"This is bullshit!"

"Brent..."

"This is bullshit!"

The board of directors shared a collective glance. Their reaction hadn't been much better when the network executives had delivered the same news, but they'd had a day to absorb it and now they had to be the cooler heads in the room. Powers just slumped back in his chair at the end of the long table and then ran his hands up his forehead and into his hair, displacing his immaculate slicked-back 'do.

"This is..."

"We know, Brent," the shadowy figure at the head of the table said in a voice that made the rest of the room fall silent. "We thought the same thing. Bill here even used that exact word. But here we are. Cancelled."

"So what happens now?"

"Now..." the head of the board sat back and steepled his fingers. "Now we take stock. We still have options."

"But with no TV deal..."

"There's no money. And no shows."

"But Revolution is just a few weeks away! We have the arena in Washington booked!"

"Not any more we don't. No TV means no money, and no money means no bookings. We have enough cash to put on a show, but with no advertising, we'll never sell enough seats to make it worthwhile. With no TV, we're just another indy promotion struggling for a piece of the pie."

"Right." Powers sighed heavily. "So what are we going to do?"

"We have some...irons in the fire..." another one of the board answered. "411 may have dumped us, but there are other networks."

Powers shook his head. "Will any of them touch wrestling? None of us ever recovered from TCW going on the run. The whole industry's on the downswing."

"We know," the head answered, "but there are still options. It won't be what we had, but it'll be something. We're confident FWRFed can come back."

"All right then. But what am I supposed to do until then? I've got a locker room full of hulking athletes who won't be getting a paycheck this month."

"That's why we asked you here, Brent. When we picked you to run FWRFed, we never imagined you'd ever become any kind of leader. In fact, most of us expected you to fail. You were a stopgap at best."

"Thanks..."

"But here we are. Somehow, the talent seems to have grown to respect you. What they need right now is leadership. All contracts are now void, and we have to make sure that when we sell this promotion to a new network, they're getting the roster they think they are. You've got to keep these guys on board."

Powers nodded and then stood up slowly. He straightened his tie, then ran a hand over his hair, smoothing it back.

"Yeah. I guess I'll see what I can do."

LATER IN THE HALL(way) OF FWRFED('s locker room)

Brent Powers and Sam Colt walk down the hall of FWRFed's arena for potentially the final time.

The entirety of the locker room has been called together from Mohawk to Stevie Strong and every camera man, wrestler, referee, and announcer in between, again Brent Powers thought, potentially for the last time.

Brent opened the door and all of them looked up from their corners and chairs at him.

"I have an announcement. All of you have been immediately released from your contracts to the FWRFed." Brent paused as the crowd in front of him instantly began rumbling with a barrage of words and whispers to one another.

Finally Mohawk stood up. "What the fuck are you on about Brent?"

"You heard, me Mohawk. Effective immediately, Intensity and Defiance have been canceled, our PPV provider has put a hold on us doing any shows with them until we find a new TV deal. There was a clause in every FWRFed contract that voided all FWRFed contracts if such an event were to ever happen. Each of you will get three month's base salary, as compensation."

"So FWRFed is dead?" Indigo asked.

"Effectively. But I have no intentions of it remaining that way. I have received permission from the board of directors to offer each of you a new contract. Every one of you is free to resign at any time. Personal feelings aside, and I mean that this offer is completely open. But there's a bit of a caveat. The new contracts I've been given permission to offer are much less let's say generous than what most of you were making. Frankly, these contracts aren't worth signing for a single one of you, each one of you could sign a contract elsewhere that would make you more money from the second you signed the dotted line." The locker room rumbled again with discussion. Brent cleared his throat in an attempt to regain the room's attention.

"Hey! Powers is trying to speak." Sam finally yelled over the rabble.

