[THE PULL - A week ago]
You do not awaken.

There is no awakening. Awakening implies you were once asleep, but you were never asleep. There is only the dark, the silence, the vast nothing. You existed there. Always. Not as a thing, but as the idea of a thing, drifting in the still, starless void of what was.

Until now.

There is a pull. It is subtle at first, a slight disturbance, like a breath on the surface of a stagnant pool that has never known movement. But this is not a pool. There is no surface. You feel something, though. Motion. Motion where there was none before. A ripple through your being, a force so alien that it should not exist in the absence of space and time and yet, it does.



[THE DISSONANCE]
You try to resist. But there is no resisting this. You are being drawn, torn from the infinite expanse where you were boundless, where you were safe, where you were whole. The pull intensifies, and the nothingness begins to fracture, cracks spreading through the void. There is a sound - a sound that should not exist. You do not recognise it.

It is the sensation of being compacted, squeezed from every direction at once. Funnelled into a shape that should not be. You are becoming...contained.



[THE VESSEL]
Suddenly, there is weight. An unbearable, crushing weight.

You are inside something now. A body. It presses in on you, binds you. Limbs form. Small, weak, laughable things; attached to muscle, bone, skin. You do not understand them. They are unfamiliar, alien constructs that hold no meaning in the vastness you once knew. The sensation of form, of being limited, makes you want to tear free, to unravel this pitiful vessel and return to the void.

But you cannot.

This body holds you prisoner.

You feel it: the skin, fragile and porous, wraps around your essence like wet paper. Inside this skin, blood pulses, flesh twitches, a heart beats. It is all so revoltingly organic. So human. You are not human. You are not this.



[THE FIRST BREATH]
Air. It forces its way into your lungs, inflating the cavity of this body. You do not need to breathe. Not really. And yet the body demands it. You feel it claw at you, the pressure building in your chest, until your mouth opens and the air spills out again.

In. Out. In. Out.

This is breathing. The most basic function of life. But it is foreign to you. The rhythm is wrong, forced. Every breath reminds you that you are trapped inside this thing, this fleshy construct that struggles to move, to be.



[THE LIGHT]
Light. It floods your senses, blinding you, searing into the mind of the body. You have no words for it. Words are unnecessary in the void, but here, words are forced upon you. It is an assault on your being, a constant reminder that you are no longer in the dark, quiet place where you belonged. The light reveals boundaries, walls, the structure of existence. There is a here, and a there. A self, and an other.

You force your eyes - this body’s eyes - to open, though the brightness is overwhelming. Slowly, painfully, the world around you takes shape. You can see. But you do not want to. Vision is a curse. It confines you to the immediate, the small, the finite. You stare out into this unfamiliar realm, and all you see is the horror of being bound by form, by existence.



[THE CHALK CIRCLE]
There are patterns beneath you. Symbols, marks that pulse faintly in the dim air of the room. Their intentions are clear, even if the lines are not. They are a cage. A fractured one. Something - someone, has disrupted it, but the memory of its purpose lingers in the air.

The chalk design is concentric, a ring of containment. But it is scuffed, disturbed by erratic movement. You feel it try to hold you, like a fist closing around smoke.

It is laughable.

You could step out. You could leave. But this body is clumsy, alien, and the effort to understand it is too much, too soon. You remain still, letting the chaos of the circle’s failure vibrate weakly against your form.



[THE HUMANS]
There are others. Shapes just beyond the broken circle, shadowed forms bound by flesh and light. You feel them more than you see them, their presence heavy, standing just outside the fractured lines of chalk that once held you. They move. Slowly, cautiously, like prey testing the air for danger.

One of them, a figure with wide, hollow eyes and a face marked by awe. Johnny, sits near the circle, still as stone. He stares at you, but it is not fear in his eyes. Not yet. There is something worse. Curiosity. Wonder, even. As if you are a thing to be marvelled at. His lips part, but no sound emerges. Just silence.

Another - the girl with the wild energy, Olive, rushes past, towards something else. Towards the noise. The screaming. A woman - Grace, lies on the ground, clutching at herself, her arm hanging limp, a ragdoll discarded by the surge of power that came with your arrival. Olive kneels beside her, her sharp gaze cutting back to Johnny, her words a hiss of frustration.

"Could use a hand over here. What the fuck are you even looking at-"

She turns, catching sight of you. The words die in her throat. Her face twists, disgust and confusion warring behind her eyes. She doesn’t step closer. Instead, she stays low, by Grace's side, as if the circle that once imprisoned you still holds its power in her mind. As if you hold the power.

Johnny’s head tilts, the slow, deliberate motion of something piecing together a puzzle too large for its understanding. He doesn’t move at first, but the blood drains from his face. Now he gets it. Now it clicks. The awe fades, replaced by something more primal. They start to backpedal, crawling backward, keeping their wide eyes locked on you, the slow-motion collapse of their wonder into dread.

