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The camera fades in to find the Avatar of Perfection currently doing pull- ups, no doubt training for his upcoming Hart Championship match. The setting for this chapter of the story of Maverick is set in an unknown gym, an occasional passerby spotted by the camera's eye, sparring in the nearby wrestling ring, going on the heavy bag, et cetra.

Maverick's face is caked with sweat, his workout clothing drenched in pools of perspiration. Yet, for some reason, he's still going. No doubt, his count on the pull- ups must be in the hundreds, yet he continues with the grueling workout, not missing a bit of steam.

As the camera approaches close and closer to Maverick, we can hear him mutter under his breath, "897. . . 898. . . 899. . ."

Hmmmmm. . . The presence of the mental imprint of Maverick's father made itself ever so clear.

There a problem? Maverick thought back to him as he continued his counting in muttered words, "900. . . 901. . . 902. . ."

As a matter of fact, there is a problem. How in the blue hell did Peter realize I basically exist in your mind even though we have not done anything to suggest that might have happened?

Maverick allowed himself a chuckle before returning to counting. The counting was now done in his head, realising he was going to be in for a longer conversation with his mind- father. Y'know. . . the answer to that eludes me as well. Perhaps the big lug isn't as smart as he let on, and realized there was a major difference between you and me when you decided to cut that promo on TJ?

903.

904.

905.

After a brief moment of thinking between the two, Maverick and his father quickly agreed and thought in unison--

Naaahh.

906.

907.

908.

Lucky guess?

Lucky guess, coupled with Gator somehow able to predict that as well earlier in the year when you faced off against him for the latest time.

True, I almost forgot about that. But first Gator, now Peter? It makes me wonder. . .

909.

910.

911.

Is your existance when we talked confined to my mind except for when you take control of my body, like we thought?

That. . . is a very good question. The conversation was brought to a halt, leaving Maverick doing his pull- ups in silence.

912.

913.

914.

915.

916.

917.

While we stew on that for a bit. . . might I ask as to why you're pushing yourself so hard? I mean, I usually see five hundred pull- ups out of you, but to double that on a whim?

Not doubling it. Quadrupling it.

Even worse!

918.

919.

920.

I get that you're angry at Pest, and you wanna take him down once and for all, all the while shutting up Gilmour, but at this rate you're going to burn yourself out before you even get to the match! You need to calm down.

Not an option. I made a promise to one of the bestest friends of my life, along with the mother that was robbed from me, and I swear to whatever deity that exists in the afterlife, I. Will. Not. Fail.

921.

922.

923.

But what good is your promise if you cannot hope to honor it due to training so extensively?

924.

925.

926.

You should calm down, go home, maybe cut a promo if you wanna get ready for the big match, but don't--

"Oi, you there. Step off, this gym is my territory." The new voice immediately set off alarms in Maverick's mind. A British accent, he was able to detect. As soon as he turned around, he saw a young man, couldn't have been older than. . . twenty- two, Maverick would say?

Maverick paused, about to go for yet another pull- up, but slowly, he released his grip and dropped to the ground.

"Well, mind if I ask me what makes me the lucky person to get booted out?" Maverick asked, his eyes unwavering from the young man. Some of the other people in the gym cocked their heads towards the duo, obviously eager as to what was going to go down.

The young lad chuckled before launching a cocky smile and clearing his throat. "See, you don't seem to get it. I've been watching you ever since you've come here, in THIS very gym. And what productive shit have you been doing here? Pull- ups, upon pull- ups, upon pull-ups. Well, maybe I wanna do some pull- ups now. And I think it goes without saying that you're in my way. So step off, title shitter."

The crowd 'ooh's' as the young man lightly shoves Maverick back, his smile even cockier. Mav's eyes show only barely contained rage, only one thought circulating throughout his mind:

It's official. I hate this guy.

Kick his ass for me, why don't'cha?

Without saying a word, Maverick points to the wrestling ring, and all eyes turned to there. The two people in there currently sparring could feel eyes on them. So they turned. . . right into Maverick pointing at them. Getting the hint, the two wrestlers in there currently skidaddled, allowing Maverick and the young man to enter the ring. As Maverick was stepping in there, he could hear little snippets of conversation--

"I can't believe this guy is stepping up to Luke motherfucking Arthur."