"I will be honest with each one of you. Signing these contracts is undoubtedly a risk. A year ago I'd have balked at the idea of resigning mine, but I have done just that before I walked in. I am still commissioner of FWRFed or what remains of it. Any one of you that wishes to remain on board can sign one, though I understand that the majority of you will not. I promise each and every one of you that does that I will do everything in my power to bring FWR back to prominence."

A loud bark like laugh began emanating from the back of the room.

"You think you have any chance?" Woodrow Daniels stepped out from behind his posse who had stood in front of him. "You think some rousing speech will get these idiots to sign those contracts? I doubt it. In fifteen minutes or less every member of this locker room will be receiving phone calls from TCW, WWE, TNA, and who knows where else. I've done it Brent. I've brought this ship down. Not without your help, mind you. But I win. FWRFed is dead and I am it's murderer. I told you all this day would come, and no one listened to the Hobo. But no, I win. Again."

"Shut the fuck up, Daniels." Powers finally interjected. "If anything good has come of this, it's that I'm no longer your boss. I no longer have to put up with your nonsense. You want to leave victoriously? The door is right there. We don't need you, or want you to help rebuild this company."

"You think you can rebuild? I doubt there's a fool in here that signs one of those contracts. Come on, Nike, Casey. We've got to make some phone calls. See who's going to pay us." And with that Woodrow Daniels walked out of the FWRFed locker room.

"He may be right. Maybe not a single damn one of you will sign a contract. And it will be no slap in my face. I understand the need for financial security. For the chance to move to a place where your face will be on Television every week and on PPV every month. But if you resign with me, I promise you when we rebuild FWR we'll be bigger and stronger than ever, and the people who are here on the ground floor, the people who made FWR what it was and make this new endeavor what it will be, each one of you will be rewarded. It's going to be tough. It's going to be a fight. But in my years running this company I've learned that each and every one of you bastards is tougher than any one can imagine and you're all in for a fight." I'll be in my office during business hours for the next few days. Anyone who wants to talk to me can just stop by." Powers walked out.

A moment later the locker room door opened behind him and out came Odin King.

"Odin? Actually I knew I forgot something, I need you and Mike to return those belts. If you don't resign you can't keep them. I'm sorry."

"Can I have one of those contracts?"

"What?"

"You said they were available to everyone and I'd like one. I'll fax it over to my agent make sure it's all good so I can resign."

"Really?"

"This place is my home. I was here for the worst times, no way I can miss out on the best ones." Odin extended a hand out to Brent Powers who took it gladly.

“Well, it's good that we've got our first wrestler signed to a contract,” Brent said, as he watched Odin King leave.

“You know, I never thought you'd be giving Odin a compliment,” Sam replied.

“I didn't give him a compliment.”

“But you said-”

“I said it's good that we have our first wrestler signed to a contract. Nothing. Complimentary. about Odin.”

“An' consider me your second wrestler signed to a contract,” another voice said as the door was opened up, with his trademark whiskey flask in hand.

“Red! Good to see you. Long time no chat.”

“Yeah, but I ain't here for no chit chat. I wanna get straight to the point.”

“I'm listening,” Powers replied.

“I wanna be in on this, under one condition. An' that condition is you guaranteeing me that you gon' sign that Crazy Hobo to a contract. We still got unfinished business, an' I wanna git my hands on 'im. I ain't gonna have him walkin' out on our fight like a scared dog.”

“It's a deal then. I'll get Daniels to sign, and you'll sign your contract.”

“I ain't signin' no contract until Hobo signs his. An' I wanna be alerted so we can sign our contracts at the same time.”

“Deal. I'll let you know when I get Daniels to sign. It's a pleasure to have you back Red,” Powers said, extending his hand out.

The two exchanged a handshake.

“Doesn't this just make everybody want to get in line for a group hug?!?” Sam said, a little bit too loud and energetic for Red's liking.

Powers just shook his head as Red left as quickly as possible after Sam's outburst.

“I was hoping we could all have a group hug,” Sam frowned.

“Yeah, I heard you the first time,” Powers grunted.

