He smacked his nicotine gum loudly as the headache grew more intense. "One thing at a time," he would repeat to himself. First alcohol, then meth, then steroids and painkillers, lastly he'd have to give up the Camels he loved so much. He had a new clean lifestyle, forced on to him by the court system and if he wanted a chance to see his grand children. His life had forever changed that day when he got pulled over drunk and carrying his pipe with several rocks.

His legs dangled off the ledge of lighting storage in the scene shop at the Church. In the darkness, it was a spooky yet fun place. It was "stage right" in the church and multiple levels. Several flats were stacked to the side, from their last use in a local production of "Waiting for Godot." On the far end from him was "the cage," a fenced in area where carpentry and metal tools were, locked up, away from the crazies. Next to it was the stairway to costume storage and the lighting scaffolds. Several people have been up and down them all afternoon and night. None paid him notice. Lighting storage was over the electricity boxes, his legs kicked back in forth in rhythm as the headache continued its debilitation. The withdrawals, the occasional sores, the first time he'd wrestle legitimately sober in six years.

For one of the first times in his career, Brian Spaes was nervous.

"So the drop down mic is disconnected, you said?" Garrett Frampton yelled back out towards ringside, as he popped through the black curtains. He walked past Brian Spaes, giving him a small smile of recognition, before jumping up the steps two at a time to go to fix something or other on another level.

"Yeah, that's what James was saying, but then you guy know more about that sort of stuff then I do." Russel David called after Frampton, then noticing Spaes, stopped and smiled. "Sorry about that, you know how crazy opening night is."

Then came a pause as the two men stood/sat were they where. Frampton scrambling around above and behind them. "I wanted to meet with you, didn't I?"

Brain Spaes nodded.

"Yep." Russel David nodded in reply. "That was more Boyd and I where looking to check in with you. So now that I know where you are. Well... wait there for one second."

Russel paced back out of view, behind the curtains towards ringside, once again.


"How've you been, Brian?" Frampton called, from the second level. Then Frampton walked down towards Brian, and continued to chat. "Haven't seen you since the Squared Circle days. Garrett... one of the referees. The play-by-play/announcer/Boyd's production assistant in Legion." Frampton laughed self-consciously, then stuck out his hand.

In stark contrast to his old demeanor of "do not prod the tripping Brian," he reciprocated with a somewhat limp shake. Brian stood up and dusted off his work jeans. The light from beyond the ring curtains illuminated his beaten face giving him a slight angelic tint.

"Yes…I think you were getting in there as I was leavin'. Have you been up to much since Harvard's passin'? I sadly wasn't in any shape to fight towards the end there," Brian stated.

Frampton didn't have the heart to tell him that they had both been at tSC from the start, and he was with the company long after he had left. Had heard everything, and was probably the most apprehensive when Russel had told him about Spaes being on the opening season's roster. 


"Yeah, I actually stayed on with the Circle after Harvard passed and the company lost its television deal. I actually started doing some announcing for them, during the smaller shows. Continued refereeing. You could say Boyd swept through town and plucked me away, though. How can you turn down Legion, right?" Frampton rambled on, but a cough from his behind him, took his attention away from trying to keep whichever conversation going.

Russel David and James Boyd.

Boyd was the one who coughed, and Russel walked up to Frampton and Spaes. Frampton quickly got the idea, and nodding to Spaes said, "Good luck out there." And was gone as Spaes gave a slight nod to him. Once Frampton returned to ringside, Russel David started talking. It was a serious tone, but in no way confrontational.

"You know why we wanted to talk to you, right?"

Brian nodded his head and took a seat on a false rock. Brian knew why everyone walked on eggshells around him. He sighed, pulled out a napkin and spat his nicotine gum into it and then placed the napkin back into his pocket.

"How's the recovery going, Brian?" Russel continued, looking to Boyd, before walking a bit over to the side and leaning against a work bench.

"We've already talked with your parole officer, and gotten those papers, sorted out." James said, a tired tint in his voice more because of all the work that he had done to lead up to this night, then this current situation. He, like David was playing a good cop, he hoped Spaes would notice. There didn't need to be a bad cop tonight. "He said that you've been going to Narcotics Anonymous for a while now."

"Yeah, I have," Brian stated, rather bored due to the fact he's had the conversation multiple times. He reached into the breast pocket of his brown duster jacket. Spaes then tossed what was in the pocket at James. James, startled, barely caught it and looked it in the dim light.

"It's my one year chip. I got that the night Russel delivered to me the initial paperwork. I've been clean now for a year, two months, and 15 days," he clarified.

He smirked.

