A deep defeated sigh. Old tired eyes glanced into crimson rain. The smoke from the cannons haderased the sun. Only a blood red sky remained, accompanied by clouds as black as midnight.
Night was coming. The end was near. And soldiers continued to march on their own kingdom.
The sickly king watched from his perch above the battle, in the upper northern wing of the castle grounds. He had a perfect view of the battle. His bow rested in his hands, the wood aged and string loose after many arrows had been fired. A long and fruitful military career.

Above his throne, a sword hung above his mantle. A glorious blade, sharpened to a point. An effective means of warfare. According to its owner during better times, the BEST.

BLADE.

IN THE WORLD.

And yet, there it sits. Gathering dust above a fireplace.

Because it doesn’t matter how many the King slays. It matters even less how many of these fights the king wins.

Because his battles now are against his own people. His conquests his own land.

This is not warfare. This was counter-revolution.

The people screamed in the streets for freedom. He obeyed.

They demanded constant military victory. He obliged.

They demanded…. Gold.

And he…

…

Until recently, he had been succeeding on that level.

Fires raged in the town below. The world he'd help build was fading, evaporating into the past.

And tomorrow there would be another world. The king had lost the right to keep this world. The only war he waged now was for survival in the new one.

H-.

A creak of the door.

"MY KING!"

The tired king rose from his perch. He cradled his bow to his chest as his feet scraped down the hall.

He reached the stairs and gingerly reached for the bannister. From the staircase, he could see the entryway. The tables had turned to shields, soldiers resting behind wood, careful being pricked in the back by arrows. Men rested on the door as the new world fought to bash it open.

On the other side of that door was change. Fighting it was inevitable.

"MY KING!"

The Monarch sighs as he holds one bannister with both hands, staring straight at the steps so they couldn’t deceive him… desperate to keep his footing...

Like a child.

Or a living corpse.

As he reached the end of the stairs, he could see the carnage. The bodies of men too young to shave, forced into iron costumes and die at the hands of their neighbors.

The brutality the king was familiar with… The apparent pointlessness of it all… Struck a different heartstring…

“My liege! What a…”

The Captain of the Guard’s voice trailed off. He had charged up to the steps, desperate for orders, hunger in his eyes for an end to this… Now, he could only silently as the man he’d served for years…

Cradled that cursed piece of metal to his stomach.

The king had become famous for riding into battle strewn in gold, shimmering metal gleaming across his chest. Trophies of his time on the battlefield.

Now, without them, he had taken to hanging a crude piece of metal, stained brown with rust across his breastplate. It hung by a chain around his neck, tightening and weakening him. But he was afraid to be without it…

He needed it…

The metal hung around his neck so no one could steal it as had been done to the rest of his treasures. However, this made the unusable piece look less like a trophy…

And more like a badge of shame…

The look in the Captain’s eyes. Realization. Futility.

Doom.

“My liege… what are you doing?”

A sigh. “Watching my kingdom burn to the ground, Nestor.”

“My King!” The frustration had built in Nestor’s heart. “We must defend the kingdom!”

“Nestor, those people outside are our kingdom. And they are defending themselves.” The king looked past his captain. To the door. To soldiers desperately praying for wood and nails to hold down the cries of injustice. To his people. The ones he’d tried to serve selfishly, screwing over and obliterating every other nation for the expansion of the empire.

Now tired of his peaceful ways.

Now calling for his head…

Sic Semper Tyrannous.

“There’s nothing left…:”

“This fi-“

A plunge of metal. A gasp as a vacuum of air is released into oxygen. Blood leaking down the chain and across the rust…


The king fell to his knees as Nestor retracted the blade from his chest.

His chest heaved. His heart quickened trying to keep a sinking ship afloat.

Nestor dropped with his king. His eyes apologetic…

“I’m sorry, my king. But you’re no longer suited to rule…”

The king coughed. Blood ran up his throat and spilled from his mouth…

“CAPTAIN! THEY’RE ALMOST THROUGH THE DOORS!”