“On another note, why are you trying to sign Daniels?”

Powers let out a deep sigh.

“It's all for business' sake, Sam. Believe me when I say I personally don't want him back, but Daniels and Red have been involved in plenty of ruthless battles, and their hatred for one another is well documented.”

“I still don't get it.”

“Of course you don't.”

“So... how are you going to get him to sign a contract?”

“That, I haven't quite figured out yet. Get to thinking of some ideas. Got it, Sam?”

“Right, Powers.”

The FWRFed roster – or what was left of it, anyway – filed out of the locker room under an oppressive pall of silence. There wasn't much any of them could add to what Powers had said and, while a few individuals were taking this opportunity to get various things off their chests or have clandestine conversations with the Commissioner, most just headed back to the privacy of their own locker rooms. Mohawk, especially, was feeling subdued. He was carrying his gym bag over one shoulder and in that bag was a weight that, for the last few weeks, had been reassuring. Now it was like a ball and chain. Becoming the World Champion, surviving everything that Daniels could throw at him, rising to the top and claiming the gold in a baptism of fire and blood had meant something. Yesterday, he had been on top of the world: today, he was just another schmo claiming to be the best.

There was a time when he'd felt like this before, he realised with a start as he walked aimlessly down a corridor. A time when everything he strove for had suddenly felt pointless. The World Title had been robbed of its meaning then too, reduced to the status of a playing piece in the twisted games of FWRFed's management. Back then, the whole roster had gathered together too, and some of them had gone one way and some of them the other. New alliances had been forged and old friendships thrown by the wayside. It seemed a million years ago now, but some things were still the same. He paused outside the door of a locker room that wasn't his. Was it chance or design that had guided his feet in this direction?

'Malaki', the door said.

He lifted his hand and paused, fist clenched an inch from varnished wood, then knocked. It's not like they wouldn't have anything to talk about, after all.

"Yeah?" a muffled voice called from within. Mohawk considered announcing himself, but decided against it. He didn't want to give Malaki chance to bolt the door on him or something. He barged right in.

Malaki looked up. He was in the process of packing his own gym back – that fucking grey duffel thing that might as well have been surgically attached. Seeing it actually brought a wave of nostalgia washing over Mohawk.

"Oh, it's you," Malaki said mildly and immediately returned to his packing.

Mohawk shifted his feet uncomfortably, trying without success to appear nonchalant. "I didn't see you at the meeting."

"That's because I wasn't there. Have you gotten dumber since I've been away?"

Mohawk felt a flash of anger, but quickly suppressed it. Now wasn't the time. "Look, Malaki, I know there's some bad blood between us…"

"Bad blood?" Malaki looked up and, for the first time, Mohawk got a good look at his face. Faint, silvery lines of scar tissue criss-crossed his nose and his brow, threaded across his jaw and crawled jaggedly from his hairline. Mohawk had given him those scars. Under the bright lights, in front of the crowd, they were barely visible, but back here the indelible marks of a beating that nearly ended a man's career were unmistakable. For an instant, Mohawk was taken back to that night, and he heard the baying of the crowd in his ears, followed by their appalled silence. He felt the hot blood on his skin and the twisted metal of the chair in his hands. He saw Malaki's wild eyes, staring out through a crimson mask, heard his slurred words.

"DO IT!"

He felt what Daniels must have felt, standing there with his own bloodstained chair in hand, and he knew then the truth of his words. They were the same. They always had been. Standing here face to face with his own handiwork, he knew that Daniels was right about that.

But that was all he was right about.

"Listen, Malaki – we don't like each other, and we both have our reasons for that. We can stand here and play the blame game, figuring out who did what to who, trying to find the rightness in any of it, but the truth is that we just plain hate each other. Isn't that right?"

Malaki shrugged. "Sure."

