Seattle, WA – Febuary 23rd, 2010.

Cigarette smoke climbed into the air, and seemed to melt against the beige ceiling of the hotel room.

“A man leaves his beer precariously close to the edge of a table at a bar. A woman walks by, and accidentally knocks it over. She does the respectable thing, and buys him a new drink.”

Mr. Hayden’s tan trench coat was draped over a chair by the window. If you knew this man it would be a shocking thing to see him without it. The coat was like his skin. He sat up in bed, naked. The bed sheets covered him from the midsection on down. The peppers of gray in his hair and rings under his eyes had a way of making him look older than he really was.

“Now because she has four less dollars in her pocket, she doesn’t stop at Taco Bell on the way home. And when she turns left at the intersection by her house, she makes it just in time to get struck by a drunk driver. Killed instantly.”

Mr. Hayden punctuated that piece of the story by taking a long drag of his cigarette, and puffing more smoke into the air.

“The neighborhood is outraged, and the momentum from this one accident makes it all the way up to the desk of congressmen and senators. Before you know it the legal limit is lowered. Then super bowl week a star quarterback gets a DUI by .0000000001, and can’t play. His team loses the game. And some guy who has two mortgages out on his house loses thirty grand he doesn’t even have in Vegas. And why is his life ruined?”

He looked over to the woman that lay beside him. Kathryn Shaw smiled thinly. She was not attracted to this man, but he had a certain cadence to him, his words had a certain flow. It relaxed her.

“Because some guy put his drink too close to the edge of the table at a dive bar he’s never even heard of. Crazy fucking world.”

Kathryn was on her stomach, positioned just so that her full breasts aren't buried against the bed sheet. For most people, this would have taken practice, perhaps been redone several times to be just right. With the Sex Kitten, it was a motion that just came naturally. Long fingers trailed through the forest of Mr. Hayden's chest hair.

'I can honestly say that's the first time someone's mentioned a car wreck right after I brought them off.' She tipped her head to the side, tawny hair spilling across the hand that pillowed her head. 'I think I might be losing my touch.'

Mr. Hayden didn’t laugh, he hardly ever laughed, but he had a way of chuckling with his eyes. They softened when he was amused.

“Miss Shaw, if you’ve lost your touch…would have loved to know you when you had it.” The butt of his cigarette joined several others in a clear ash tray on the night stand. “I haven’t had sex in five years. Don’t really think about it much. Might think of it a bit more often now.”

'Well, you have my number.' She grinned again, scooting closer. Plump lips brushed against his bare shoulder as her nails tickled along his abdomen. 'Unless you were thinking about it again now...'

He shook his head. “I’m an old man, Miss Shaw. I’m afraid that would be a waste of both our time.”

He lit another cigarette, and looked down at Katsidy.

“When Alexandra quit the Order, I was afraid it would come to this,” he started, “I was afraid that this was the only place I would be able to touch her. This psychopath you associate with, Stevens…is he really the man for this job?”

'Now that depends on what job you're talking about, hon.' Despite his rejection of a second go-around, Kathryn doesn't retreat, or stop with the caress. 'If you're talking about ending Alex, putting her in the grave? Mm, probably not. If you're talking about making her seven shades of uncomfortable? There's no one else except maybe my sister – God rest her soul – who I'd trust to do that.'

Mr. Hayden considered that for some time, half a cigarette to be exact. He didn’t encourage her advances, but he didn’t push them aside either.

“Your Dead Man’s Hand has its funding. The money will be in the account by morning. Not a word of my involvement.”

'Not a word of whose involvement?' she grinned, snatching the half-smoked cigarette from his hand as she rolled onto her back. Her breasts – marvels of modern plastic surgery, just recently realigned – pointed up on her chests, falling at a surprisingly natural angle. She touched the smoke to her lips. 'You're a good man, Mr. Hayden. And not half-bad a lay for an old man.'

When he reached over to check the time on the alarm clock, Kathryn couldn’t help but notice the tattoo on his other arm. It was a black cowboy hat. It was vaguely familiar, the way a campfire story could be.

“I am in league with a man that I can’t walk away from,” Mr. Hayden said, his weary eyes drawn to her breasts subconsciously, “and now so are you.”

