The scene opens with a flash of light, followed closely by the roar of thunder as dark clouds roll over the Oregon sky. A First Quarter moon hangs high in the sky, the very top of it poking out above the thick layer of light blocking clouds, shining down faint illumination over the land below. Collected raindrops slide sluggishly down the side of a window, pooling up at the bottom of the pane. The rain falls hard and heavy, pounding at the roof of Avery Martin Alden's humble abode. A two story house in the middle of scenic nowhere, overgrown grass all around. The rain forms circular puddles just a few inches shorter than the tall grass while some of the built up water drains over to the side of the dirt road in front of the building.

Inside of the house, Avery Martin Alden sits at a desk in his study; a room that looked to be more of a museum's live exhibit on life in the Pacific Northwest than anything one would find in an actual house. The walls were painted a deep shade of red, almost verging on purple. An oak bookcase stood adjacent the wall on the lefthand side of the room and the solid mahogany desk sat close to the door. Behind the desk was the leather chair Avery was seated in, a pair of reading glasses resting on his nose and a copy of Philip Zimbardo's "The Lucifer Effect" laid on the surface of the desk.

Pushing the glasses off his nose ever so slightly, Avery rubs his eyes with the index and middle fingers of each hand and stands up. He takes the glasses off his face and lays them down on the desk next to the book before stretching. After a few seconds of awkwardly bending as far as he could in various directions, he stands up straight and shakes his head to keep himself awake, and walks towards the door. He pushes it open and steps out into the too-narrow-to-be-practical hallway, trying his hardest to keep himself awake. A feat that isn't as hard to accomplish as he once thought, as one look down the hall gives him more than enough reason to stay up.


"Evening, Isabelle," he says to the woman at the end of the hall. Her eyes light up and a smile crosses her face as she shuffles her way down the hallway to embrace him. Caught entirely off guard by the sudden action, Avery falls backwards a bit before catching himself on the study's doorframe. He chuckles at the situation before returning the embrace. "I didn't hear you come in. How was your day with the girls?"

Her smile gives way to a concerned, nervous glare. "I don't think they like me too much."

"And why's that? They've never been malicious as far as I was aware."

"Well, I don't think Chelsea really likes the thought that her step-mother is younger than her, and between you and me, Madeline seems a little put off by the fact that we were at one point lab partners."

"You were?" Avery asks, genuinely confused. Isabelle nods and giggles.

"I never told you?"

"To be fair, I never asked."

"So..." she begins, trying to distance the conversation from her failed attempt at connecting with her new stepdaughters, "what were you doing in the study? I don't I've ever seen you actually use it 'til now."

"Nothing, just putting some thought into a venture I considered a while ago, and ultimately failed to follow through with."

"Oh, what?"

"You've met Andrew Driscoll, haven't you?"

"The guy with the weird jawline and no eyebrows who runs that censorship group?"

"Yes, him." Avery chuckles for a moment, contemplating the ridiculousness of the words he was just about to say and trying to find the best possible way of wording it. "Well, he convinced me to join him in leading a crusade against the X-Treme Wrestling Federation. However, extenuating circumstances got in the way of that and so we never did. However, something about that career choice has been calling to me over the last couple of weeks."

"Wrestling?" Isabelle was practically laughing at this point. "You're serious?"

"You don't get frown lines like these from joking," he says with, ironically enough, a smile on his face. She continues to laugh as she rests her head on the front of his shoulder. Speaking directly into his shirt, her voice out a little bit muffled as she asks:

"And? You said you were considering it."

"I think I'm going to go for it."

"You're crazy."

"Maybe I am, that's never stopped me before, has it?" he asks, looking down at her with a wide smile on his face. "And I'd like to think more than a few really great things have come out of that."

"I'm not sure your daughters would agree there."

"They've moved out; not to be rude but I don't really care what they think. I sure don't approve of Chelsea's fiance but that didn't stop her now, did it?"

"No," she says, pulling away from his shoulder, "I guess it didn't."

"So, why should this be any different? Come on, let's get to bed."

"Heh. Gladly."