Nestor stood shakily. His hands stained with blood. “Move to the towers. Drop molten lead on them. That should disperse these cow-“

Swip.

The king cradled Nestor’s head as they fell back together…

The captain’s throat slit… with the rusty trophy of the Mad king…

Blood trickled from his throat. Nestor struggled as bile filled his airway. In a moment of serenity, both men looked each other.

Doomed to die the same day.

But one would go first…

Nestor’s eyes rolled back in his head.

The king threw away the piece of metal. Useless shield…

And as the King stood up… The doors broke fr-

***

Mark Flynn snapped to focus.

Not awake. He didn’t need to sleep to have nightmares anymore.

The belt had made him weak. Had rendered him useless.

And if he wanted to win… He needed to dismiss his weakness…

In one hand, he had a video camera. Stolen from a local electronics store. Mark Flynn, being the cunning criminal mastermind that he is, bypassed the store’s high tech security system…

By throwing a trash can through the window and taking what he needed.

Like Breaking and Entering was much of an addition to his laundry list of offenses.

And to be fair… He didn’t have time for ‘subtle’ and ‘well thought-out’.

Mark Flynn was dying…

Or more accurately.

He was being evicted from his mind.

And he could feel the voices…

He could feel the Beast… Moving in… Making themselves feel at home...

No…Focus… He needed to stay in this moment or he’d go back to the nightmares… He needed to finish what he started…

In the opposite hand, he had the 24/7 FTW UFO E1999 Championship. They had started this hellish journey together…

But they wouldn’t finish it together.

Flynn gingerly places the belt on a doorstep… Where the rent is too damn high… John Black seems to enjoy the belt, might as well have it…

The Fallen King rubs the gold plate with his name on it… Fights every urge, every synapse in his sick twisted mind...

And leaves it there…

***

A dark room.

A table. A chessboard. Two chairs.

One of them is unoccupied.

The other? Mark Flynn's.

The chessboard is perfectly set up for a game. The only other thing on the table, a timer.

Mark Flynn sits back in his chair, slumped against the seat, eyes cold and unmoving. A tattered suit, a rose tucked into the collar.

Not a muscle, not a fiber, not a molecule in the scene moves.

Perfectly peaceful. Untouched. Like a wake.

Or a crime scene.

Suddenly, Flynn's right arm unclenches from the chair. His fingers unfurl like leaves from an oak tree.

His limb pulls the corpse out of the casket and closer the table. The body flops unnaturally forward, the chest heaves, a death rattle...

And still... The arm moves forward.

Until it reaches the white center right pawn on the other side of the board.

And moves it two spaces forward.

Suddenly, Flynn sucks in air, gasping for life. He bends over hacking and wheezing, clearing bile and chemicals from his lungs.

Like a corpse coming back to life.

His eyes droop and focus on the board.

And he smiles.

"You made the first move. How predictable."

Flynn's hand pulls back carefully.

Picks up the black pawn.

And moves it across its white opposite.

“Wow. Look at my little man, Cyn.

Seemed like just yesterday I was making you seem like a legitimate force in this company, carrying you over Johnny Madison and pushing you past a more talented Blair Sully into an opportunity you didn't deserve.

My, my.

How time flies.

Now, here you are. Putting on daddy's shoes, squeezing the belt you borrowed as hard as you can to keep your pants from dropping around your ankles.

And declaring yourself the new man of the house.

How touchingly pathetic. I've never experienced such an odd mixture of proud…

And physically ill. Revulsion building in my stomach like a disease.”

Flynn's hand presses against the timekeeping device as his opposite hand moves pieces around the board. Before long, he's set up the Ruy Lopez opening. He quickly counters himself with the Murphy Defense.

“Cyn, let's face it. I could take a couple free swings and hit you on the easy stuff.”

Flynn’s begins using both hands to sweep across the board and rapidly cycle through moves. Pieces interweave and pass each other while others fall to the side of the board.

