Where did it all go wrong?

--John Michael White stands on concrete, happy to have solid ground beneath his feet. Well, as solid as the crumbling concrete of Detroit's streets ever get. At least he wasn't in the air, and better still, not in the purgatorial airport, where angels in white shirts eyed his face, felt his crotch, and weighed his worth before allowing him to pass through the grey gates. Well, maybe calling TSA agents 'angels' is stretching the metaphor a little too far, but you get the picture. JMW does not like airports, nor does he like air travel. Once upon a time it was exciting: he was a VIP, he had a pass to every exclusive club, he had a plush seat in first class with plenty of legroom for his bad knee, or even his own chartered jet. Privacy and privilege, that was how he liked it. Those were the good days. Before the dark times. Before the walls came tumbling down. Now he'd spent two hours crammed in coach between a malodorous snuffler and an old lady who never stopped telling the same three stories about her grandchildren. All so he could fly from the city that never sleeps to the village of the damned: Detroit.--

John Michael White: Where did it all go wrong?

--John murmurs the rhetorical question to himself, staring up at the ruined facade of an old art deco tower. Behind him, the bridge to Canada blinks in the twilight. The sun is setting, on more than just today. John's eyes tumble down the side of the building: boarded up windows, missing bricks, scrawls of graffiti. At the bottom, a doorway barred and barricaded, a red and white sign plastered over the lock: FORECLOSED.--

Voice: I did warn you.

--John's eyes, a cold blue, narrow. He turns his bald head, gazes into the familiar face that has joined him out on the street. Her smirk is knowing, her own eyes rise up the building, watching his ruin.--

John Michael White: Apparently, not well enough.

--The woman named Andrea simply shrugs. Beneath her long white overcoat, loosely wrapped against the weirdly warm winter, a white and scarlet retro nurse's uniform covers her body. For some reason, she wears no shoes on her feet. John turns away from her again, leaning wearily on his cane, as he gazes up and remembers all that once was.--

John Michael White: I was king of the world. I reached the summit, and there was only one direction to go from there. What did I expect? Peace? Satisfaction?

Andrea: You've never been at peace with peace, John.

John Michael White: All that striving, all that surviving, and what do I have to show for it? What's left? The company, gone. The practice, bust. Feds crawling up my behind. Assets frozen. Really, what is left?

Andrea: Fifty dollars, forty three cents.

John Michael White: I spent my youth and I received pocket change.

Andrea: There's also this...

--The nurse reaches into her coat pocket, pulls out a crumpled sheet of paper. John scans it, visibly sinking, shivering against the wind rushing along the Detroit river. The paper bears the logo of XWF, the large point heading says "Wednesday Warfare: Wrestlers Wanted".--

John Michael White: Just when I thought I was out, they drag me back in.

--The lawyer crumples the sheet in his hand. His other twists, gripping his cane's silver handle. At his side, the nurse touches the arm of his purple coat.--

Andrea: We can start fresh. There's a little strip mall out there with a vacant lot. I put the last of your secret savings into commercial spots. You will rise again.

--John closes his eyes. It had all gone wrong. Here he stood, shivering in the wind, and it wasn't even that bad a winter. Practically penniless, even his beloved titles liquidated to get him out of trouble. He had climbed the mountain, only to slide back down into the mud. How could he do it all again?--

John Michael White: Let's roll.

Good to see a lawyer make his way onto the Warfare program. I may need to get myself out of some legal trouble with some of the plans I have for Shane and his pack of imbeciles.