The Siren didn’t seem alarmed – these kinds of alliances were old hat, so to speak.

Now.

Sean Freer loved pro wrestling.

The heroes fought for what was right, and the villains opposed them at every turn. It was all so big, so dramatic. It all felt so important.

There were those that compared his battle with leukemia to such things, but he never bought it. There was nothing grand about the muted gray walls of the Cancer Research Center of Hawaii. There were no damsels in distress here, except for the heavy nurse who had trouble with the vending machine. He didn’t win title belts, but instead was awarded a pat on the back after his usual post therapy vomiting.

He was only nine years old, and had already spent way too time in places like these. But today was different. Today was exciting.

Sean was a frail thing. He sat in the waiting room with his parents, it would be any minute now that the limo would arrive to take him away. It was a rare thing for Todd and Shannon Freer to see a smile on their boy’s face this wide.

He was going to meet Jonathan Rhine.

Halfway across the room, however, something else was going on.

Standing by the reception desk, Martin Handler and Teresa Scott huddled. They were middle aged and unremarkable looking. Another thing they had in common was they both worked for the Make a Wish Foundation.

“Who eats Dairy Queen hot dogs anyway?” Martin seethed.

“Look, relax.”

“I won’t fucking relax! This will be a PR nightmare. Have you looked at that kid? He’s got some serious cancer,” Martin gestured at Sean very subtlety with his head.

“As opposed to LOL cancer?” Teresa fired back.

Martin exhaled loudly. When he spoke again, his voice was calm.

“Alright, food poisoning happens, fine, Captain America is out. What’s the plan?”

“I talked to Miss St. Germain at Sin City Championship Wrestling. A lot of the talent is booked with various promotional activities, but we still have some options.”

Teresa smiled thinly, looking quite pleased with herself.

“The champ is free.”

When the sky was clear, as if almost always was, Waikiki beach was a living breathing postcard.

For most people, it was hard to look at the palm trees and endless ocean and stay mad about anything. It felt like the kind of place you could save a marriage, or forget a job. It was also a place you could buy stuff, expensive stuff. The beach was lined with restaurants and shops. Everything from Coach to Harley Davidson was represented on this strip.

Amongst the tan masses, the Universal Champion’s pale princess walked down the sidewalk. There was beach on one side, commerce on the other, and people everywhere. Regan Guest’s thin frame was covered in a sky blue sun dress. A cell phone was pressed to her ear. Her other arm carried three shopping bags.

“It’s been two hours, you sure I can’t come back yet?” she asked.

The voice on the other end sounded uneven, maybe even unsure. She was certain he was on drugs.

“I made a mess,” Lane Stevens said on the other end, and giggled slightly.

“I’ll help you clean it up,” she pleaded.

His giggle elevated to a cruel chortle.

“Oh, not this one you won’t. Did you get the shirt I wanted? With Sin City in town, I figured it wouldn’t be that hard to find.”

Regan glanced at one of her bags. “Yeah, found it. But why?”

“I’m turning over a new leaf, sugar muffin.”

She didn’t believe him, but she didn’t want to fight him on it either. He was being theatrical, and she had learned the hard way that this was not a time to nitpick.

“Where’d you get all this money?” she asked, not entirely sure if she wanted to know the answer.

“If you shake Kathryn hard enough, it comes falling out of her cunt.”

Regan cringed. “All right, well I’ll see you soon buttercup.”

“Won’t be soon enough, snuggy bear,” The River Rat replied, and closed the phone. He tossed it haphazardly over his shoulder

The balcony door was open, and the curtains flapped in a light breeze. This was the 16th floor of the Waikiki on the Beach resort hotel. Beyond the balcony a few puffy white clouds dotted the sky. It was a serene image, a jarring contrast to what was occurring inside the hotel room.

“That was the wife, sent her out for a stick of butter,” Stevens remarked aloud. He stood and walked over to balcony. He was dressed in a “I got lei’d” t-shirt, and tan pants. He delighted in the shirt’s cheesy repugnance.

“Sir…”

“Shut up, Ted,” Lane casually snapped back.

“Yes sir.”

Sitting in a chair by the balcony was a middle aged man wearing a suit and a mustache. His name was Ted. Ted was a lawyer. He was clinging to the briefcase that sat on his lap, looking more than just a little uncomfortable.

