Scene 1: A shabby hotel room, March 15th, 2013

 

Everything about the interior of the room screamed cheap: particle board nightstand, a framed print of a flower that was yellowed by smoke, and bedsheets that could be sewn up and used as a sack. It was not a place one would go if they had a better option.

 

Enter: Amber Ryan. Tall and fit, a hard edge about her that came from years of brawling and misadventures. She wore a tank top and shorts, her unruly red curls pulled back into a bun that did little to contain them.

 

On that nightstand sat an old beige telephone, which came to life with a loud ring and a buzz that threatened to completely disrupt the structural integrity of what it sat upon.

 

Unaware of the analog doom that waited for her on the other end of the line, Amber picked up the receiver.

 

Unknown Voice: Amber.

 

Amber’s face contorted as she listened. The voice sounded like her estranged lover, Shane Donovan, but whether that was true or simply what she wanted to hear was a matter of debate. Inside the woman swelled a combination of anger, regret, and longing. Still, she remained silent.

 

“Shane Donovan”: I need you to come home so we can talk.

 

Amber remained quiet as she reached into the drawer of the nightstand and removed a pack of cigarettes. She lit one and took a drag while she watched the flame from the lighter as it danced in a brilliant yet brief crackle of life. Once that moment of contemplation passed, she spoke up.

 

Amber Ryan: I’ll be there in an hour.

 

Amber then slammed the receiver down. She wiped away an errant tear that dared well up from her eye before she took another long pull from the cigarette. The countdown to her oblivion had begun.

 

————

 

It’s time now, isn’t it? In some ways it feels like things have almost moved too quickly, that it all came together too cleanly for me to be in this position, that brass ring staring me right in the face, begging to be grabbed. I’ve won plenty of titles over the years, but I’ve never gotten to strap the CWF Championship around my waist. I will admit, being trapped in that fucking void not being able to have that accomplishment to my name was one of the farthest things from my mind, but now that I’m here and it’s within my grasp…

 

I hunger for it.

 

And I get to climb into the ring with a man who has had that accolade, one of those guys I always wanted to lock up with but never got the chance back in those halcyon days. Hey Ripper, face to face at fucking last. Seems like Infernalia has been treating you well enough, hasn’t it? You and I, winning our respective block for this opportunity. It feels like this was always the way it was going to go.

 

After all, the Amoralists want the best fights, right? They wanna see us bleed for their amusement and who better to do that than two of the crankiest bastards to ever step foot inside a CWF ring? Now I will fully admit that when it comes to the “good old days” I certainly don’t have the same name value as you do with those who have any sense of history, but I think my tournament performance thus far shows that to be merely circumstance based off of poor timing.

 

I’m the frontrunner, the fucking harbinger of doom here and have been since day one of this event when I made an example of Ataxia. I know you aren’t going to let yourself be in the crosshairs quite so easily, but all the arrogant, egotistical posturing isn’t going to mean much with the full might of The Pact to bear down upon you.

 

There will be no escape for you, or Elijah, or Caledonia. No slipping through our grasps, no sneaky little robberies to claim that belt for yourself.

 

Not with us close, so ready to be done with this charade. I already got plenty of blood on my hands here, Danny, what’s a little more?

 

————

 

Deep in the bowels of reality, the Blues raged against the reinforced door to the room I had hidden Red inside of while I worked. Without their leader, they reverted to a rudderless mess, and they came howling to the threshold for her return.

 

That return was not to be. I shattered the mask that Mnemosyne had forced her to wear, and it would only be a matter of time before she once more became what I had lost.

 

Amber Ryan. 

 

A heavier thump rattled the door. One of them must have really put their shoulder into it. Good. She was a prize worth every bit of effort to attain. I needed her for what was to come. With Infernalia, with the future. I needed her love.

 

I knew the barrier would hold, but even if they did somehow get it open, they wouldn’t find what they were looking for.

 

She and I had taken a trip to a different layer of reality entirely. The room itself was painted white, the smell of disinfectant hanging heavy in the air as I paced back and forth. My patience was wearing thin, but I had to wait for the memories to properly be processed. 

 

Red was in the center of the room, seated upon a plush leather chair that she slouched forward in. An array of wires ran from the ceiling down into her flesh, small droplets of blood oozed from the puncture wounds onto the insulation of the lines. I didn’t know where each went to, just that they connected to her nervous system, where they stole her synapses and replaced them with the signals from Mnemosyne.

 

At the center of the array metal melded with flesh, a typewriter nestled between her shoulders, connected to her spinal column and brain stem. Her posture was a necessity, both from the weight of the mechanism but also to keep that beautiful fiery hair from being tangled within it. The keys worked furiously, spools of paper fed through it and displayed in a simple black and white her life story, as she remembered it.