“Your dismissive stance that Michael James doesn't belong in this match and is beneath the both of us when, let's face it, you beat him due to faulty officiating, and if anything, this is Randall Cross giving me a free pass week with an opponent I've already beaten and a man who in a million years wouldn't be worth my time.”

Knight takes pawn.

“Or the fact that I MAIMED Randall Cross with a steel folding chair a month ago and your assessment that deep down I've lost something is about as accurate as you running around saying that because you're not wearing a mask, you're a whole new man that won't lose to me again.”

Knight takes knight.

“Or Your one singles loss. Against someone 'beneath you'.

You haven't come out on top in other contests, elimination matches and big overly complicated clusterfucks. But otherwise, no singles losses…

Except for one guy. Who took your undefeated streak in matches that matter, your status as the future of the XWF, as this undeniable master of the ring, too good to concern himself with championships.

And broke it over my knee. Left it on the mat. Had the cleaning crew sweep it into bins.”

Bishop takes knight.

...

Flynn slides a bishop across the board. Then let's it rest in hand for a moment.

Check on the Black King…


"However, you allege my words lack a certain sting they used to... A certain truth..."

His hand slides off the piece. He brushes the hair from his eyes as the life drains from his finger tips. A thought squeezes the sides of his throat...

"Cyn, let me be frank.

Let's forget the trash talk. You don't want a little back-n-forth. You don’t want another mental exercise. You'd rather get dirty and throw around grade school curse words. So, let's venture out of our collective comfort zone…

There is... something to what you're saying."

The words struggle down his throat and burn his tongue.

"You're right. Somewhere along the line, I fell off. At some point between beating Slater and that match against Cyren, I let my eyes close and choice opportunities sailed by me. I slipped into a state of.... hibernation...

Rehabilitation.

I bought my own hype. I thought I was good enough to try a little self-improvement. Try to get some semblance of peace.

I looked at the Beast within my soul. The lost Demon that dwells within me and drives me…

And I tried to push this gift into the crust of the earth until it disappeared…

Buried under pseudo-therapeutic Mumbo jumbo and analogical bullshit that the 'new' Neonero seems to enjoy just as much as the old one.

But let's face it. The inner demons.

The beast within.

That's my secret to victory.

And no gold. No championship. And no win is going to bring me any closer to that goal.

Of unlocking the beast.

The same way you taking my European Title before the match. Isn't getting you any closer to being better than me.

I mean. C’mon.

Hearing you pump out that dribble about being a changed man made me realize what an idiot I was.

Let me sound this one out for you. Syllable by syllable. Pound it into your thick fucking skull. Another little rule of the universe you seem to have missed out on.

A physical change is a change from one state to another without a change in chemical composition.

Do you understand? The ‘entirely new specimen’ Neonero? No matter how much he degrades and lowers himself by using the same simple-minded trash talk the rest of the dullard buffoons on this roster do. No matter how many ‘cum stains’ he drops firing his best against me.

He’s made of the same disappointing parts good old Cyn was.

The Cyn that put up a decent fight before losing to me just like everybody else.

The Cyn that still shows a tragic weakness in his obsession with the past…"

His eyes flash awake. He taps his nose and his eyes return to the game...

The past… Is where this little story of ours gets interesting…”

Flynn sits back in his chair, pressing his hands together in front of his face. Staring at the board. As if looking for something lost…

“See, that's one thing within this little mystery it took me a second to consider.

Once I was able to cut the junkie routine and examine the situation, there was a variable that didn't add up. A little micro-expression, almost a facial tic like that first one during your match against Griffin that made your potential clear… Stuck with me.

Something that tortured me conceptually... Haunted me...

...

Why wasn't I a victim of your ambush spree?

You hit a bunch of bottom feeders. Match after match of 'surprise attacks'.

You Fall of Rome-ed or Rome wasn't built in a day-ed or Whatever your last insipid bit of history worship is.

You did that to AJ Powell post-match after he won. And I was impressed.

Same to Ursula with that kick. Incredible.

And rolling Cyren off the ramp while he was still in a stretcher. It was a little more dramatic than violent. But I could taste something new in the air…

Even after missing your chance to assault Neptune, you still got a good cackle in over Griffin and Nio.