"It's not exactly something you forget."

Russel David smiled, "No, no it wouldn't be." Then he almost told Brian about the night that he had received his own stack of initial paperwork on Legion. He thought about it, but refrained. Running his hand over his mouth, he paused.

"So Brian, the big reason we needed to talk to you..." and scratched the back of his neck. He should have expected that these sort of moments would come up when he was running his own wrestling league. He certainly never looked forward to them though. "We're going to need you to take a weekly drug test. Before ring performances, that sort of thing, just to make sure you're still clean and sober."

Before Spaes could answer, Boyd cut in. "Now understand it's not that we don't trust you, it's just a question of liability. You understand."

Brian looked straight ahead at a sign from "How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying." He was closing off. If James and Russel didn't know better, they'd think that he wasn't acknowledging their existence.

"I already do a weekly drug test for Gus as a term of my sentence on top of taking antabuse. I couldn't sniff a drink without vomitin'. Why another test?" he stated coldly.

"Brian, we're in no way looking to make you life more complicated. Believe me, we want you to be comfortable with Legion. We want you to BE Legion." Boyd immediately jumped on the cold statement. "But this is still a fledgling grassroots league, so we need to take as many precautions ourselves, put as much as the power to minimize... damage. Into our hands."

"So if I relapse, you'll have a clean escape. Don't get me wrong, I understand the business decision and will do this willin'ly. Just know that I am not the same drugged out guy who burnt out before. I don't do the drunken redneck act. I have enough nerves goin' out there tonight," he stated, "how long is this for?"

"For the first two seasons." stated Boyd, with David it seems taking the back seat in this conversation. "And this'll just be kept between us. Your future teammates don't need to know. Neither do the Dukes."

There was a lull in the room, Spaes shifted on his feet but gave a nod towards Boyd and David.

"Hopefully we didn't knock you off your game tonight, Brian," David said, a small grin returning to his face, "We're excited to have you on board, see what you can do out there. Ready to see you fight for it, out there."

"So I guess that's about 18 tests? No matter. I'm just hopin' that it stays with us. It was rough bein' blackballed the way I was. But I appreciate this opportunity," Brian said with a small smile. A sign of relief appeared over Boyd and David's face.

"Plus, it'll get Gus off of me since he'll feel more comfortable me bein' here. Lets do it."



THE DRAFT BATTLE ROYALE

Russel David exited the ring, leading the applause almost, for Legion. He was so proud, even with the complications of the night already. This had all been so exhilarating so entirely worth every second of these first five minutes of the show. David applauded as Garrett Frampton now stepped up into the ring, while he himself exited to the backstage to grab his seat at the balcony. The night's band was Sadie May Crash, a four person outfit, with a red-headed girl with a page-boy haircut as there lead singer. She counted down the band.

This was the Draft Battle Royale, the first of it's kind.

“Time of Dying”

As the heavy guitar riff of the Three Days Grace cover shook the rafters, a spotlight from outside shined through the stained glass window right above where the altar once stood. Diffracted, it sent reds, blues and oranges playing throughout the Church of Fight like a kaleidoscope. The fans knew they had heard this song before, but couldn't quite place it. The die hards, however, knew exactly who it belonged to, and the buzz started to make its way through the crowd as the lyrics kicked in.

“On the ground I lay
Motionless in pain
I can see my life
Flashing before my eyes”

Matching the spotlight outside, a lone white spotlight from the rafters focused down on a spot at the top of the rampway, just waiting for something… someone… to fill its focus.

“Then I fall asleep
Is this all a dream
Wake me up
I’m living a nightmare”

He stepped into the spotlight, head down, the spotlight showing black tights that reached right above the knee. A black T-shirt with the word “Hero” in green and gold was a throwback to an earlier time. The hair was a little longer, the face paint from long ago was gone, but the man stood in front of a crowd once more time. The wrestling-smart part crowd had it figured out by now. Some were fans from childhood and were marking out, others saw him as a long past his prime, but most were just surprised that HE was HERE.

“I will not die
I will survive”

Cried out the pixie sized red-head. Garrett Frampton made his first announcement, barking it akin to a man from a carnival. Which ultimately felt fitting, some how.

"Hailing from Greensboro, North Carolina, he enters the Church of Fight at six feet five inches tall and two hundred sixty-eight pounds. The former three-time UNIFIED World Heavyweight Champion is now LEGION. This is… HORNET!"