“Would you like some vicodin, Ted?”

“No sir.”

The Universal Champion shrugged, downed two more pills and chased it with a swig of Corona. As he stumbled to the other side of the room he stopped to admire his handiwork. On the wall, he had written “Jared + Amy” in blood. The thing was he couldn’t remember whose blood it had been written with. He did have a bandage on his arm, perhaps that explained it. Or maybe it had something to do with the bleeding woman in the bed.

“Ever sodomize a hooker, Ted?”

“No sir.”

The River Rat sat down on the edge of the bed. He sat just a foot away from a prostitute he had picked up a night earlier. He loved her skin; she had to be a native. She was tied to the bed, each limb to its own bedpost. There was dried blood under her nose from when Lane had struck her with the room’s phone. One of her eyes was blackened. There was also a gag in her mouth that kept an apple in place. Her dark hair was covered up by a red wig. She was naked from the waist down, but had been dressed in an Aimz tank top.

“Some kind of Luau this is, huh Ted?”

“Yes sir,” Ted’s voice trembled.

Stevens leaned in close to his prey, and as he did so she tried to scream. This was unsuccessful.

“Ted has a document in that briefcase,” Lane whispered, “an agreement if you will; vouching that everything that happened today was your idea. You will sign this document, and you will be paid quite well for your services. Because that is what people like you do. You trade pieces of yourself, of your dignity, for money.”

He kissed her on the cheek, and she squirmed with all her might.

“Maybe someday you’ll thank me; you can put your kid through college now. I mean, I assume you have a kid. All hookers and strippers have kids, right? Regardless, this isn’t even my only good deed of the day. I’m just getting warmed up! I’m going to show these high and mighty assholes just how easy being a good guy is. There’s nothing to it!” he exclaimed, an inch from her face, his eyes wide open.

The Universal Champ stood up, and staggered back towards his Corona.

“People act like being a super hero is so goddamn hard. Ted, you think I’m more of a Superman or a Batman?”

The prostitute sobbed.

“The men are talking!” Stevens reprimanded.

“Never gave it too much thought, sir,” Ted replied.

The River Rat, high on god knows what, struck a Superman flying pose and began to run in circles around the room singing the Crash Test Dummies “Superman’s Song”.

Mercifully, we go elsewhere.

The sky was still blue, the sun was still shining. The temperatures had dropped as the day went on, but it was still a gorgeous day.

Sean Freer held the hand of mother, and stared at the limousine as it came to a stop in front of them. He considered briefly for a moment that it might have been the shiniest thing he’d ever seen. The novelty was lost when he considered who was inside. It was certainly not his idol, the man whose picture was on his gray hoodie.

It was certainly not Jonathan Rhine.

“But I don’t like him,” Sean whined.

Shannon Freer leaned down and placed a SCCW baseball cap on his head. “Look, I know sweetheart, but just try to have a good time alright? These guys went to a lot of expense to get someone to spend the day with you,” she pleaded. “If you don’t have fun I’ll make it up to you, I promise. Sure you don’t want me to go along?”

Sean looked at his feet for a few seconds, and then shook his head no. She kissed him on the forehead.

A few moments later Teresa Scott and Martin Handler emerged from the building. The former was wearing an impossibly large smile and too much make-up, and the latter had a camera in front of his face.

“Alright, now smile Sean!” Teresa chirped.

Sean’s smile appeared for a moment, thin and tight, and when the camera flashed it evaporated in an instant. The news of The New Life’s food poisoning had really taken the zest out of his day.

Teresa approached Shannon and put an arm around her before saying: “don’t worry about a thing; I’m going to ride along to make sure everything goes smoothly. Martin is going to ask you a few questions for the website, some testimonial stuff, alright?”

Shannon Freer nodded meekly and waved at her son. Sean waved back. The look on his face bothered her, but she wasn’t sure what it meant. He watched his mother go off with Martin back inside the cancer center, and Teresa now turned her hideously large smile in his direction.

“Okay, now let’s go have some fun!” she said.

“Okay,” he responded, significantly less enthused.