"But there's something bigger at stake now. Bigger than our match at Revolution, bigger than anything between you and me and Indigo. Three years ago, you stood up and you drew a line in the sand. You told us that we had to fight for FWRFed's survival. Well, you may not know this since you missed the meeting, but the 411 network…"

"Whoa whoa whoa, slow down, Godzilla," Malaki said, holding up his hands, "what do you take me for here? You think I didn't hear the news? Some of us can do more than order pizza online, Mike. I knew about this already, and I didn't go to the dumbshit meeting because I knew it would just be a load of pointless platitudes from that piece of crap Powers. We don't have jobs. End of discussion."

"No, not end of discussion – FWRFed isn't dead yet."

"Read more than the headlines next time, Mike: we've got no TV deal. That means no money, no shows, no anything." He shouldered his bag. "I just wish I'd known this was going to happen. I could have saved money on a flight to this dump."

"That's it? You're just going?"

"Yeah. What else am I supposed to do?"

"I don't know…show some loyalty or something! Have faith that we'll get through this!"

"You say 'we' like it means something, Mike. This place hasn't known unity in years. Is there one person in this locker room that you trust?"

"Odin," Mohawk answered.

"Which should tell you everything you need to know. No, I'm afraid there won't be a second line in the sand. That was a one shot deal, just like me showing up at Intensity. Sorry." Malaki pushed past Mohawk and stepped out into the corridor.

"So that's it?" Mohawk demanded. "You're not going to see this through? You're just walking away? What about our unfinished business? If you won't stay out of loyalty or respect, stay out of hatred. Stay to kick my ass."

Malaki smiled. "Sorry, buddy – guess this is one love story that won't have an ending. You and Indigo have fun though. No amount of common sense will keep that girl away from this place. You were well suited, ironically: you're both dumb as shit."

And with that, he left.

When Brent Powers opened the door of his temporary office, he found a man with a fluorescent green Mohawk sitting in his chair, muddy army surplus combat boots planted on the center of Powers’ desk.

“So you’re Powers?”

“That’s right, I’m Brent Powers, and that’s my chair you’re sitting in,” the former commissioner of FWR fumed. “Who the hell are you?”

“A guy who likes starting revolutions. Mind if I smoke?”

Powers looked closer at the intruder as he lit a suspicious-looking hand rolled cigarette with a dented Zippo. Gothic letters across the knuckles of his left hand read “FIRE.”

“I know you,” Powers finally said. “Why are you here?”

The man inhaled deeply and bit his lip. He held up one finger, paused for what seemed like an eternity to Powers, and then finally blew out a column of smoke that covered the office in a foul-smelling haze.

“I heard about those contracts you’re offering. I want in.”

Powers coughed several times before responding.

“Rumors were you’d been injured, forced to retire.”

The man smiled.

“Oh, I was away for a while, but I haven’t slowed down. Get me back in that ring and watch.”

The man took another long drag. Powers watched his right hand, which was holding a pen that tapped rapidly against the desk. The letters across the knuckles of that hand spelled “HELL.”

“You know I can’t guarantee you TCW money,” Powers said.

“That’s not what it’s about,” the man said. He stopped tapping the pen and signed the contract sitting under it. Then the man swung his feet off the desk and stood up, still puffing away. He walked over and handed Powers the signed contract.

“You get a show together and you’ll have Acid Misfit on the card.”

Acid Misfit patted Powers on the shoulder as he walked out.

“I hear you’re one of the biggest assholes in the business,” Misfit said. “Don’t disappoint me. See you at the Revolution, Powers.”

Feeling dejected, Mohawk wandered aimlessly through the corridors of the arena. Around him were all the sign of a frantic, desperate move. Ring hands and nameless employees in FWRFed shirts washed around him, parting like a river around a rocky prominence, as they hauled equipment away and shouted noisy orders while ticking things off on clipboards. They all had the haunted look of men and women who didn't know where their next paycheck was coming from. This place should have been hosting Defiance, but now they had to clear out for some shitty concert performed by a pre-pubescent singer of whom Mohawk had never heard.

