brought about the lightest, most toxic of satisfactions. Punctuated by the noxious fumes he released through his nostrils, polluting the ocean air.

Captain Planet may never forgive the sin.

A chuckle at the joke no one was around to hear. Because of course, by his own design and to his own demise, Matthew Knox was alone tonight. Sat within a chair he dragged from his dining room table out to the sands down the hill from his back door. The pacific roared a mocking laughter at his destructive nature as he sat there with a bottle of Bourbon between his feet, eyes staring out upon its endless expanse.

Misery loved his company, as the years had shown. Tonight’s suffering? A succulent spread of Paternal crisis, the questioning of his own loyalties, and the influence of monsters on men. Ever since his faithful return in June of 2020 after all those years trying to kill himself with chemical vices he had paved a road to both damnation and glory hand in hand with it.

And now? Now he was determined to be carried out upon his shield, and take as many others with him as possible.

Between being the champion of Pro Wrestling Valor, joining the ‘True Society’ of Project Honor, and now a much more personal war for Sin City Wrestling? He would no doubt get what he so desired.

Or so he thought.

The opponents for his inaugural, and return matches respectively within SCW and Project Honor had a combined win record of precisely Dick. It almost felt insulting, given the game he was after. Given the exit he desir--no, DEMANDED of the universe that had refused to give him anything else.

A sneer, he knocked back the last of the brandy in the glass and stood from his seat, He reached down to grab the bottle, setting to refill it as his mind turned to the spark of tonight’s self loathing.

He’d only barely found out about their relationship, but truth be told he felt a special bond with the blonde Strader woman the moment he laid eyes upon her. Near a year on, and after meeting most of the rest of her family, he came to find out her entire existence was thanks to him and her mother being horny teenagers at a kegger in Northern California while everyone prepared for the doomsday of Y2K.

And in record time, he’d gotten her to hate him.

And he was really trying for the other thing.

Guess thats what hurt.

Part of him reasoned that it was a simple case of her being too damn much like him. Stubborn, prideful, absolutely Cardinal when it came to her opinions on people and events. And she held a grudge.

God, did she hold a grudge.

Another long sip of the bitter, yet somehow distinctly sweet brown liquid. Another hiss at the burn.

Another bit of hurt numbed.

And of course, aside from the troll on his horizon...he knew that Vegas needed him. Arrogant as it sounded, there were accounts that desperately needed settling. Fights that were never properly had that needed to be done before the curtain finally drew upon hm. Wrongs needing to be made right.

A friend straying from their path.

He couldn’t allow that. Not when there righteousness was all that kept the other one clinging to even the tiniest shred of the straight and narrow.

A venomous smirk cracks his pale lips, a scoff warmed by liquor and a thought cold as ice.

Once again, him loving something was going to lead to years being taken off a life that was already half over.

---

[/font]

---

   “This is bad comedy.” a pause “But, then again, you are a troll so..I guess that tracks.”

The camera comes to life to find the tall, svelte form of Matthew Knox stood upon the side of a nondescript road in the middle of the Mojave Desert. He’s adorned in a brown leather jacket, black Carnage Wrestling T-shirt,  slacks and a scuffed pair of Stacey Adams. His hands are buried in his pockets, glasz eyes staring into the camera as a bemused smirk spreads over his features.

“And, as a Troll, I'm going to go ahead and guess that you are equal parts dreadful and utterly predictable in every way...as predictable as your end by heart disease, should you survive our encounter.” a venom-laced chuckle rolls from his chest, one hand firing up from the shelter of its pocket in a mock surrender.

‘I’m Horrible’ the hand declared.

“See, I’m far too active on Twitter. Truth be told, it’s what has fueled my resurgence. A...willingness to engage. To be recruited. To pick fights and answer the call of those foolish enough to darken my doorstep with violent intent. But see, for once? For once I'm not here for glory, or sophomoric mud slinging.”

“Well...not JUST glory and sophomoric mudslinging..”

“See, I’ve got my gold. I’m the World Champion of a company that is built of the best representatives of every company in this industry. A shocking lack of SCW talent to be found...well, shocking to me at least. Not sure if Cam Roth even knows this place exists. And frankly, you should all be thankful.”

“There are world beaters here though. Alex Jones, head of...well, Alex Jones. Amber Ryan, the most dangerous person in combat sports...taking it easy in a division filled with people unfit to pack her lunch. Mac Bane, Ken Davison..” a small pause, a smirk. “Thomas Rivers…”

“And who, pray tell, do they lay at my feet? The proffered first win to ‘get off on the right foot’? The sacrificial lamb used to see if I’m really worth a damn, or if i’m just another washed up has been never-was looking for a pay day? The Fat Kid…” he grits his teeth, openly cringing at himself. “That’s the second time i’ve attacked your weight, isn’t it? How honestly awful of me. I do apologize, I’m usually very good at making you like me first before the inevitable ire..”