The limousine driver’s face seemed to already be apologizing as they approached him. As they got within a few feet of the vehicle he opened up the door to the spacious backseat. Sean stepped in first, followed by Teresa. The door slammed.

“I can’t thank you enough for doing this on short notice!” Teresa said to the man that sat across from them.

“Oh, anything for the kids,” the man replied.

“This man is buddies with Mr. Rhine,” Teresa said, touching Sean’s shoulder.

“No he’s not,” Sean said, unable to look at the man.

“I’m afraid he’s right ma’am,” Lane Stevens started, “Jonathan doesn’t much care for me, and that’s too bad, cause I dig his work…one of the funniest guys I know.”

The River Rat grinned with an intensity that even made Teresa’s smile falter. The grin seemed to only grow once the vehicle started moving.

“Now who wants some candy?” Lane asked. He produced a few pieces of chocolate from the pocket of his Jonathan Rhine hoodie. As coincidence would have it, he was wearing the same one as Sean, just a much larger size.

Sean had remembered what his mother said about being polite, so he took the chocolate and un-wrapped it. Lane extended a hand to Teresa who waved it off.

“Oh come on,” Stevens said, “don’t be a party pooper.”

Her smile returned, hollow as ever.

“I guess it couldn’t hurt to have a piece,” she said.

Sean watched New York City fly by through the window, still avoiding eye contact with The River Rat.

“Sounds like you’ve seen me on television before, buckaroo. What’s your favorite thing I do on TV?”

Sean thought about that for a moment. He surprised even himself with the honesty of the answer.

“I like it when you get beat up.”

“Sean!” Teresa exclaimed.

But Stevens just laughed his damn head off.

“Perfect!” Lane announced with a giddy clap.

The River Rat tapped on the glass that separated the driver from the backseat.

Regan and Miles Cavanaugh sat outside at a Cheeseburger in Paradise restaurant. The view of the beach was impressive, as it was from many locations in Honolulu.

The former was dabbing a chicken strip in barbecue sauce, with no real intention of eating it. She was all nerves, as she often was when Lane was not around. And it wasn’t because she feared that anything would happen to her, even if it did he wasn’t exactly the protective type. She was all nerves because she couldn’t protect him, couldn’t stop him from doing some twisted depraved act just because he was bored. The acts themselves she was growing less and less offended by, but not everyone understood. He could go to jail, or worse.

The latter, Cavanaugh, seemed perfectly at ease. His hamburger was almost gone. He felt a lot more relaxed without Lane around. There was always this lingering feeling that at any minute The River Rat might force him to punch a waitress, or piss on someone, for no good reason.

There had been over ten minutes of silence, before Miles spoke up.

“You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?”

She dropped the chicken strip, and lowered her eyes.

“You think he’s thinking about you?” Miles asked, his chuckle was light.

Regan took a few moments to compose herself before looking up. Her whisper had a venom to it that Miles was not used to. It could have something to do with the four rum and cokes that she had put down since they had arrived. She did not drink all that much, so this was enough to do quite a number on her.

“If this is a ‘girls don’t like nice guys boo hoo’ rant, you can save it for a facebook status update.”

“It’s not that,” Miles said, still slightly miffed by the sudden change in tone. “Hell I’m not that nice of a guy anyway.”

“You’re nicer than you seem,” she said.

“I just don’t want you to have any illusions about what it is that you’re dealing with. He plays nice enough when he has to, and truth be told…I do believe he likes you. But he is not a house pet. He is a Bengal tiger, and he will claw your goddamn face off. A lot of people think they can give him orders, and that works out for a while. People think that they have leverage, like you did when all of this started, and that works out for a while. But over time his relationships with people…they shift. At the end of the day, all he really wants is to be unpredictable. Hence this charity shit.”

She nodded. He continued.

“It’s the look on people’s faces, the way it can change. That’s all he needs in this life.”

“Let’s not forget pussy,” Regan added with a lazy grin. He hadn’t seen her smile in hours.

“Touche,” Miles replied.

The limo had stopped.

“It’s huge!” Sean remarked, looking out the window.

“That’s the Stan Sheriff center,” Lane chirped proudly, as if he built it by himself.

Meanwhile Teresa Scott was examining her hands rather carefully. The look on her face was one of confusion.