And then. The main event. After ending Peter Gilmour's dreams of taking my belts and being assaulted by Griffin and James. Let’s not mince words. I had been rendered a carcass. Easy pickings. Lying on the outside of the ring. Chewing the plastic mat. As vulnerable as vulnerable can be.

You run down the ramp. An opportunity to cement your status as the best in the business.

The chance of a lifetime.

And what do you do?

You sneak away with the belt. And disappear to the back. No big flashy finisher. Not even a stomp or a cartilage tearing submission hold...

Enter stage right.

Take belt.

Exit stage right.”

...

Flynn frowns as he turns over the story in his head once more. His hand comes to his chin as he considers this phenomenon…

“How...

...

Utterly Disappointing...

Cyn, let me tell you what you've done wrong.

You've taken it on yourself to copy a lot of Mark Flynn tactics on your quest to become the new number one in the XWF.

Smart move.

Ambushing, stealing belts,that little cackle you've probably been practicing in the mirror since you lost to me...

It's all an adorable homage. So much so that it comes off as parody.

But here's the one element you're missing. One little absent note that renders your performance… imperfect…

Stomach. Guts. Intestinal fortitude to carry out the job.”

The hand on Flynn’s chin tightens…

“When you avoided me at Madness and just took my belt, which I will admit was an ingenuous way to throw me off my game.

You made one thing perfectly clear.

Beyond your bravado, beyond your comments on how I've fallen off, beyond that 'new' Neonero pop psychology you're sporting.

You're still terrified of me. You still don't know if you have it in you to be the man that topples Mark Flynn. You want the skeleton in your closet gone, but you don't know if it's even possible.

I'm your desert, Cyn...”

His hand squeezes tighter…

“You've been setting up pieces. Waiting for the right time to unbalance an already dangerously unstable individual. And you struck clean and passed the blade through. Expertly. Perfectly.

So much so that it passed through the other side…

And became mine.

Cyn, you want to know the difference between your big ‘XWF Takeover’ and mine?

I went all the way through with it.

I ATTACKED that Boogieman that shouldn’t have been. I STRUCK while the iron was hot.

In words you can understand.

Like Cortes before me, I burned the bridges when I hit new land. I dug myself into the trench and put myself through Hell.

You landed on the shore, taking my belt... But, you're too afraid to leave the ship until you're sure it's safe...

And it's not, Cyn... It's a scary place you've landed on...

I lost. And you’re right. It’s barely a title reign. But for one sweet week, I stole the XWF. I had these f***ing clowns you hate as much as I do demanding my head be served on a plate.

I convinced a bunch of simpletons to cheer for TRISTAN F***ING SLATER.

I… if nothing else… achieved something. I changed the game.

Now. Look at yourself.”

Tighter…

“You didn’t steal my trinket. That belt you snuck off with is in no one’s mind your property.

You’re borrowing it. I'm lending it to you like a rented tape.

I’m letting you hold it while I’m conquering my last weakness.

And while that gold turns cold in your fingers. While you dream about someday earning this belt. While you imagine for just a few moments, while I let you taste what it’s like to be the number one.

I’m plotting the beginning…"

His fist shakes...

"And the End…"

Even tighter...

"Of your little GG NORE tour.”

A knuckle cracks. Flynn grins ear to ear as his hand leaves his chin and returns to moving pieces around the board.

“Just like you said, though.

The old Mark Flynn was a victorysmith.

I design and mold victories.

Every angle considered. Every tool in my arsenal weighed carefully before use. The perfect combination of technical skill.

And believe me when I say…”
Flynn stops a moment and bends down to look at the board from the perspective of the pieces.

A grin... A sinister evil grin crosses his face…
“Mate in Two Moves…

Mate.

In one day…”

Flynn sits back in his chair as his hand crosses the table…

“Try to escape. But we both know I’ve got you…”

And moves to hover over the timekeeper.

“Good game.”

Click.

“No rematch.”