The Russian air is cold, bleeding through the glass windows of the train car and chilling me to the bone. I pull my jacket collar up and tight around my neck, sighing and watching the cloud of vapor form in front of my face before disappearing. I check my watch; I feel like I've been on this train for days, rocketing through the snow covered mountains and across the frozen tundra on my way to Moscow.

I don't like Russia, and not for the reasons most people would cite. It's not because they may have had a hand in placing a political pariah in power of the American public. It's not because of lingering Cold War animosity or Soviet Olympic domination jealousy.

I used to live here.

Sort of.

I spent three months locked in a Siberian prison, competing under some blood thirsty Wardens insane banner. I was young, naive and easy to get committed to companies that a more established star wouldn't even hear an offer from. Siberia was a waking nightmare. It took years off of my life and countless thousands from my bank account due to the therapy required. I bled buckets inside that frozen fortress, and the day I earned my freedom to walk out of those gates I told myself I'd never go back.

Silly Raven.

Less than three years later the Experts ran their Extreme Tournament in Russia, and as a nod to their history held the event in the exact same prison complex. Each bracket was housed in a different cell block and, in what I can only assume was a carefully orchestrated act, I found myself in the very cell I had lived in during my previous stay. I was stupid enough to believe there was going to be some beautiful irony in all of that. I thought that the room I had cried and recuperated in was going to years later be the nest from which I won the Extreme Tournament, and True Expert title.

The tournament didn't go well for me. Nothing I've ever done in this country has. It's one loss after another, one cracked rib and concussion after another. I told myself AGAIN that I was done with Russia.

Yet here we are.

"Hello?" whispers a voice as the door to my train car slides open. It's thick and raspy, damaged by years of vodka and chain-smoked Ruskie cigarettes.

"Yeah," I answer back, "This car is occupied, bud."

He nods, but doesn't budge from the doorway. His beady eyes glare at me, as frigid as the ground outside. I stare back at him, my eyebrows furrowing as I try to get a read on him.

"Hey, did you hear me?" I ask.

He nods again and steps inside the car, sliding the door shut behind him. He's big, not especially muscular but one of those giant Russian bears you always see in movies as the muscle for the intellectual villain or some shit. I tense up and rise to my feet. Something doesn't feel right.

"Relax," he whispers as he slides to the booth across from me and slowly settling into the cushions.

"Do you speak English? More than just 'hello' and 'relax'?"

He scowls at me.

"Don't be insulting," he grumbles, "Of course I speak English."

"Then why are you still here?!" I exclaim, "What didn't you understand when I said this train car is occupied? Was there something about my tone that made it seem like I was looking for some company and you should join me?"

"Relax."

He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a pack of smokes, pulling one from the crumpled paper pouch and sticking the unfiltered end between his teeth. He fumbles in his pocket for a lighter before producing a zippo and lighting his cancer stick with a swish and a click.

"Look man," I begin hesitantly, trying to maintain composure and keep this as civil as possible, "I'm here on business, and the business isn't exactly a walk in the park. I paid for a private cabin, you know what that means right? I need privacy. Quiet. Time to get my mind right for work..."

"Sorry," he offers with a simple shrug, "Everywhere else is full."

"OK," I grunt through gritted teeth, "But I'm telling you this car is full too. God damn it, I didn't want to play this card, but I'm with the XWF. Do you know what that is? I fight for a living, I'm not exactly someone you can roll on a train for shits and giggles, you know?"

"I know who you are, James Raven."

The blood runs cold in my veins as he smiles at me, a glint in his eye that's unsettling. He puffs on his cigarette, a thick cloud of smoke rising and swirling its way to the top of the cabin. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

"Well then I guess I'm at a disadvantage here," I whisper, my fist balling at my side as I prepare myself for the worst.

I mentioned that I didn't like Russia. I didn't mention that the feeling was mostly mutual. I hadn't exactly made a a multitude of friends in my time here, and the Siberian prison system didn't exactly spawn a stable of allies for me to call on whenever I come back to town.

Suddenly the door to the bar car slides open once more, and Aidan Collins is revealed in the doorway with Big Shank, bottles of vodka secured under their arms and other various spoils of their plundering filling their hands.