“Looks like there’s a little tiny battle going on there, doesn’t it? Like you’re watching a war from a satellite feed” Lane said to her.

She looked up at him, and looked even more confused.

“…wha?”

He quickly switched his attention to Sean, and leaned forward towards the boy. Without warning he snatched the hat off of his head, revealing the effects of the chemo. Lane’s scarred face was fully illuminated for the boy now, and he didn’t particularly care for it.

“Don’t be ashamed of how you look,” Lane whispered, and tossed the hat to the side.

The River Rat leaned back.

“So, want to go inside?”

“Sure,” Sean said, trying not to act excited about it. He had never been to MSG, but he had seen it plenty of times on TV.

“Excellent. Miss Scott will be staying here for a bit, I don’t think she’s feeling too brave about venturing into the outside world yet.”

“I can’t…” was all Teresa had to say, and broke the sentence off there. She was still staring at her hands.

“What’s wrong with her?” Sean asked.

“She must have eaten some bad chocolate,” Stevens said through a hideous grin.

Teresa Scott was, in fact, in the early stages of dealing with a high concentration of hallucinogenic mushrooms. While popular fiction would have you believe little fairies and dragons pop out of nowhere, that wasn’t exactly the case. What happens is for some people even more frightening. The drug has a tendency to take what is already there, and twist it. For instance, right now it seemed to her that MSG was growing larger every second, and the floor of the limo had formed rows of carpet faces that melted together and disappeared.

“Let’s just leave her be,” Lane said, and patted Teresa on the shoulder.

A moment later they would exit the limo.

It was a hell of a thing to see the Stan Sheriff center empty, or mostly empty that is.

It was somehow even more impressive than seeing it filled. You began to really understand just how many people it really took to fill this place. The SCCW logo was on the ring apron on all four sides. In the ring there were several young men, but only one Lion.

“One thing to remember is that I’m bigger than you. Come to think of it, that’s true about almost everyone…”

Scattered laughter.

“…so when you try to counter this hip toss, don’t try to out muscle me, play to your strengths, not your pride.”

SCCW’s Lance Marshall stood in the center of the ring. He was wearing a SCCW t-shirt and sweat pants. Ten others waited in line to take a charge at him. It was a rare thing to see Lance in such a good mood, as life had taken a few unexpected turns. His wife, Alanna, had been diagnosed with cancer some time ago now, and she was still fighting it as best as she could. And then there was the ordeal with his son, which in some ways was even more painful.

The men that were in the ring with Lance right now were part of a cross federation promotional campaign. Some raw kids from some indie federations in the area were working with SCCW’s own Lion for the day.

The first wrestler to take a run at Lance apparently didn’t hear Marshall’s advice, because when the hip toss came, he tried to pull straight back on it. He was tossed with ease.

“Good try,” Lance offered, as the next took a run at him.

The second man tried to counter it into an arm drag, and Marshall countered by holding his ground and putting him directly into a chin lock before the man could hit the ground. The Lion pulled him back up to his feet, and patted him on the back.

Sean Freer watched all of this from the aisle. He was a fan of Lance Marshall, had certainly rooted him on in several matches, but being this close to him was awe inspiring. The closest he had come to a famous person before today was a backup Yankees outfielder gotten too intoxicated and gotten thrown out of a same sports bar his parents had taken him for dinner once when they were on vacation.

Lance was a bit older than some of his heroes in the federation, and Sean liked that too. Most people looked at a child, and wanted their youth back. But a sick child, possibly a dying child, wants desperately to experience grown up things. They want to get their license, find a job, and hopefully touch a girl’s boobs.

The fifth man in line received his hip toss with little resistance, before the man Sean had came with interrupted the proceedings.

“Do me next! Do me!”

The River Rat sauntered past Sean.

He whispered, “Watch this,” as he walked by.

Lance Marshall knew that voice. He spun around and his eyes found Stevens instantly, his arms elevated in exasperation.

“Christ Almighty Lane.”

“Yo Lance. What’s the good word?”

Lance waved off the rest of the aspiring main eventers, most of them probably with the idea that this was planned.

“Say, why did Lance Marshall’s kid cross the road?”

“I’m not going to be baited by…”

“To get FUCKED in the ASS!” Lane punctuated his joke, and laughed uproariously.