It sucked, and Malaki leaving sucked too, as much as Mohawk hated to admit it. In some twisted way, he'd actually been looking forward to the challenge of taking him on on the grandest stage of them all, if only because it made facing Indigo easier to stomach. But now, he would take her on alone, if he took her on at all. He wondered dully which was worse.

"It'd be nice to know I could put food on my family's table," someone said as they stepped past him and that reminded Mohawk that he hadn't eaten since breakfast. In all the confusion, he'd actually forgotten to eat lunch – that was how bad things were getting. Mohawk had many skills that made him a champion, but one which had never really contributed much to his rise was his unerring ability to locate the buffet table. It took him a few more minutes of wandering, but eventually he homed in on it in some ill-lit back room. He knew he had to act fast before someone cleared it away. Listlessly, he picked up a paper plate and started loading it with handfuls of food, more or less at random. As far as Mohawk was concerned, food was food, and the combination was ultimately immaterial.

"Ice cream and chicken? That's a new one, even to me..."

Mohawk looked down at his plate first. "Yeah well, they both taste good, so what's the problem?"

"Whatever lifts your luggage, man."

Mohawk finally got around to looking at the speaker and, when he did, he took a slight step back. "Hold on a second, aren't you..."

"Yeah, pretty much," Acid Misfit said, gesturing with his own paper plate that was not yet as overloaded as Mohawk's, "thought I'd join the party – fashionably late, as always."

Mohawk looked the man up and down. "Nice haircut," he finally said.

"Thanks. No offence, but you weren't the inspiration. It's just a coincidence."

"Right." Mohawk returned to scooping up food and, when he felt like he'd obtained a sufficient volume, he retired to a folding chair set against one wall. There was another next to it, and Misfit joined him. "So what's the deal?" Mohawk asked between mouthfuls. "You're an FWRFed guy now? Or is this a prelude to a TCW invasion?"

"When was the last time you saw me in TCW?"

"To tell you the truth, it's a long time since I watched any TCW. I got bored around the time it became the New Hellfire Club show." He glanced down at Misfit's knuckles. "Uh...no offence."

"None taken."

"How are all those guys anyway?"

"You're askin' the wrong guy. Even when we were tag partners, Darkness kind of kept to himself."

"I met him once – in the ring, anyway."

"Packs quite a punch, doesn't he?"

Mohawk nodded as he mopped up some unidentified sauce with a piece of bread. "Well the way this business is going, I think we're all gonna be out of a job soon. Why did you jump to this ship just as it was going down?"

"Oh I dunno – guess I got a thing for lost causes." Misfit dropped his now empty plate to the floor and leant back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head. "And I was always interested in what you guys were doing over here, so I thought I'd come see it firsthand. The ship may be sinking, but I figure it can go out in a blaze of glory."

"Yeah, well, a guy like you'd certainly help with that."

"I like to think so."

"Got your eye on anyone in particular?" Mohawk asked without looking up.

"Yeah. You."

Mohawk glanced up at him and grinned, but the smile faded when he saw the steely expression in Misfit's eyes. It was the look of a man who didn't fear anything: a man who'd seen things that should have turned his mind inside out, and survived. Mohawk had seen that look a couple of times, in the ring, and he knew Hellfire when it was sitting with him. These guys didn't fuck around. He straightened up in his chair and rested his half-laden plate on one knee.

"Listen, buddy, I got a lot of respect for you – I saw your matches when you were in the WMDs, I saw you win the Road to Glory and take the World Title from Coren. I saw your match against Rachel Hunter at Endgame and that four-way street fight with Dante, Highone and Plausible Deniability. I saw your match against Darkness that time. I know what you can do. But, seriously, you can't just come here and act like you have a right to the belt I bled for. I get your attitude, and it's a good one to have, but we have a little thing around here called paying your dues. Now, you can do all you want in 411fed, ECF and TCW, but the bottom line is that everyone is the same when they step through our doors for the first time, and you gotta prove yourself before we take notice. You ain't got no Hellfire Club to back you up now. This is the real world, all right?"