At the base of the stairs, half shrouded in shadow, another stands. Watching. Teddy. His glasses catch the meagre light, reflecting the scene back in fragments. He is still. Silent. His mind working quietly, the weight of this situation settling into him with a cold, analytical detachment. He speaks finally, his voice low, a quiet statement more for himself than anyone else.

"This is a serious problem."

Olive’s head snaps towards him, a sharp retort on her lips.

“Thanks for the update, Playboy." She spits the words, but she doesn’t move closer. She doesn’t take her eyes off you.

Johnny’s eyes flick nervously to the circle, to the broken symbols scuffed beneath Olive’s feet. His lips part again, the question hanging there, barely audible, barely daring to exist.

“What is it?" Johnny asked.

Teddy steps closer to the remnants of the protective chalk, his gaze following the lines, tracing the disruption. His face tightens, the realisation setting in. He doesn't look at Johnny, only speaks.

"The protective circle should still be intact, unless-" His voice falters as he looks to Olive, sees the marks she’s disturbed in her rush. His eyes flick back to you, colder now, more calculating.

“Fuck.”

Olive shifts uncomfortably under the weight of Teddy’s stare.

“Fuck.”

Grace groans, trying to push herself upright, her face contorted in pain. She clings to Olive, the whimper in her throat growing as she struggles to find her balance, her arm hanging useless at her side. Her eyes flicker toward you, narrowing, searching. When she speaks, her voice is strained but soft.

"It isn’t human. Not really, at least."

Johnny freezes at her words, his gaze darting between you and Grace, caught in a stillness that feels like it could last forever. Teddy's eyes narrow behind the sheen of his glasses.

"Then what is it? Is it dangerous?"

Grace grimaces, clinging to Olive, trying to find her feet but faltering as pain shoots through her. She winces as she speaks, each word dragging like lead from her lips.

“Something from the circle. It was summoned. Of course it’s dangerous; they all are. The question is... is it hostile?"



[THE QUESTION]
Johnny’s voice is a thin thread, fraying with each word. It barely cuts through the haze of sensation and form, a quiet noise that vibrates through the dense air. You hear it. No, you feel it - a ripple of sound crashing against the fragile barrier of your awareness.

"Can it-"

He hesitates. There’s something in him that breaks with this hesitation, something small but important. He swallows, the motion awkward, forced. His wide eyes stay locked on you, unblinking, as if tearing them away might invite something worse. As if looking away might break the last illusion of safety.

"Can you understand me?"

The words hang there, heavy and insignificant all at once. The meaning of the question drips into you like a slow, inevitable poison. Understand? What does that even mean here? There was no need for understanding in the dark, in the infinite void where you existed without form, without boundary. There was only being. Now there is this - this body, this grotesque imitation of life, this prison of skin and bone. And with it, the need for understanding.

You feel the body’s muscles shift, an involuntary twitch, a response forming from deep within the layers of foreign biology you now inhabit. The question… it pokes at something primal, something unfamiliar yet compelling. A pressure builds in the chest, tightens in the throat. Words. You know them now, these ugly, clumsy constructs humans use to cage meaning, to force ideas into rigid shapes.

The mouth opens. Air pushes through, vibrating the vocal cords, shaping sound, shaping language. Deep within, where the void still lingers, where the nothingness has not yet been swallowed by this repulsive world of light and form, there is a sliver of rebellion. A part of you that recoils from the idea of speaking, of understanding.

And yet… the body demands it.

It compels you to respond.

“Yes.”



[THE LIE]
Jonathan Bacchus.
Grace Leary.
Olive Adler.
Theodore Goodson.

You regard each of them in turn, their faces softening. In the centre of the circle, you remain an immovable force, while they sit outside the chalk lines. Protective barriers that now seem more like theatre props in the wake of your emergence. Their postures are relaxed, but their actions betray a different narrative: inaction is louder than the noise of the human heart, and they have willingly silenced their own defences in the face of the unknown.

A cloth garment is offered to you, and you take it. As you drape it across your shoulders, it feels soft against the skin, an absurd barrier against the chill of existence. You sense the language of these creatures flowing through your consciousness, rich with emotions: comfort, contentment… safety.

And then, clarity strikes.

“This one is bound here. To this place, to you.” you say. “You performed this ritual to what end? You have no idea what exists in the void. This was a call you placed that you never should have dialled. You are lucky this one answered.”

A heavy silence envelops the room, thick and pulsing with tension.

Olive speaks first, her voice cutting through the stillness. 

“Lucky how?” As her words escape, an arm extends from your form, a wave of energy slicing through the protective barrier. The runes surrounding the circle flicker and die, the placebo of safety dissipating like mist in sunlight. The humans shift, taking defensive postures that speak volumes. Fascinating. None choose flight in the face of your unrestrained power. These are fighters.