Lance turned away, as if trying to control his anger. But The River Rat just kept coming; he walked up the ring steps brazenly, and stepped into the ring.

“So anyway, heard Zach played a little Butthole Tango with some creepy guy. He turned fag yet? If so, you can probably give him Jared Sykes’ phone number, that guy knows all the hangouts.”

Desade’s former Warlord walked up to Lance.

“Hi,” Stevens said, smiling up at the only man to ever make him tap out.

And that, as it turned out, was enough.

“Ooooh,” the other wrestlers said in unison, right after Marshall punched Lane directly in the face.

The River Rat studied his face in a bathroom mirror. There was dried blood under his nose, and a few new bruises. He touched his cheek, and winced at the shooting pain this caused.

“You like that?” Lane asked, glancing at the figure behind him in the mirror.

Sean’s reply came in the form of his first giggle all day.

And another great success for the Make a Wish Foundation.

A little over a year ago a kid named Steve Tredinick knocked Sean Freer’s food off of his tray in the lunch room of their elementary school.

So yeah, then this happened.

“You sure this is the one? Coming up?” Lane asked.

“Yeah!” Sean cheered.

The River Rat was leaning out the back seat of the limo, baseball bat in hand. The vehicle was going about ten miles an hour. It was a residential neighborhood, and not a particularly wealthy one by the look of it. Coming up on his right was 322 Brookshire Ave. The mailbox was white, and it said “Tredinick Family” on the side.

“EAT SHIT FAGGOTS!” Lane screamed, and the mailbox went down.

“WOO!” Sean screamed.

They shared a high five.

A few feet away, Teresa Scott giggled madly, the shrooms firmly on top of her at this point.

About a half hour later, Sean and Lane sat on top of the limo.

The former tried to whistle unsuccessfully, and the latter held an ice pack to his face. He estimated that Lance Marshall had gotten somewhere between five to ten shots in before the other wrestlers pulled him off.

“You gonna get in trouble for today?” Sean asked.

“I don’t think Miss Scott really wants to explain to her bosses that she ate drugs, so I doubt anything will come of it.”

The vehicle was parked at the top of a ramp, the Cancer Research Center of Hawaii lingering in the distance. Sean tried not to look at it. He had gotten used to his life: the treatment, the constant abundance of sympathy, the gifts (well those weren’t so bad) and the helpless heartbreak in his mother’s eyes. He was so used to it in fact, that he couldn’t even fathom another life. But even still, there was the occasional day where it was all too much to bear. There were days when it was so unfair he just wanted to punch walls, to destroy happiness.

And this was one of those days.

But sometimes after all the bitterness, all the anger, all that was left to do was cry. So out of nowhere, he did just that. His sobbing was a quiet, ashamed thing. Lane Stevens wasn’t the kind of person he wanted to see him cry. The River Rat, for his part, took it in stride.

“Yeah, I don’t much want to die either. Kind of afraid of it, actually.”

“Cause of hell?” Sean choked out.

Lane turned to Sean, and was momentarily amazed. Usually, a statement like this would have made him laugh aloud, but that wasn’t the case today. He had surrounded himself with such cynical people for so long, that it was almost shocking to encounter someone with faith in anything, especially the bible. He turned away after a few moments, and shook his head.

“Nah, I just don’t think it sounds like fun,” was the answer Lane finally settled on.

“Why did you do this today? You’re bad,” the boy asked quickly, as if he had been sitting on the question all day and just finally got the courage to ask it.

“Do you assume that everyone who hangs out with you is good, just because you have cancer? That somehow anyone who visits has immediately acquired knighthood?”

“No,” Sean said meekly.

“Most people love to play the role of do-gooder, just as I love to play the role of villain. It’s all a performance.”

Lane finally removed the ice pack from his face, revealing a map of his SCCW tenure in the form of bruises. It wasn’t the first time Lance had left a mark.

“But you want to know the fucked up part?”

Sean liked it when Lane swore; it made him feel grown up.

“I’ve never told this to anyone, cause it’s the sort of emo fag shit that would make me want to spill oil on baby seals. But at the end of day, after all the layers are stripped away…I don’t have the slightest idea who I am. Not even a clue.”