 

I stepped back towards her, my hand gently rubbed against her shoulder before I leaned in to see more of her personal apocalypse.

 

————

 

It’s fascinating, watching someone’s destruction in real time. Impossible to look away from, no matter how much that little tinge of guilt about it demands you turn your head. Of course, I learned how to ignore that little voice a long time ago, and even if I hadn’t I would be making a special exception in this particular instance.

 

It’s so nice to be seeing you both again, Elijah and Caledonia. Good to see you have both learned to fail so catastrophically upwards that one of you gets to step into the ring for the finale of the Infernalia tournament and try to lay claim to the championship and the spoils of war that will go with the honor.

 

It’s a real thrill, knowing that the kindness I offered earlier in the tournament by letting you both walk away is being properly punished like such decisions should be in this god forsaken future that you both paved the fucking road for. Now, one of you gets to be yet another obstacle in-between myself and finally having what always belonged to me but I never got the opportunity to claim for myself.

 

And all that person has to do is tear the other to shreds. I do wonder if you two will try to put your heads together and come up with some sort of strategy here so that the loser isn’t doomed to whatever nastiness AnHellica has in store for them, or if it will truly be every person for themselves in that match.

 

Personally? I’m betting you both take the coward’s way out on this and get real selfish real quick. After all, if you both weren’t wired to ultimately choose flight over fight maybe then the future wouldn’t have refused to change and billions wouldn’t have had to die.

 

I’d ask if either of you lose sleep over the devastation you both let come to pass, but if you actually did we wouldn’t be having this sort of conversation. You’d have either addressed the problem or would’ve been corpses that the Amoralists would’ve strung up and put on display in the Colosseum as part of the festivities around all of this.

 

All that said, I have to extend my most sincere thanks to you two. You both reminded me who I am, and that’s a survivor. Someone who has always done whatever it took to make sure the sun fucking rose in the morning for myself. It’s a skill that has been incomparable in its value here in the future you both co-signed on.

 

It’s a skill I’m going to use to get what’s mine.

 

————

 

Scene 2: The Donovan and Ryan Residence, March 15th, 2013

 

The living room was as you’d imagine a home shared by two professional athletes would be: filled with reminders and trophies of their triumphs, both shared and individually kept in glass display cases and mounted to the walls: belts, newspaper clippings, and other assorted materials.

 

Shane Donovan stood next to the couch, visibly in pain from an unknown source. Amber Ryan stood a few feet away, the anger and frustration she had felt in the hotel room embedded like a tick within her mind. She had reached the end of her rope, and dangling was no longer an option. It needed to be cut before she was strangled. They had clearly been arguing.

 

Shane Donovan: Sorry.

 

Amber was clearly not satisfied with such a simple response to the pain she had been forced to endure as she watched as her partner’s mental state unraveled. She threw up her hands in frustration.

 

Amber Ryan: I’ve tried Shane, I really fucking have, but this is just all too much. I hope you figure it out, I really do, but I’m done.

 

The pain in her voice was evident as she turned to leave. Shane was frozen in place, unable to offer any sort of resistance. She stopped at the door and took a deep breath, unwilling to look back. When she opened the door, she was surprised to find another woman standing on the opposite side of it: Mnemosyne.

 

Mnemosyne was tall, her dark skin contrasted by the colorfully garish bohemian dress she wore. Her hair was long and braided with rainbow strands that further drew one’s attention to her, kept from her face with a headwrap that matched the dress. Her brown eyes rested upon Amber, who was caught completely off-guard.

 

Mnemosyne: Hello Julius. It’s time.

 

She spoke past Amber and to Shane, in reference to the proverbial Rubicon the man was about to cross. Something only two of the three people present were going to bear witness to.

 

Amber Ryan: Can I hel—

 

Amber was cut off as Mnemosyne raised her hand, the color of her eyes shifted from that brown to lilac in the process. She then twisted her wrist in a manner similar to one turning the dial of a radio. Amber fell to her knees, a shriek of pain escaped her lips as she clawed at her scalp.

 

Mnemosyne attempted to step past Amber to enter the house, but Amber reached up and grabbed the skirt of Mnemosyne’s dress. The woman was unamused, her hand returned to the same position and gestured once more. As she did, Amber’s body began to become untethered from reality. Flesh tore away to reveal static beneath, her limbs distorted in patterns similar to a poor analog television signal before the deed was done, and Amber Ryan was no more.

 

The memories flooded back to me of that day, how I was paralyzed with pain from a power I had no way of understanding then. The raw energy of The Tame. It had burrowed into my brain and flooded it, which rendered it useless. I pulled from that wellspring, the surge of lilac flowed from my hands into the typewriter as I took over.