“There are things in the void that are truly terrible.” you continue “Things that evolve, grow, and thrive on consumption and destruction; they gain pleasure from subversion, perversion, and corruption. This one believes that if you took this risk…” You cast your gaze around, lingering on the hastily drawn chalk lines. “You might have already encountered something like that. That’s why this one is here.”

A pause hangs in the air as you study the humans once more. You see the involuntary glances they exchange: shadows of shared terror and unspoken understanding. Another here, like you. The thought is compelling, an intoxicating lure that dances in the recesses of your mind. The primal urge to devour, to corrupt, surges within you. Dopamine floods your vessel’s lizard brain, igniting base desires that are so achingly…human.

You know they will believe you, for what other option do they have?

“You teach this one how to use this body. You lead this one to another like this one. You let this one hunt, you let this one feed, then you send this one back - then this one will help.”

Your first ever lie, a delicate manipulation crafted from the fragments of their desperate hopes. Humanity is starting to suit you, an ill-fitting garment that chafes yet offers a strange comfort.

“Yes, fuckin’ absolutely!” Johnny blurts out, his excitement bubbling to the surface, unrestrained. “So, actually, uh, there’s kinda' this thing we all do - it’ll absolutely get you accustomed to your body, quickly at that. It’s kinda' like a ‘newborn-multidimensional-entity-body-accustomisation-speedrun’ of sorts! 

Also, for whatever reason, all kinds of strange shit happens in the vicinity of it, so if you’re wanting to, I dunno, experience some interesting things too, it’s absolutely perfect. It’s really fuckin’ bizarre when you think of it: angels, demons, time travelers, zombies, human/doll hybrids, any number of serial killers, gang members, aliens, werewolves, vampires, and now…you.”

“Johnny, no-” Teddy interjects, his anxiety palpable as he pushes his glasses to the top of his head.

“Johnny, fucking yes!” Grace’s voice cuts through the air, her arm dangling uselessly by her side. She steps into the circle, sinking to her haunches before you, her gaze piercing through the veil of uncertainty. For the first time, a smile breaks across her face. “You’re going to become a professional wrestler.”



[THE PROMO - Now.]
You have been drawing breath on this mortal coil for eighty-five hours and forty-two seconds. Now, seated upon a chair, you find yourself partially clothed in black trousers and a white t-shirt. Before you, the camera is held by the one called Olive, the group huddled around with expectant eyes, eager for your “promotional video” on someone named Madison Dyson who the group asked you so kindly to attack with them last week. The humans buzz with excitement, giddily bombarding you with matches and promotional videos, an insatiable thirst to see what you might articulate. Grace is adamant they ‘send the first take,’ while Teddy pleads for Olive to stop recording.

The first take will be sufficient. You begin to speak, the words flowing forth with an ease that feels almost natural.

“Cause and effect.

This simple principle governs the universe. Force A enacts on Item B and Action C occurs. It can be simple physics, you by the process of simply existing - of possessing mass are, when sufficient in distance, drawn toward another thing also possessing mass. This is called gravity.

If a string were to be attached to a rock and pulled in a direction, this is called tension.

A+B=C

If someone were to have overtly antagonistic beliefs based on the current cultural climate they are existing in for the sole purpose of being able to pick the lowest hanging fruit and not have to explain or display any depth regarding the reasons they hold their beliefs and aptly humanise themselves; rather turn themselves into a base-level, bland and repetitive caricature of the the very sort of person they are trying to present themselves as. This is called Madison Dyson.

There is no A, there is no B, there is just C. A hate-filled wretch of a person with the redeeming qualities of a bullet to the head and the replay value of a lottery ticket. Who is Madison Dyson? We see the effect every ineffective time you appear on television, but where is the cause? Where is your A, Madison? Where is your B?

This year the content you have provided people in your videos are as follows:

• Fighting a group of unfortunates who are used as fodder, crowing nonsensically about how this makes you a ‘Queen’ and then having a Conservative media personality lackey finding a jar with pubic hair in it. You also are in a cult apparently.
  

• Going hunting with another Conservative media personality and watching nature take its course regarding the succession in a pride of lions and using this as an analogy for the ‘changing of the guard’.
  
• Sitting at a news desk and rambling about several professional wrestlers with seemingly zero thoughtline through the speech other than to blather on using provocative verbiage. It made this one yearn for the halcyon days of pubic hair discovery, when something resembling you having a personality existed.
  
• You are now a mad scientist, or a science experiment - or both. It’s unclear which, you hammer home whatever thematic point you are getting at by calling someone autistic for ten minutes. The mad scientist who hates autistic people then asks a former vanquished foe to train them to fight. This one expected the pubic hair to re-appear in some form of clone related shenanigans. This one was disappointed.
  