Misfit listed to Mohawk's speech with a small smirk playing on his angular features. When he finished, he shook his head. "Nice talk from the locker room leader without a locker room to lead. I came here to win, pal, and I don't need to prove that to some two-bit Champion like you. I was wrestling death matches when you were still huffing paint behind the high school gym. I'm a legend. I'm the Acid fucking Misfit."

"Whatever." Mohawk stood up. "You're a one-time former 411fed World Champion and, I dunno if you noticed, but 411 don't mean shit around here these days. Your belt died the second the 411 network got bored of your goofy antics."

"Look who's talking..."

Mohawk narrowed his eyes and felt the muscles in his neck tense. Every nerve ending was yelling out to him to knock this grinning punk on his ass, but he restrained himself. "You're just causing trouble. You want to get me riled up. Well I ain't giving you the satisfaction. If you really think you can cut it in an FWRFed ring, I guess I'll see you at the show – whenever that is," he added irritably.

"Yeah, yeah. See you around, paper champ."

Mohawk clenched his fist and then walked away smartly, he hadn't even noticed his lunch falling to the ground. Misfit watched his retreating back and pulled out a stubby roll-up before lighting it with his trusty dented Zippo. He held the cigarette in his teeth and grinned around it. "I love it when a plan comes together."

"You can't smoke in here!" someone yelled.

"Fuck you!"

There was a loud knock at the door. Indigo sat up on her bed, she hadn't meant to fall asleep but she must have. Her room was a mess, half packed the other half strewn about the place. She was one of the last roster members not to have given Powers an answer on the new contracts he was offering.
Another loud knock reminded her of what had woken her. She tiptoed across the room using the bits of carpet she could still see and opened the door. Powers was in the hall, looking distracted.

"You're late," he snapped.

"For what?"

Powers reached into the pocket of the brightly coloured waist coat Indigo now realised he was wearing and removed a pocket watch.

"You're late," he repeated, snapping the watch shut and re-pocketing it.

"I don't have any appointments, no appearances. You cancelled the contracts, remember?"

Powers turned away and walked down the hall, muttering to himself about her lack of timekeeping abilities. Indigo watched him go, wondering about the strange behaviour of her ex-boss. Maybe the stress had finally gotten to him? He obviously wasn't safe be on his own, she decided to follow him until she could get hold of Sam.

Indigo hurried down the corridor after Powers, and just as she reached a corner, she caught a glimpse of him disappearing out of sight around the next one. She continued to follow him, down corners, up and down stairs, but never catching him. Eventually she opened the door in to a corridor that was perfectly straight; no corners, no corridors leading off, no doors at all. Except the pair of elevators at the far end where Powers was now waiting, tapping his foot and constantly checking his watch. The door of one lift slowly slid back and Powers got in. Indigo sprinted for the door but it shut in her face as she reached it. She hammered the button but could already hear the elevator moving away from her. She stepped backwards to watch the lift's descent, and the second lifts door opened.

"Will you take it?"

The voice made Indigo jump. She turned and found the madcap grin of Bathory.

"I don't know what floor he's stopping at." She looked up at the dial above the lift which had stopped, but there were no numbers on it.

"I'm sure it doesn't really matter, you wouldn't be able to catch him even if you did pick the right floor."

"Then maybe I should just go back to my room."

Bathory's grin got bigger. "You'll never find your way back. There is only down."

"Or up. Lifts go both ways."

"Do they?" Bathory stepped backwards allowing Indigo into the lift. Indigo went to press a button to take her back to her hotel floor but all the buttons had a picture of a downwards pointing arrow, not a single number. She looked up sharply, still expecting to see Bathory but he was gone, although she still had the very strong impression he was grinning at her as the door closed.