"JAMES!" Aidan practically screams at me, "Some Tolstoy Twink in the food car asked Dustin here how big his shank was! Oh my god it was hysterical! Who the fuck is this?"

Aidan and Shank notice the man sitting across from me, Aidan's nose wrinkling at the scent of the cigarette. They step inside the car and drop all of their items on the empty seat before turning to stand beside me.

"Yeah," Shank chimes in, "Who the fuck are you?"

The man stares at all of us for several long moments, blinking repeatedly but not flinching. He motions to me.

"We are old friends."

"No, we're not," I counter, "I've never seen you before."

"Oh, buddy!" Aidan squeals, "We're about to kick the shit outta you! 'Murica!"

The man stands up from the couch, suddenly appearing much taller than he did a few minutes ago. He's inches taller than any of us, shoulders as wide as the doorway he walked in through.

"No," Big Shank says suddenly, a hand reaching across Aidans chest, "Our guest here hasn't aggressed."

"His face aggressed me and I demand justice."

"That's... that's not how it works."

Aidan shrugs his shoulders, and Big Shank refocuses on the mysterious man. He motions towards the door.

"You're free to leave," Shank tells him, "Or to tell us why you're here, or to see how you fare with Aidan's option. Choose quickly though."

"PLEASE choose to fight!"

The man continues to eye the three of us, then once more reaches into his jacket pocket. Aidan lifts a fist, ready to throw, but Shank grabs a hold of him as the man produces a small envelope and offers it to me slowly. I take it from him, and without another word he slides his way past us towards the cabin door and disappears into the hall and around the corner. Shank makes his way to the door after him, making sure he's gone before turning back towards me.

"What the hell was that?"

"I don't know," I admit.

"Read the note, dummy!"

Oh Aidan. As helpful as ever. I fumble with the envelope and pull a small note from inside, handwritten in a doctors scrawl I'll recognize for the rest of my life. My throat is instantly dry, my heart racing furiously as a cold sweat forms on my brow. I feel the color drain from my face and see the looks of concern on Aidan and Shanks faces.

"What is it? Who's it from?"

"My father... it's from my fucking father..."

"Oh Jesus, that's not good."

---

My father is the devil.

I know what you're all thinking, 'oh great, another spoiled rich kid with daddy issues whining because he didn't get enough hugs on the way to his eight pack abs and panty wetting charm', but it's not exactly like that. Sure, I started on that trajectory. I was the middle of three children, and he was one of the top doctors in Toronto in the early 2000's. My mother was a lawyer, and while she was a nurturer, he was never quiet about the fact that there was a high bar for my siblings and I to reach to earn any sort of respect from him.

He was an alcoholic. He was sporadically abusive. He was all those old clichés.

Something happened when my older brother went into wrestling, though. When TJ moved to the U.S. and signed with the XWF, my father changed. When I told him I was leaving to he changed for the worse... TJ was always a lost cause, but I was supposed to be his legacy. I had the look and the silver tongue to charm my way to the top of any ladder, an entrepreneurial mind and an athletes work ethic.

I wasn't happy with that.

I wasn't happy to ride out my days as an extension of his work, or following him around to social functions to be shown off as the prodigal son.

I wanted to make something for myself.

From that day on, he wanted to take it all from me.

My father tried to ruin my wedding, and a few years later sided against me in my divorce and tried to help Mia bleed me dry. He tried to steal control of the XWF from me four months after I had taken control of it in 2010. He destroyed my brothers headstone. He drunkenly blamed me for my mothers death as I pulled my little sisters beaten body from his apartment, her blood still dripping from his bruised knuckles as I used every ounce of self control to drive her away and not kill him.

My father is the fucking devil.

There's a laundry list of offenses ranging from grievance to atrocity, but at the end of the day it's been seven years since he and I had any real contact. I still remember the exact spot of the QEW I had pulled my motorcycle off to the side on, calling him on a disposable cell phone to inform him he was going to be a grandfather but that he was never going to be a part of that childs life. To his credit he understood. Or at least, he didn't argue.