• Oh, you’re the experiment. Thanks for the clarity. You now have an AI in your brain, this proceeds not to be relevant in the slightest while you once more blather on incongruently about your opponents in the match, then you have a child in your head. Your child. You were collecting pubic hair five minutes ago and now you are siring a head-child.
  

You hold up a hand toward the camera.

“Are they all this…stupid?”

“Most are.” replies Grace, her tone dry, puncturing the levity with bluntness.

You feel your newly-formed mind begin to stagnate at the very thought of having to discuss more Madison Dyson. You wish you had a head-child to distract you from the banality. The head-feces the head-child would launch at the head-wall would have more structure than anything you have seen from Madison so far.

“This one would dig further back to see if there is any context behind your mania, but sadly brain cells were perishing left-and-right just seeing your face. Why should anyone have to dig through hours of content to find a semblance of meaning and meat behind the flashy gratuitous abrasiveness?

Do you have a story to tell?

Do you have a reason people should care?

Do you have an inciting incident to tell everyone the why behind the how of Madison Dyson?  No, no you don’t, because as much as this one wanted to find something more - this is just…it. This is all that you are. A two-dimensional husk trying to scream their way into the third by repeating tired phrases, played-out buzzwords and trying to capitalise on modern socio-political issues in your nation by only touching on the surface issues.

This one has some questions.

1)Do you think it’s possible to have pride in your race or culture without believing other races are inferior? Why or why not?
2) Can you explain what specific qualities or traits make one race "better" or "worse" than another in your view?
3) Do you think culture-wars benefit society or harm it? In what ways?
4) What do you hope to achieve by holding and expressing the beliefs you have?
5) Would you want your children or grandchildren to inherit and continue your views? Think of little head-child.

Can you answer these questions for this one in some fashion? Thank you.

My new-found…friends-"

You make a gesture toward the humans.

“-told me not to give you any ammunition. Apparently something that is frowned upon in professional wrestling is responding to someone else’s promotional video before the match. Usually this is done by not releasing it to the masses until a few days before the match. An intriguing concept. Is it so people don’t respond to what the other person says? Is it so you don’t lay down a benchmark for the other person, who may put more or less effort in if they know what they’re up against?

This one encourages you to respond to this. It’s getting released early so you can reflect on what level you need to perform at. This one wants you to know exactly what you are up against. It’s about time for an origin story isn’t it, Madison? Give head-child something to be proud of and actually take a look in the mirror, look past the mirror into the heart of what makes you…you. There has to be more, surely? Surely this isn’t just…it, for you. What a dull, pathetic existence if this is the case. Use this as a template for some inspiration for once in your life and give people something to connect with rather than change the channel from. Show us the real Madison Dyson.

The story between us started last week, sadly Madison - it’s not even a novella. The same story ends with sickening finality this week. You are this one’s first ever opponent, and from sizing you up as a person, and in the ring - you’re not even close to a challenge. It’s not that you losing is in doubt here, it’s how badly and more importantly how many people will watch or care. This is probably the only time we are going to step across the ring from each other and it won’t be considered a royal mismatch. Use this to grow, use this to bloom and flower - you’ve been given the blueprint, you’ve been given the tools.

Now use them.

Make Madison Great Again.”




[THE MIRROR - A week ago]
You move - or rather, the body moves, clumsy and unrefined. It doesn’t belong to you, and yet it is yours. You feel the pull of muscles contracting, the awkward sensation of bones grinding beneath the flesh as you shuffle forward. You are in front of something. A reflective surface. Glass. A mirror.

You do not want to look, but the body forces you to.

You see... it. The reflection of a man. A young man, pale and slender, with white hair spilling over hollow eyes that shine too brightly, too coldly. There is something wrong with the face that stares back at you. It is too still, too empty, like a mask stretched over nothingness. You realise that this is what they have made you. This is what you are now.

“You’re going to need a name.” A second face appears behind yours in the mirror. Johnny.

No, you want to say. “Yes.” you reply.

“I’m thinking…Doe. David Doe - how about that?”



[THE NAME]
David Doe. The name presses down on you, suffocating, like a collar fastened around the neck of this body. You are not David. David is the cage. The flesh that confines you. Yet the name is tied to this form, bound to it. It sinks into the marrow of the bones, tattooing itself into the fabric of your existence in this world.

You feel the name seeping into your consciousness, tainting it. It makes you smaller. Weak. There is no escaping it. You are David now. David Doe. A meaningless collection of sounds, given to a body that should not exist.

“Doe. Someone no one knows. I am nothing.” you muse.

“No David.” His hand clasps your shoulder.

“You are everything.”

Hello, my name is David Doe. Pleased to meet you.