I need to meditate. Or, masturbate. - Trevor Phillips

Oh, son of a fucking bitch!

Once again; I manage to handbrake a little too hard, and the side of the car smashes into the back of another car. Looking down at my hands, I see that I am in fact turning the controller as if it were a steering wheel of its own. Yeah, I think I just reached a whole new level of immersion. That, or I'm just a massive, massive, geek. There's always both, as well.

I lay the controller down on the ground, and as I try to stand up, the driver's side door of the car on the screen opens up without any intervention. Out of the seat, and into the street steps Trevor Phillips, the most interesting of the game's protagonists.

"Hey, bitch! Where the fuck do you think you're fuckin' going?"

Just then, the very ominous transition sequence occurs. Somehow, my entire sense of vision changes. I now see things from straight above, and as I appear to be backing up, rising up in the air, my view of the room zooms out, seeing the roof of the apartment instead. Once more, it zooms out, allowing me to see my entire block from this view. I will be the first to admit; this is trippy as fuck.

The map fades to black momentarily, replaced with a completely new, and somewhat foreign counterpart. As it begins to zoom in more and more, I start to recognize-

Oh. My. Fucking. God.

I appear, fading back into the realm of normal vision, in the passenger's seat of the very same car that I managed to crash. The driver? Oh, that's right. None other than Trevor fucking Phillips. This, this is NOT going to end well.

"Ya better buckle up, bitch. Click it or ticket!"

Yeah, did I emphasize the NOT, enough?

He presses his foot down on the gas, and the car lurches forward before easing in and moving at a constant speed. About fifteen miles over the speed limit, that is. Consistent, nonetheless. Making a wide turn, and almost hitting another parked car, he manages to parallel park the car on the side of the road, in front of a 24/7. Almost hitting the car in front, he grunts before backing the car up and nearly ramming the one behind us. Reaching into the backseat and pulling out an assault rifle before forcing the door open and marching toward the entrance to the convenience store. Turning his head back to face the car, he calls out to me, in a slur of jumbled and almost incoherent mess of mostly meaningless words.

"When I come out; you better be ready to drive, God dammit!"

Yeah, I think I caught the gist of that. At least, that's all I understood. I climb into the driver's seat and just watch, watch and wait for Trevor to come out. Minutes pass, and he finally does. The sound of alarms wail as he steps out of the door and runs over to the backseat door. Pulling it open, he hops in before pulling the door shut.

"Fuckin' drive, you brain dead whore!"

***


"You know what really gets me annoyed? What really fuckin' irks me? Irrelevant fucking statistics. Now, what relevance does this have on the turn of events that has landed us smack dab in the middle of trios title contention? Really, you'd think the people who've made it far enough to earn a shot should be able to bring up a point that isn't in reality just an absurd over hyping?

Enter, Alexandra Callaway.

Bravo, brilliant showing, Ally. May I call you that? Fuck it, I'm going to. You really know how to make a point, especially when you're riding off the successes of those around you. I mean, wow, a call back to War Games when you beat me, no no, that wasn't what happened.

You see, and I feel the need to explain it to you because of your little superiority spiel, claiming you held a win over me, that what had happened was Tony Santos and Griffin MacAlister beating the man you know pledge allegiance to, Eli James, into unconsciousness. You didn't do a thing to affect the decision, and neither did I. Ergo, if the roles were reversed and I was on the winning side, I would have nothing to brag about there. That, is where a major difference between you and I comes in.

You're content to flaunt that around, the fact that you were chosen to be on the team that stood opposite your master and your love, and managed to coast on by. Just remember, nothing came out of their win. Your contendership, the one you once again coasted by earning, also went nowhere. In retrospect, the entire event was a giant waste of time for you, seeing as though none of you got the job done. That must really be hard for you.

I do however remember the one time we were in a one on one environment though. We pinned you, and took the only title you managed to win despite being in a match for just about all of them. Yeah, your title reign was ended by the woman you claim a victory over. Once more, brah-fucking-vo. You're, you're unbelievable.

No seriously, I find it hard to believe anything that falls out of your mouth, as it always appears like it's drowned in cum.

That's right, you fucking dependent bitch. I said it. How many men have you been with (and by that, I of course mean fucked) since you showed up here? Four by my count, of course counting your little fling with MacAlister. Add that in witht he fact that you arrived in June. Four months, four guys. Now, Jess might think you're hot, but any thought I have about the state of your vagina, comes right down to the inference that it's nothing but a repository for STDs. Do. Not. Want.

However, she says plenty of other golden, golden comments about our common enemies, the team of Sebastian Duke, Peter Gilmour, and Cam Lang. A team, who will be spoken of at a later time, for I'm not done with Callaway.

She's better than Duke, but by her own logic, isn't. See, what she fails to remember is that Duke holds a victory over her. Ergo, by her own fucking thought process, she's inferior. Strike one.

But he knew I was the best chose, because she can't fucking speak. Yeah, fits with Eli's MO, there...

...And she's gonna brag about her countless, fruitless title shots. Yeah, that trend's continuing, skank.

Oh, and because your memory is worse than your self control, I beat Mystica. I made him tap out. I've beaten you.

And to answer your question, what do the other teams have?

Well, nothing you can plan against. Look at the facts, instead of shunning them like the religious and holy broad you are.

ESP, is debuting. You literally know nothing about what she brings to the ring. Tri Bute is from the future, do you think he follows the same patterns we do here? I bet you do, thinking doesn't seem to be your strong suit.

Then, there's me.

My name's Kea. You've met Jessie, Jessica, myself, and another who has chosen to remain nameless to you. One, what makes you think there aren't even more? Two, how the fuck could you prepare when none of us even know which of us will be out there to be against you?

We're the wild cards.

Unpredictable.

What DON'T we have?

That's the better question."