It has been many years since the divide, so long I cannot even begin to count my fingers. After an abandoned CIA lab was uncovered during the opening of Silicon Valley, my brother and I were found, overgrown in a Vat, no bodies; just two hands, and two faces.

The scientist that discovered us, decided to take us in raising us as his own children. The memories of our childhood together still haunt me but where exactly it all began, I could not begin to put my finger on it.
Professor Titey did his best. As any man could do to raise two children on his own. Single salary, yet I cannot remember a night we went without. We went to church every Sunday. Yes, the children laughed, but eventually we could play with them and their rude acumen and manner of ways. Brother always resented it and would routinely terrorize our new… friends.
“Perhaps it was then. But no, maybe after.”
When we enrolled in high school, I found promise as a Greco Roman Wrestler, whereas my brother found solace in his studies. When we entered college, myself on a full ride for the wrestling team and he for his thesis in Mysticism of Biomechanics; my brother found his fingers fluttering the pages of Crowley and delving deeply into Hermeticism.
“I always thought he would amount to something great, but perhaps I was wrong.”
My father always warned me to keep my twin from becoming idle. Idle hands are the devil’s playthings after all. I found it difficult to keep track of him as we grew deeper into ourselves and from each other. Separating our wingspan to different campuses, then different cities, and now I feel we have fallen into different times.
And although it has been years since I have seen him, I hear rumors of the worst.
He’s fallen into a crowd of cliquey Satanist’s. And even worse still, that he may well be the one pulling the string behind the scenes of a growing cult in the XWF. Broken and shattered the words brought me bereft feeling as they flowed from my television speakers through the cold brisk air to my ears.
“It is my duty to stop him, whatever the cost.”

First thing would be first. I would have to train. I would have to get back into fighting shape; I would have to… My words could not bear to break the solemn silence of my thought. I went home, crossed the threshold of my house, rocketed up the stairs, the air caressing my ill-formed lungs, sweat began to bead across my brow. I broke open my old trunk from college, donning my old singlet.

“It begins.”
Training began as I ran the stairs at the park. Running up and down, up, and down, the vicious cycle of wash, rinse, repeat. My mind fell the ferocity my coach had sparked back in the years of my youth. Teaching me to find the strength within. Teaching me to hone my awareness, to not only my actions, my footwork, my grapples, but those of my opponents as well.
My fingertips found their way to his door.
“I’ll need your help.”
The next weeks were hard but conditioning pushed me harder and farther than I had ever gone previously. When I began to outrun, outlast, and outmatch him, we both knew there was nothing more he could do.
“My gratitude runs deep, but I must reach the next level.”
It is often said when the student is ready the Master appears, and the truth of the sages echoes through the fabrics of reality. A week after my coach left me to my own means, I came across a stranger who taught me how to place my whole weight into a hit. Explaining to me that this is not Greco Roman Wrestling anymore. That if I want to win, I am going to have to show a little more Panache. The stranger invited me to their clubhouse. Blindfolded me, cuffed me, threw me in the back, of what I could determine was a box truck, but a looming sound resonated against the cold metal, and I could not recall where I knew the song.
Then just as quickly as I was ransacked, I found myself free of bondages and in the middle of a large wrestling ring. They told me for the price of allegiance and loyalty they could help me attain my goal, harness my skills, and defeat the cult that has plagued my brother’s abominable mind.
The first move I learned, was the “Right Hand of God”, I climbed to the top ropes thinking it matter of simplicity, quickly realizing the error of my ways, as I came crashing down, time and again, over, and over for weeks until I mastered the maneuver, flying up through the air and landing with supreme precision.
Rather than lose focus on the goal, I eagerly ask, “What’s next?”
We began work on the “High Five”. My work on traversing the ring came with some struggle, but as with all things repetition breeds experience. Soon I was bouncing from one side to the other with the grace of an ostrich, propelling myself into my opponent.
I thanked the stranger for their help, and they again blindfolded and ransacked me into the box truck. The unassuming tune resonating against the metal, but I still could not contrive its origins in my memories. The stranger released me upon the sidewalk.
They told me, “Welcome to Anarchy.
Setting myself down on the chilly sidewalk I call out to the night sky, to inform Erebus itself of my intensions. “I’m coming for you, brother!”
“I’ve played all the fighting games as I developed, I know how this story goes.”
I am to face all his peons and beat them one by one to make him show his face. If I stick to the fundamentals and give it everything I have. Right Hand to God, No one can stop me.