The Grand March & KODM 2023 (Apr '23).

Eternal made their tag team debut as part of the tag team scramble match on Meltdown XXVI after weeks of build through vignettes introducing us to Princess Nova and Keres as well as their TORN universe. Nova had, of course, debuted previously in the FWA during the FWA World Championship battle royale on Metldown XXII, and then picked up her first win in a four-way ladder match at Back in Town. Nova also impressed in the scramble match, placing in third as an individual behind Alyster Black and the eventual final survivor in Jeremy Best. Although Eternal were unsuccessful in their attempts to secure number one contendership for the FWA World Tag Team Championships, they marked themselves out as exciting newcomers, and ones to be watched, in the tag division.

Throughout the twenty sixth and seventh cycles of Fallout and Meltdown, we’ve seen Eternal target Lizzie Rose in a sequence of often surreal interludes, introducing Rose to the TORN universe and the mysterious ‘FYOG’. The precise objectives of Keres and Princess Nova remain unknown, though it’s clear that ‘Hollywood’ Joe Burr - long time friend and occasional tag team partner of Rose - thinks caution and resistance to be the best response. This culminated in Hollywood’s challenge to Eternal following their victory over Doug and Dan LuPone of the Lumberjacks on Fallout 027, setting up this tag team opening contest at the Grand March.

Both men in this singles match-up are currently on a two-match winning streak, leading to the arrangement of this contest that will decide the challenger for the FWA North American Championship at Back in Business XVII (depending on the results of the Carnal Contendership). Jackson Fenix may have lost in tag team competition in that time, but these team defeats are book-ended by a triple threat win over Blair Ravenwood and Dan LuPone, as well as Meltdown XXVII’s one-on-one triumph over Trevor Walker. It is believed that these two victories, along with the nature of the Undisputed Alliance’s losses to the Connection, which were invariably due to nefarious Nephew skullduggery, contributed to Fenix being awarded this huge singles opportunity at the Grand March.

Mike Parr, meanwhile, recently returned to FWA action on Fallout 025 and immediately targeted old stable-mate Kayden Knox, attacking him backstage and then defeating him at the Back in Town pay-per-view. The Prodigy followed up with a win against Reagan Cole on Meltdown XXVI, before it was announced that he would be taking a week off competition in the XXVII/027 cycle. Parr appeared on Fallout, though, declaring himself open to all comers for the Grand March, putting to bed rumours that he might not compete until the Carnal Contendership match. Later on Saturday, the FWA press team announced that Mike Parr had subsequently been offered this match by Jon Russnow. No name is more synonymous with the North American Championship than Mike Parr, who has the record for the most reigns (at four) and the longest reign (at four hundred and fifty four). Only one record relating to that title remains for the Prodgy: he is currently thirty seven days short of WOLF’s record six hundred and two days of combined reigns with the belt. Perhaps Parr sees this match as the pathway to yet another accolade in a glittering FWA career.

Look! They’re on pay-per-view now!

The past three months has seen Big Bryan Baxter on a wave of momentum that included a Semi-Finals showing in the F1 Climaxxx as well as winning the FWA North American Championship against Lizzie Rose during the tournament. He would go on to successfully defend the title at Back in Town in a rematch with Lizzie. But since debuting in FWA, Bryan has made a lot of enemies with his “win at all costs” mentality. On Meltdown XXVII, Baxter received a note that someone was coming for him at Grand March. But with such a long list of potential people coming for him, the question remains, who will be Bryan’s challenger? And to make matters worse for the champion, he will be going into this match without Mr. Scorpane. The man who has been so responsible for many of his wins has seemingly taken on a new spot with The Nephews instead.

The names of Aka Yurei and Keiko Hirabayashi will be known to the FWA, particularly the former, who impressed in her most recent run in the company in the middle of 2022. Aka Yurei managed to pick up the FWA World Tag Team Championships during that run with Reagan Cole as part of the Spirit Walkers, but now returns to the Fantasy Wrestling Alliance with new partner Hirabayashi as part of Aka Manto. They are set to make their debuts in Chicago, Illinois, where they will hope to make an instant impression over midnight MUSTANG and sunrise STALLION of PONI-BOI.