Seven years he had managed to keep his distance. Seven years he hadn't made this sort of an effort to get in touch... but now? Days before War Games he sends some goon to track me down in the middle of nowhere on a train to Moscow?

Something is off.

Something doesn't feel right...

I hate this feeling.

Ugh.

My father is the mother fucking devil.

Literally.

Gross...

---

AUDIO ONLY

AIDAN COLLINS: Pass the vodka, bitch!

BIG SHANK: Shut up. You've had enough.

AIDAN COLLINS: That's the most offensive thing you've ever said to me...

BIG SHANK: Shut up?

AIDAN COLLINS: No! Implying that I'd had enough! This is Russia! I need the vodka to keep me warm! Pass it over.

JAMES RAVEN: Don't get too carried away, we're supposed to reach Moscow by morning and sun-up is in a couple of hours. I'm not carrying you off the train if you're wrecked.

AIDAN COLLINS: ... yeah you will.

BIG SHANK: No, he's right. Lay off it a bit. This whole trip wasn't supposed to be a party anyways, we were supposed to be here strategizing for War Games and for what comes next. Rolling out XWF Classic and the XX show is huge, it needs to be done properly, and CCP coming in here with his band of misfits to shit on our legacy isn't going to be in the cards. Right James?

JAMES RAVEN: ...

BIG SHANK: RIGHT JAMES?!

JAMES RAVEN: Right, right.

AIDAN COLLINS: Well that sounded convincing. Look out everyone! Here comes the Raven self doubt routine!

JAMES RAVEN: Don't be an asshole.

BIG SHANK: James, look at me. I did not get out of my bed in fucking Pittsburgh and fly all the way to Putin's territory for you to get cold feet right before the final battle. You're the one that stood up for the XWF when Page came storming in, and you've got a stacked team, there's no going back now.

JAMES RAVEN: I know. It's not my team, all three of those guys are monsters, I'd take the three of them against any of Page's group ten times out of ten. Centurion is proving to everyone that he's the Legend he was billed as, Robert is showing exactly why he's the Universal champion even if some people can't get his name straight, and Drew may turn out to be the MVP of this entire show. I just can't stop thinking about the fact that if you were going to handpick a team to beat me, and didn't take either of you two, you'd be hard pressed to find a better squad than this. MDK has beaten me twice. TWICE! I wasn't happy with the circumstances either time, but the results are what they are. Rage? He was the guy that pushed me to the longest running and bloodiest feud of my career, and he's beaten me as much as anyone else has.

AIDAN COLLINS: You still beat him more.

JAMES RAVEN: Not my point.

AIDAN COLLINS: MDK is a pussy. Can I have more vodka now?

JAMES RAVEN: I idolized Fuzz when I was a rookie, I was star struck the few times I was lucky enough to stand in the ring with him. He's one of the unsung heroes of the XWF, and-

AIDAN COLLINS: Stop blowing the guy, dude. He's winless against you, and he's been around longer than I have which is disgusting. Like, actually disgusting. It's making my stomach curl just thinking about it.

BIG SHANK: That may be the vodka, Blizz. Deal with it.

JAMES RAVEN: Yeah Blizz. Deal with it.

BIG SHANK: No, that last part was for you. I told you, we're in too deep for second thoughts now. You were in that room in Pittsburgh, you heard all those legends tell you that you're the right man for the job. Chris Page is a bump in the road; same with MDK, Rage and Fuzz. You get in that cage at War Games, you remind them all why they never wanted to fuck with you, and then we continue on with the rest of the plan. You're a co-owner of this company now, asshole! CCP is a fly in the ointment and nothing more, so protect your company and let's build it back to heights it's never seen.

JAMES RAVEN: Yeah...

BIG SHANK: Mother fuck... where the hell is the James "Fucking" Raven that used to run around the XWF? Where's the Prodigy? The Suicide King? You used to be all balls and bravado, confident to a fault. You used to throw middle fingers to the air and caution to the wind, running at every opponent with reckless abandon. Where's the trash talk? Where's the fucking fire?!

AIDAN COLLINS: He needs vodka.

BIG SHANK: Enough with the fucking vodka, Aidan!

AIDAN COLLINS: ... NEVER enough vodka...