The River Rat chuckled.

“Why is that funny?”

Sean’s question stopped the laughter cold. Lane Stevens, for all of his made up wisdom, had no answer for that.

Seattle.

Mr. Hayden had gotten fully dressed. He stood at the side of the bed, a tan trench coat covering a black suit. He had heard stories about Kathryn, so he made sure his gun was right where he left it in the right pocket of his coat. Hayden stared down at the sweaty bed sheets, and sighed. It wasn’t an unhappy sigh, but a reflective one. Katsidy was in the bathroom, freshening up. Their business was done here.

“I was never a part of the Order in the same way that Alex was. I didn’t share their ideology. I had a unique skill set, and provided a unique service. It is because of that skill set that I have persevered, that they do not know I survived. I didn’t fuck you to close this deal, my involvement in this was determined years ago. There was no other way for this to play out. I just wanted to enjoy myself, for once. We spend all this time, clinging to grudges…”

There was sadness in his eyes so profound you could forget for a moment the things this man was capable of.

“…obsessing.”

Around fifteen years earlier, Mr. Hayden crawled across the floor of an abandoned warehouse, leaving a trail of blood behind. He had been left to die by The Order of St Julian. He had been left to die by Alexandra Pierce.

The shadow of a man in a cowboy hat fell over him. It was probably the blood loss, but he felt colder instantly.

The prostitute that Lane Stevens tied up and dressed like Aimz had a name.

Her name was Rachel.

“And before you know it, that’s all you are. Just a hatred storage device.”

She sat on the floor in her studio apartment, bleeding and crying. Her calico cat rubbed his head on her shoulder, seemingly sensing pain. Rachel was staring at a flier for Defiance (Lane’s name was in big letters), and clutched the handle of a knife so tightly that it left a bruise on her hand.

“I think you have an idea what I’m referring to.”

Kathryn Shaw lied alone in the darkness.

Oh, there was a man in the bed with her – a kindly, sweet man named Benedict who'd nodded off within minutes of her bringing him over the edge, but had at least foregone unnecessary cuddling afterwards. But for the most part, Kathryn Shaw was alone even in the middle of the act, her heart hidden behind the clinical nature of it all. Touch here, moan there, or scratch when he does that – that sort of thing.

In these moments, before sleep claimed her, Kathryn often focused on what was truly important to her – the things that explained just why she did it. Her son. Her ambition.

Her need for revenge.

She stared at the ring on the nightstand, silver and with an opal inset. Alexandra Pierce had the same ring; on a lark and when they were much younger, the Spider and the Sex Kitten bought matching ones, and while Pierce long ago stopped wearing hers, Shaw wore it every day. It reminded her of the woman she knew, the woman she thought was her friend.

One day – hopefully someday soon – Kathryn would stop wearing the ring. She'd set it on a (probably unmarked) gravestone in some slum, or on a tablet that didn't say, 'Alexandra Pierce' on it. She'd touch her fingers to her lips, and then to the jet black stone, and she'd whisper.

'Rot in hell, you sanctimonious cunt,' she'd say.

It was that thought that kept Kathryn going, that allowed her to fuck a loathsome man like the insurance man behind her and do it with a smile. It was that thought that allowed her to finally drift off to sleep.

“This Stevens character…I’d imagine he has the bug too, he just manages to hide it better than the rest. He may have hidden it so deep he forgets its there.”

A year and a half ago, Lane Stevens was also lying in bed. The time it took him to recover from the neck injury that took him out of FUSE was longer than originally forecasted, simply because his heart wasn’t in it. He had no interest in improving his physical shape, or quality of life.

And then suddenly that changed.

Flipping through the channels, he came across an image he will remember until the end of his time on this earth:

Amy Campbell was standing in the center of the ring, holding the Universal Title in the air. His arch enemy, everything he came to FUSE to fight, had climbed the mountain. This woman that he had said was just a gimmick, just a ratings stunt, had become the best wrestler in arguably the most talented federation. Everything he had said about her had been proven wrong.

His response was not to break things, or cuss up a storm. For in that moment, a new Lane Stevens was born.

He laughed, he laughed so hard he threw up.

“But it’s there, patiently waiting…like a bomb. It will destroy us all.”

Boom.