My life is a blur now. One moment bleeding into the next. Just a never-ending fever dream. A twilight world shaded in hues of blue and black. Keep yourself busy, Doctor Fowlston always says. But this medicine he has prescribed keeps me buried in bed sheets for way too long on most days. Especially so on my days off from the blood letting in the ring. However few those are.



Fuck all this medicine. It's only job is to keep me sedated. A walking, talking zombie. To subdue, to bury deep into my subconscious, the echoes of the life I lived - before I took hers.



The phototherapy, that I should have never agreed to. The prescriptions, that he knew I would mix with my other addictions. All tools, instruments of the mortal world designed to keep me in line. Living in my past transgressions. A perpetual loop of all of my worst days.



The headaches are growing more frequent. I'm experiencing black outs now. Time lapses that at first came in short bursts. Minutes at a time. Now, they have turned into hours and the most recent one - two days. I remember falling asleep, passing out if I'm being honest, on Saturday night. I remember that much because the last photo in my phone was a ketamine induced selfie, in some dirty bathroom mirror, in a seedy motel room on the edge of Tacoma. The time stamp - 11:57, Saturday night.



Here it is Monday afternoon now. Having to rip my eyelids apart. Sweating out a cocktail of prescription meds, liquor and a combination of horse tranquilizer and cocaine. Day one or two of an unintended detox. Having to pull myself away from these cheap bed sheets. Half dazed and the other half still twisted.



These motel rooms feel like coffins.



I'm stuck trying to piece together fragments of minutes, hours and days that I don't immediately remember. My own personal dime store mysteries. Through hazy recollections and a brain fog that is at least, partially, self inflicted.



Through it all, I can't stop thinking about her. Not Holly this time. For the first time. In a long time. But a porcelain skin goddess, whose angel eyes will most certainly be my demise and could make empires fall.



She took me by surprise. Caught me completely off guard. She's everywhere and nowhere. Always just out of reach. Obviously it's not love. I barely know her. Lust? It's definitely lust, but there's something different about her. She doesn't realize how special she is and if she does, she hides it well. I keep thinking, I bet she's a good dancer. The sexiest thing a woman can do is dance.



Feelings will make you soft, Matthias. I whisper to myself. Besides, what would she think of the monster growing inside of me? How long could I hide it from her? I know what I am. Death dances like a thundering river around me. Anyone that I get close to, anyone unlucky enough to be in my orbit for any extended period of time, gets washed away.



I wouldn't want to hurt her, but I feel like I need her.



Shake it off, Matthias.



Boom. A sickening thud against the glass window shook me from my thoughts. Whatever just hit my window hit it hard enough that the glass splintered. I traced the splintered glass with my finger before peering out the now broken window. I'm not paying for that shit. The first thought that ran through my mind.



Just then I noticed the bird. Lifeless. Blood and feathers painting the weathered concrete. Its neck appeared broken. A sparrow if I had to guess. Something had to have been chasing it. Such is life, I'd say. One minute you're soaring through life carefree, the entire world at your fingertips. The next, something bigger, stronger, faster and more violent comes along looking to assert itself at the top of the food chain. To take what you believe and have always believed to be yours. 

---

Let me start by saying that I apologize to absolutely no one.



From the first night that I walked through that curtain, I told you, I told everyone, that I am a Revolutionary. Hell bent on changing the landscape of THIS federation. To push the boundaries of this industry. To personally usher out the old guard and their antiquated idea of what wrestling should be.












They want me muzzled. Vinnie Lane, Thaddeus Duke, Barry Bastardson and the majority of that cowardly, impotent circus in the locker room. Not an innovative wrestler in the bunch.



Have I offended everybody yet? If not, give me time. I'm just getting started.



Thing is, in an industry full of limp wrist storytellers, I'm looking for killers. That's my War Games prerequisite. I have my eye on the few killers in this industry, the few killers in the Xtreme Wrestling Federation and I'm gonna do what I can to make sure those killers are on my team.



There is a cold reality setting in. For those of you unfamiliar with my game, I am Matthias Syn. I am everything that your favorite wrestler wishes they were. They want to walk like me, talk like me, think like me and fuck like me.



But until they shed the societal facade that is weighing them down and embrace their genuine instincts, they'll never be anything more than a cut below the Syn City Saint.



For all of you not on my team at War Games, just know that this is an execution. A massacre. A termination of the old guard way of doing things. You've all become too comfortable. 



The only way to make genuine progress is through pure brutality. Unfiltered violence. Chaos in the face of conformity. Delivering MY message. What happens between the bells, that's the message.



I am not going to ramble on and on like the other five captains are most assuredly going to do. You all know who I am. You all know that when that bell rings, I am out to fucking inflict pain. Any team that Matthias Syn is on, is the favorite. I assure you that.



Game Girl. Jesus Christ. Most people will see what? AI that has become sentient? Just listening to her speak annoys me. I do have a question though. Something that has run through my mind since I saw her promo.



Can you fuck it? That's my question. If not, I don't see her usefulness. Does she at least cook and clean or does she just… wrestle? I'll make sure to find out on Warfare.



Cypher. Your entire personality is a weird amalgamation of three middling pieces of cinema. Yeah we've all seen that movie. Angelina was in that weird phase right before she became super hot. How many times have you called yourself Zero Cool? The plot was as thin as your XWF schedule. Pull yourself out of the Matrix long enough Mr. Robot, to realize that you're not the attraction that you crave to be. Honestly, the entire wrestling world forgot you even existed until you decided to thrust yourself into Wargames.



I'm glad you're back, Tyler. I can't wait to fucking hurt you.



Shawn Warstein. Hmm. I don't know much about you dude. I couldn't be bothered. Another one of Thad’s good ol’ boys club I’d presume. I did see you lose to Robin, I mean Corey Black at Relentless. Excellent first impression. Try to get Noah to not say cunt challenge.



Adeyemi. The man that Marvel would sue back into the stone age if they caught wind of your character arc. A man so impotent that he's had to ride the coattails of Ned Kaye for the better part of his two year career. Enveloped by his notorious shadow. Just how you like it. You don't want to be the leading man in any story. You're a passenger in the game of life. In Ned Kayes life. Just along for the ride. You're Corey Black, with less charisma and let me tell you, that's a hard feat.



Five months I've done this. Five months since my music hit for the first time in the XWF. By my third month I won a title, defended that title for the last two months. Main events. A Universal Title opportunity. A match where I had your idol, finished. My own pride was the only reason that I didn't walk out of the match as the Universal Champion. Now, we can add WarGames captain to my list. Five months. Blow yourself some more over what you did in your first year, back when Matthias Syn was nowhere to be found.



Well I'm here now, young Prince. I am on that same meteoric rise. Only I have charisma. I have presence. I'm not forgotten or passed over. I don't have to reinvent myself to make people remember that I even exist. Remember that, as I am doing the world a favor and crushing your fucking Larynx so that we don't have to hear you orate another boring promo ever again.



SEB. A man conditioned by the circumstances you were born into. You pretend that you're not ivory tower to escape the nepotism charge. “Im gonna take my father down if it's the last thing I do”. Christ. So dull. Uninspired. Wealth has shielded you from disintegrating social conditions. You want with all of your might to be the hero. The every man.



I want to slit my wrists every time that I hear you, a grown man, say BFF. You're who I want to put my hands on the most. You're the one that I want to crucify in the middle of that ring, so that anyone actually living in the real world can rejoice in the river of crimson that flows from your newly earned scars.



No matter who stands in my way, Sebastian, I will get my piece of flesh.