And with that, the pair embark just a little bit further down the hall until they reach a door on the right hand side. Avery pushes it open with an open palm and they both disappear into it with Isabelle leading the way as the scene fades to black.

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The scene fades back in, to a single camera trained on a black backdrop. A chair sits in the foreground of the shot and in the chair sits Avery Martin Alden dressed in a three piece suit. He smiles into the camera lens and clears his throat, placing his hands in his lap.

"Hello, XWF. You may not know me already, so please, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Avery Martin Alden."

He rests in his seat, putting the ankle of his right leg on the knee of his left and steepling his fingers.

"Now, there's an old expression that goes; you can't teach an old dog, new tricks. Well, that may very well be true but I personally don't believe in that kind of philosophy and that is a part of the reason why I stand before you today. I'm right here; an older gentleman in a young man's world and yet, I don't feel very intimidated. This wrestling business that can very well chew me up an spit me out isn't a frightening concept, no matter how some people would try to shift perspective to make it appear that way. No, I come here seeking out, opportunity. For something different. A change. Of pace, of scenery, I guess it really doesn't matter."

He removes his hands from his lap and rubs his temples with the thumb and middle finger of his left hand, looking down and shaking his head in the process.

"So, I ran away and became a wrestler. In retrospect, the decision seems a lot funnier than it was when I was considering it, looking at my age and lack of experience in this type of setting but who knows? Something may just click with me.

Now I know you didn't watch this to hear my life story, so I'll the cut the talking about myself and move on to talking about my opponents, for they are in this match for the same reason I am. Of course to win and gather momentum going forward. Really, we all have much to gain from this encounter; with three of my four opponents coming off losses in their last matches and the other debuting, just like me. We all have so much to lose from failure and everything to gain from success. However, this match will only have one winner.

I don't think I need to tell you who I'm confident will ultimately take the cake. So, let's start with the most experienced, most well known name in this match: Mastermind. Now, Mastermind is a very interesting case, to say the least. He comes into this match off of a failure to capture the XWF Television Title, and comes into this match seeming so, bored. Like somehow, after losing, a match, especially one of that caliber, he'd be coming in hungry as ever, ready to show everyone why he got into that position in the first place and yet, look at him. Stagnant. Directionless. Like a leaf blowing in the gentle wind, he floats from called in emotion to called in emotion. He's discouraged, I get that. However, his pity parties are only going to get him one thing. Outshined. By the people who actually care about this match. So, Mastermind, some advice. I know you may not take it, considering the fact that I'm a dirty rookie, but please, open your ears. Don't ramble on about percentages, when it's so easy to calculate the percentage of your matches you've actually won. The numbers are very close. Don't just talk about bringing it in a bored monotone. Show intensity. Act like you care. Because right now? I'm hardly convinced you'll care enough to show up to the arena.

And then there's the other man who's aired a promo. Jack. A man who enjoys secrecy, as his choice in headwear seems to prove. A man of many statements and questions, the former obvious and the latter, ooh, what's the word? Generic? Yeah, sounds right. Now, you see Jack too is coming off a loss to one Kendall Savannah Sawyer, one half of the current XWF Tag Team Champions and that's an interesting parallel between him and the previous subject, Mastermind. Both lost to champions, however Jack seems much more enthused to be here, unlike his counterpart. And Jack here has actually decided to make a jab against me. Calling out my pride and then saying I'm 'not proud enough to speak up'. There's a problem with this approach; it's easily combatable by virtue of me saying anything at all. Though, your follies appear to be quite numerous, at least those pointed out by Sawyer herself during your exchanges of words.

Which brings me to the other two, who I fear I have almost time to address. Apologies for that, Spike and Hex. It's my fault, not yours. Though in closing I would like to say something to the two men I've spoken of already. If this war of words is something required for us to do during the lead up to our encounter, that's fine I have no trouble engaging in this with either of you, as well as the others. However, please promise me this display isn't indicative of how you'll act once we face of physically. Because, if it is, and excuse me for being blunt, I don't see either of you moving past your losing streaks, anytime soon."

He waves to the camera and strikes another sincere smile as the scene fades once more to black.