JAMES RAVEN: I don't know! I wish I did, but I don't. I've been around too long and seen too many well laid plans go off the rails to feel cocky against anyone anymore. I don't have the need to get in the ring every week and try to prove something to the world. I'll stand up to CCP to prevent him from running roughshod, because nobody else will... but I don't think it's where my heart is...

AIDAN COLLIN: GAAAAAAAAY!

JAMES RAVEN: Fine! Where my head is! I don't fucking know!

BIG SHANK: You need to get it together. I'm not kidding. I don't care if you'd rather be in an office booking and signing contracts, or managing Drew and Robert, or training people at your gym or fucking a bunch of lingerie football players... this is NOT a regular match. If you go into this distracted you're going to get killed, you understand that right? This isn't a tag title defense against Perfect Storm, or a one on one with Scully because he ran his mouth on Twitter. You CAN'T coast your way through this.

JAMES RAVEN: So you're saying you weren't impressed by my performance against Rain?

BIG SHANK: What happened? You were focused and positive all week and now a couple of days out and you're breaking? What the fuck?

AIDAN COLLINS: It's his dad, bro!

JAMES RAVEN: Shut the fuck up.

BIG SHANK: Oh shit, it is.

AIDAN COLLINS: Of COURSE it is. How did you not figure that out, dude? I was on it an hour ago.

BIG SHANK: Thanks for cluing me in.

JAMES RAVEN: I'm not breaking! It's fine! Both of you just back off! I just think the timing is strange, you know? Why is he getting in touch with me now? Days before War Games... is he in business with Chris Page? Weeks after my co-ownership is announced... is he trying to steal my shares out from under me again? He doesn't want to catch up, there's something happening here...

BIG SHANK: Well until we know what that something is, we can't dwell on it. We need to focus on the task at hand; now walk me through the gameplan.

AIDAN COLLINS: It's War Games! There are no game plans! Try to hurt people and not get hurt! Have your head on a swivel, and don't let them outnumber you in a corner. BLEEEEEEEEED!

BIG SHANK: Eloquent. Raven, want to break it down a little further or should I go ahead and get off this train and fly back to the states? I can tell the rest of the legends you're fucked, and we need a new plan to take out CCP.

JAMES RAVEN: No. It's fine, I got this. Take them to deep waters. They're all rusty, all out of shape. Stretch them and make them work, get them mouth breathing, then pick up the pace. Let Drew be a blocker, he'll fly around the cage like a wrecking ball and destroy people if we give him the space to work. Watch out for Centurion, he's got a match earlier in the night and I'm sure the other team will target him. Stay out of the air. It's too risky. Quick impact moves, get Main to double team MDK whenever there's an opportunity, and hope that Fuzz and Rage don't play a wildcard and catch us off guard...

BIG SHANK: And?

JAMES RAVEN: Murder Chris Page.

BIG SHANK: Alright, good. Now that you're focused again, we can really get to work...

AIDAN COLLINS: MORE VODKA!

FADE
OUT

---

It's freezing when we step off the train in Moscow, the alcohol having thinned our blood overnight to the point of near anemia. My head is pounding, vision blurry as I stagger onto the platform and look around for signs to direct me to the taxi stand.

I don't speak Russian.

I can't read signs.

I look around for Aidan and Shank, but it doesn't seem they've made it out to the station yet. I survey the crowd, panning each and every face for one that might be familiar from the XWF staff that can help me make it to the hotel in my impaired state. I find a familiar face alright, but not a friendly one.

He stands across the platform, a black trenchcoat pulled tight against the icy Russian winds. His face is lined with deep creases and worn with seven years more stress and abuse than the last time I saw him; hair is salt and peppered, eyes gaunt and emotionless.

Jonathan Raven.

Who'd have thought I would fly halfway around the world to take on four of the greatest names in wrestling history, in a War Games match no less, and it wouldn't even be the most taxing battle I'd have here?

Did I mention how much I hated Russia?

"Hey dad. Hope you've been well. I'm still going to kill you."

"Don't be dramatic. You could never pull it off."

"Maybe not at home... but this is Moscow."

His eyes widen.