“But, see, there’s nothing of substance to attack with you, Troll. For the life of me, I can’t remember your name.  Can’t remember a signature win, hell I couldn’t even find a win. All I could find, is the pre filmed rantings and ravings of a man who takes nothing serous and is convinced he has the inside track on life, all the answers and deserving all the glory…”

“...While arguing with his mother in her basement. And backing up none of his ravings..” a pause, he leans into the camera and ‘whispers’ “Startin to wonder where you were on January 6th, bud…”

A mocking chuckle as he begins to pace up the road, the camera following each step.

“Me, though? Oh, I've got plenty for you to fill a Vlog with. I’ve made the mistake of leaving companies I didn’t feel were a good fit. Be it culture, the staff etcetera. People are incredibly tribalistic and...Stupid about that sort of rot. Even when they themselves end up leaving the place.”

“I’m Arrogant. Pompous. Rich. Good Looking. Everything you’ve hated since High School I'm sure. Where people like me excelled and reached important social milestones while you stared far too long at that pretty girl and couldn’t quite understand why she didn’t stare back…”

“Well, Troll...tragic as it might be for you, and funny as it will be for me..this isn’t High School. I’m not banging your crush-although you seem the type to fetishize my wife - and there is no counselor or principal that is going to stop me from bullying you to tears in that ring.”

“So, please, roll out the diatribe about Ravens, about me being an arrogant prick, About me failing...at least on the last one you’ve proven yourself an expert. Then, at Climax Control? We’ll go through the motions. I’ll kick the shit out of you, you’ll lose a-fucking-gain and then you will cease to matter to me, and I will spend the rest of my time here trying to wash the stink of your flop seat off my hands.”

“I am Raze. I am Ruin...I am the Raven. And i’ve come back to this desert with a terribly pure purpose...and how unfortunate for you, they’ve put you in my way...I’m going to use you as an example to them. To Oblivion...to those that have lost sight of who and what they are in this world. I’m going to break you down, and garner you the sympathy you thought those blogposts about all the women who’d never sleep with you would get…”

“The last, and most important question. Now that I've laid it at your feet….”

“Can you stop me?”

A cursory glance over his shoulder, one last small bemused chuckle and the spectral form of Matthew Knox continues walking up the road, passing the sickly green sign that proudly declares.

[/b]

---

Admittedly, the Mojave isn’t my favorite place. I thought I was quite done with it, after my time in Uprising had come to an end. But, i’ve been wrong before. God, i’ve been wrong about so much but I can’t be wrong about this.

Mac Bane had always been a true north in Baltimore. Maybe he wasn’t the most decorated member of the roster, maybe he wasn’t the strongest or the fastest but his heart? The purity of it? Him being a decent fucking man in an industry vipers? This is what earned him my respect.

When the whole world got sick of Jack Michaels, he was one of the few who tried to appeal to both sides while never compromising who he was.

He was even loyal to Ken Davison, seeing him as a brother even when he endeavored to ruin his would-be Bride in Amber Ryan.

….huh, maybe there were other reasons he was so close to Jack?

No matter. Even with these lapses in judgement, Questionably unquestionable loyalty to those undeserving of it in my humble opinion? I admired and RESPECTED Mac Bane…

...Until now.

I’d fought coming to SCW, determined to remove myself from those i’d met in Baltimore especially after Uprising. How can one be expected to write their own story, when they’re apart of so many around them? So, I left to pursue many a fruitless war and 20 pounds of rotten, golden validation. Everything thats expected of me in this Industry.

And I succeeded. I’m a Champion among Champions. In my wholly arrogant and self serving opinion? I hold the most prestigious title in all of Wrestling. One afforded to the best of the best gathered once a month to wage a terrible, industry shifting war.

I have a wife now. I have another child on the way. A son. We’ve decided to name him Asahi, japanese for ‘Sunrise’...because that’s what he is. The dawn of a new age for my terrible and wretched name. A name all my daughters may someday be so lucky to escape while it falls upon him, my sunrise, to redeem it.

So why risk it? Why come here, and throw a wrench in the gears when everything is going so well? Why lower myself to agreeing to a match with someone who looks and probably smells like 4chan.org?

Because my family is ruining my friend.

Mac Bane’s well has been poisoned by Supreme Machine. And if his well is poisoned, all those who drink from it will inevitably be made sck as well.

And there’s one person who drinks deep from it that I cannot risk.

I’ve got no real interest in more Gold. I’ve got no interest in accolades. I’m not here for a long time, not anymore.

I’m just here for a time.

There’s a tired old quote about Evil triumphing off the sloth of good men...well, there are no Good Men in Sin City. Not anymore, so it would seem.

So i’ve come to be worse, and make you look Good again.

Can you stop me?

[/i][/font][/i]