 

I had my in.

 

————

 

Last but not least, gentlemen. This is what we wanted, isn’t it?

 

It still amazes me that no one had the foresight to see The Pact coming. A tournament of some of the most vicious, deranged, and brutal individuals to ever step into a competitive ring and it didn’t occur to more of you to team up to better your chances? It’s the very first thought that crossed my mind when I set foot inside the Colosseum. In a field full of power brokers and royalty, the smart money is always to put yourself with them.

 

And if there’s one thing anyone who knows me knows, it’s that I always have a plan. A strategy to exploit. When all that matters in the victory, no asterisks allowed, only fools don’t leverage every little advantage they can get.

 

The math on that isn’t terribly difficult. On our own? Harlan, Jarvis and I were all the betting favorites to win. United? It became impossible for us to lose. Much to the chagrin of everyone else.

 

Of course, now I also have to deal with my allies, don’t I? I cannot claim victory without them suffering defeat. It’s something all three of us understood when we signed on the dotted line with each other, when we swore The Pact to unify us against the common foe that was everyone else in the CWF.

 

I’m ready for it. I didn’t enter this agreement without having solved for X and knowing exactly what I would do to come out on top. Moretti and his royal highness are both highly dangerous, but the truth is they needed me.

 

The “good” king is a more than capable warrior, but he still is simply a pale imitation of a man I knew and spent years fighting alongside of. He might be a leader of men through brutality and delegation but he lacks his predecessor’s tactical genius or skill in improvisation. Cursed with a stunning lack of imagination.

 

Then there’s Moretti, a man of force like King Jarvis, but a more calculated kind of force. The kind that can only be born through the struggle of having to scrape and claw his way through life. The back alley kind of cruelty that forges a man to be the most dangerous kind of rat bastard. Even still, he’s a hammer who only sees nails.

 

Neither have yet had to deal with someone like me: the kind of clever to always turn the smallest advantage to victory.

 

The kind of tenacity to see it through.

 

The kind of drive to always get what I want.

 

And I want the throne.

 

————

 

Scene 3: Mnemosyne’s Seat of Power, Time Unknown

 

Mnemosyne walked through the seemingly endless library she called home. It was a labyrinth of information, the entirety of human history and knowledge etched upon every viable form of physical media possible. Vinyl records commingled with pottery, papyrus, tapestries, and countless other items. The floors and walls were a white marble, the ceiling painted with scenes of her personal war with The Typographic Man. She was dressed as she had been in the previous memory, and came to a stop before a seemingly random shelf.

 

Mnemosyne: Here we are.

 

She reached out and grabbed a photo album. She turned it over in her hands before she flipped it open. As she did so, she began to chant words of power. Her lilac eyes glowed, and energy arced from the book to the floor. Molecule by painful molecule, the version of Amber Ryan that had been destroyed was remade, crumpled upon the ground, with strings attached to her flesh that rose to the ceiling.

 

Mnemosyne: Good morning.

 

There was a smile on Mnemosyne’s face as she set the book down on the shelf. She then reached out to grasp one of the strings, a sharp tug upon it caused Amber’s head to jerk upward. Amber’s eyes fluttered open to gaze upon her new mistress.

 

Mnemosyne: It’s time to rise and shine, Muse. I have so much to… no, something is wrong.

 

I found myself thrown back from the typewriter as a torrent of light erupted from it. It took the form of Mnemosyne, no doubt furious at my tampering as she stood fully upright. “You will not steal my Muse from me, Shane.”

 

I groaned as I got back to my feet, the plaster of the wall where I hit cracked and crumbled behind me. “Too late.”

 

With a snap of my fingers, a knife appeared in my hand formed from The Tame, and with a lunge I shoved past Mnemosyne. My free hand grasped the line that I had seen the woman plunk, and the blade severed it easily. The room rocked as the rest of the wires retracted from Red’s body, the wounds immediately closed behind them. The typewriter rusted and crumbled apart, smashing upon the floor as Red fell forward from the chair.

 

I moved to catch her, and Mnemosyne sighed before she pointed towards me. “This will be your ruin, you know.”

 

I ignored her, focused on Red as I pulled her to her feet. What's another apocalypse to me?

 

“Ugh,” Red managed through clenched teeth. Her eyes opened, and she met my gaze. There was a flash of anger that washed over her face as she swung to catch me across the cheek with her palm.

 

The sting had no time to linger, however, as she grabbed my shirt and pulled me in close. “You bastard, you owe me an explanation.” The words weren't Red, but Amber.

 

The taste of her lips confirmed it.