Shawn Summers overcame Death Walker, Jason Randall, and then-champion Vampyra to become the FWA Television Champion at Back in Town for a second time. Summers has dominated that division since its inauguration, his first reign only coming to an end at the previous pay-per-view when he was defeated (contentiously) by Phillip A. Jackson at Lights Out. Summers has already defended the belt once against Joe Burr, and will now look to extend his run with the belt against a very game opponent in Tommy Bedlam. Der Basterd put out an open challenge for his championship on a first come, first served basis on Meltdown XXVI, and this was promptly answered by the Cowboy only two days later on Fallout 026.

Tommy Bedlam has had some issues of his own dating back to the later stretches of the F1 Climaxxx. After re-entering the FWA and building momentum thanks to early victories over Nate Savage, Jason Randall, and Vampyra, the Cowboy has struggled as of late and slumped to a losing streak throughout the early part of 2023. That was somewhat put to rest when Bedlam overcame the Boulder on Fallout 027, but he will no doubt hope to triumph over more credible competition at the pay-per-view. During that recent tune-up match against the Boulder, Shawn Summers made his presence felt and indeed almost cost Bedlam the contest, hitting the ring and attacking the Cowboy with a chair. Der Basterd saved his most callous actions for after the match, though, where he shoved Tommy Bedlam’s pregnant valet Randi before a brief scuffle broke out between the two. An inaudible word from Summers brought this to a halt, with Bedlam taken aback in surprise at what his Grand March opponent had to say to him. It will be interesting to see if this match brings about any closure between these two, or if any more light is shed on what gave the Cowboy such pause on Fallout 027.

Chris Peacock began his first reign with the FWA World Championship at Back in Town, when he cashed in his Golden Opportunity briefcase with an ahead-of-time challenge. For two years now, this mechanic has been quite literally a Golden opportunity, with Devin Golden dethroned and denied the chance to defend his newly-won championship at the Grand March. For Chris Peacock, it marks the end of a journey that has taken him just over two years, a remarkable accomplishment in itself. However, if there’s one thing we’ve learned from the long list of champions that have reigned briefly since Saint Sulley’s most recent reign ended at 2021’s Back in Business, it’s that it’s maybe more difficult to keep the title than to win it. Peacock will hope to survive this first hurdle and establish himself as champion, with the next defence after this one not scheduled until Mexico City’s Back in Business in July.

Meanwhile, much of the winter in the FWA was dominated by the F1 Climaxxx, with the final held just before Peacock’s triumph as the penultimate match of Back in Town. In that contest, we saw Michelle von Horrowitz dupe the match official and earn a disqualification victory over Cyrus Truth, a result that didn’t sit well with the FWA Cosmos, and least of all the Exile. Jon Russnow would quickly announce on Meltdown XXVI that, although he couldn’t reverse the decision or strip MvH of the F1 win, he could add Cyrus Truth to the main event of the Grand March, and this three-way dance match was born.

The run-up to this showdown has been punctuated by Nephew malfeasance against Cyrus Truth, firstly trying to cause his disqualification in a singles contest against Tommy Bedlam on Fallout 026. That particular plan backfired, but Truth was defeated on Meltdown XXVII by a team of Nephews, much to Truth’s chagrin and Dreamer’s delight. Peacock, meanwhile, has mostly escaped the focus of Michelle von Horrowitz’s associates, but tensions have risen between him and the Exile after perceived slights on Meltdown XXVI. Annoyed at being brushed off by Cyrus Truth after his intervention with the Nephews, Peacock traded hands with the Exile at the climax of Fallout 026 and words at the beginning of Meltdown XXVII. The three stood off as Fallout 027 went off the air, with the King of the Deathmatch competitors brawling at ringside around them.

Cyrus Truth will be looking to begin his fourth reign with the FWA World Championship in Chicago, whilst Michelle von Horrowitz will hope it’s the dawn of her third. Chris Peacock stands in both of their way, with all three no doubt dreaming of entering Mexico City at Back in Business XVII with the richest prize in the game in tow.



The promo deadline for this show is as follows:

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

If there are errors with timezones/daylight savings, appropriate grace will be given. There will be no extensions. Good luck!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Part one…”


MICHELLE von HORROWITZ
in
VOLUME ONE HUNDRED AND SEVEN



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Eliminated first?” she asked.

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I think we'll leave it there."



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

“. …. ….’. .. .. …,” he answered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Speak for yourself,” Michelle replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

The old her.

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

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

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

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

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