"Forget about it, whoever this new guy is, is still gonna get creamed by Luke. This guy made a name for himself at this gym by taking down some of the best we had."

"I'm curious to see how this is gonna go, I hope this new guy can finally take out that bully Luke."

Maverick slowly approached the ring and stepped in between the ropes, before turning around and pacing the ring, waiting for the man apparently known as Luke Arthur to get into the ring.

Maverick hoped the intensity of his new training regimen wouldn't slow him down too much.

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. . .








"Wait, you guys didn't think it was over yet, did you? You thought I was going to leave you on a cliffhanger with me against some shitty douche? Hah, you THOUGHT. We're not through yet."

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"Gilmour, you suck. I mean, what the hell was that clusterfuck you just called a promo? You wanna become a three- time Hart Champion with garbage promos like THAT?! Bitch please. you probably couldn't tie my shoes, much less beat me. I should have really expected a generic, Gilmour promo, but this, this is too far."

"Ugh, whatever. Let's get this fuckin' show on the road."

"We start out with some photos of you with a PHONY Kenta Kobashi, a PHONY Ric Flair, a PHONY Dusty Rhodes, and a PHONY Kevin Steen. Way to disrespect the business and the legacy those four made on sports entertainment by just taking photos with phony versions of them to satiate your gluttony for fame. People like you make me sick."

"Then, you go on to lament about being separated from your friend, and then you recap your latest match, generic Gilmour crap at this point, not like I have any hopes for this sleazebag after the phony legend photos."

"Then, you go on to trash Pest, and I have one little problem with what you said there-- why is Pest in this match? You bumbling buffon, it is you who should be excluded from this match. I've been waiting to get my hands on Pest, to wring his throat out for so long, but like an annoying fat kid at a candy store- a fitting anology, considering you have the annoying and fat part down- you want more. Despite the fact that you can't even buy a win at this point, sans having Steve Davids assist you for when he backstabbed Chris Isles, you get a Hart title shot. . . for some reason."

"Then, you come to me. Oh, boy, this is gonna be good. Obvious sarcasm is obvious."

"Now, you know what Peter? You surprised me, because you were right about one point. I am lucky. I'm lucky to live in a mansion, I'm lucky to be wealthy as fuck, I'm lucky to have dozens of servants willing to attend to my every need, and no, not needs like those, so Pest, don't go on saying that I have intercourse with my servants. But all these wins I've been racking up? Pure skill. Hell, you've even admitted I stepped my game up. . . yet you still say I'm still weak. . . even though I beat you. And this brings me to my next point-- I never pinned you. You know what? True again. 3 for 4, Gilly, that's actually passable. But, do you need a reminder of what happens when you decided to go toe to toe against me during said Scramble match?"

"If you guessed, 'all three times Gilly tried to face Maverick, he got demolished,' you are correct! Gilly cannot even hope to light a candle to my everlasting perfection; it's evident that this match is going one way, and it's the perfect way."

"Oh, oh, this is my favorite part! Remember how you claimed that you were screwed out of the Hart title by claiming that you were thrown out of the ring? Well, about that. . ."

Quote:As Peter turns around, he’s low-blowed by Maverick! As Peter’s face shows anguish, Maverick hits a DDT that spikes his head into the mat! Peter rolls away and out of the ring.

"YOU SEE?! As soon as I hit Peter with a move as basic as a DDT, he had to excuse himself from the match like he just got c.diff. Now, the last part of Peter Gilmour's promo that I'll grace with a response is why I called him a nobody. Pete, I called you that because you just don't got it anymore. Hell, you let your finisher get stolen by Iris fucking Oppenheimer. The thirteen- time X-treme Champion of yore would NEVER let that happen. The Ruler of the Realm of X-treme would have DENIED that right out of the gate. But at this rate, Gilly. . . you're neither of those things. You're just Peter Gilmour."

"My destined punching bag."

"Now then, Pestie, what can I say to you that hasn't been a reiteration? This is easy for starters- I don't give a crap what kind of lies you're trying to plant in my mind, trying to make allusions saying you're my father and what not, but allow me to say this: YOU HAVE ZERO CONTROL OVER MY MIND. I rebelled over my own volition. I'm going to beat you of my own volition, and captain or squadmate, I'm gonna lead my team to victory at War Games! And there isn't a soul on this damned planet that can stop me!"

The camera fades to black.