The spotlight shifted from a single spot, to multiple red lighting spaced across the grid. Within the red walked the large figure of Rejection, a man known from several larger promotions then the one he currently found himself in. Still, he had a certain air of menace to him, one could say, and maybe it was because he was infamous for the kind of mean streak that he had in the ring. A gritty fighter with a gritty way of doing things. Though also, there seemed to be something in his eyes.

A glint of knowing.

That he was being watched by someone, that he knew something that the men he would be wrestling and fighting, didn't know. It would be his advantage.

Possibly.

Or he would just enjoy bashing his way to the top spot in the captaincy. To becoming a drafter instead of a draftee.

"Hailing from Salem, Massachusetts, he enters the Church of Fight at six feet eight inches tall and two hundred fourty-five pounds. He is the MASTER of the Bastard's Black Headcrusher! This is… REJECTION!"

Jacob McKail didn't even enter through the backstage area when his music called, he entered through the doorway, having stepped outside for a cigarette.

And honestly, he though as Frampton announced him and his music pounded away, he could use a drink.

Though for now, he would have to throw himself into the fight.

He stood there in the ring, and paced back and forth, sizing up Hornet and Rejection when the next music hit.

The guitarist for Sadie May Crash started strumming Metallica's composition of "Ecstasy of Gold" and though he was having a difficult time with the composition at first, he hadn't done any noticeable damage to the song. The opening chorus played as a spotlight shone on the entrance, and the light through the stain glass shifted away, as the steam and dust from the fog machines wafted through the air. Anticipation rose in the Church of Fight as the theme was previously unfamiliar to the Brooklyn crowd. The hammering snare drum queued the next man to enter the ring for the Battle Royale.

Brian Spaes was here.

A fairly odd reaction erupted from the crowd for the former 'Impulse' Brian James; most of the recent wrestling fans were unfamiliar with Spaes, the 'smarter' wrestling fans chattered amongst themselves about the drug addict's history and downfall. The murmur increased as they caught a good look at Spaes: Gray hair filled his head and a beard bristled underneath the straw Resistol. The brown duster fluttered as he walked down the sanctuary to the ring.

Brian climbed through the ropes and took off the entrance gear to more chatter. Brian lost much of his muscle definition in the three years away from the ring but was still build like a brick house. He crouched up against the ring ropes, very uncomfortable and rigid due to the crowd's reaction.

"Introducing, THIRD. Weighing in at two hundred and forty-two pounds and like always, fighting out of the Flying S Ranch in Fort Worth, Texas. He is a fighter with striking and submission tendencies and making his return to the ring. Previously fighting under the name 'Impulse' Brian James, he is now and forever BRIAN SPAES!"

Brian pounded his fist on the ring mat and stood up staring down Hornet and Rejection.

The redemption of Brian Spaes started tonight.

"My Heroine" by Silverstein.

And also tonight, there was another Longshot in town.

The crowd picked up the minute they saw the former Squared Circle stand-out. He methodically paced towards the ring. His experience mostly fighting in mixed martial arts matches, since his tSC time, had brought a certain level of intensity to Longshot. He shook out his arms, his muscular frame tucked underneath his hooded sweatshirt. His fists clad in the black TAPOUT padded gloved. He wore blue shorts with yellow stitching.

LONGSHOT was what it read along his waist.

Walking at an even pace to the ring Chad Callahan tapped the hands of a few of his fans as he passed them. They had missed him, those that knew of him, and he had missed them... and this experience. There was a certain something that you could draw from a great wrestling show. And something in the air tonight, it felt special. It felt like... something could happen tonight, that would change his path in life.

And yeah, he realized, that was including the hundred and fifty cut he was getting from the door. It was a small show... but there was something about.

"Hailing from Cleveland, Ohio, he enters the Church of Fight at six feet and once inch tall and one hundred and seventy pounds. The former three-time the Underdog Personified. He is... LONGSHOT!"

Once again the crowd gave a healthy, rowdy cheer.

"I Am The Man" kicked in, a Canadian song being covered by a Canadian band in Brooklyn. Who would have thunk it.

Stylin' Kyle Roberts.

That's who.

And the ovation for Longshot, was equaled for Roberts if not surpassed. Roberts took a few steps out from the curtains, and then paused as the spotlight hit him.

He gave a cock-sure grin and then pointed to his head. Signifying that yes, his brain was really the strongest muscle there was.

Waisting no time, he jogged to the ring, so as to show he was completely healthy. He didn't look to high-five any of the people with the Church of Fight, making it a point to keep away from the especially unsightly types. And hopping up to the apron, he wiped his feet, before stepping inside.

"Hailing from Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, this next entrant enter the Church of Fight at six feet three inches tall and two hundred fifty-seven pounds. The a former REBEL World Heavyweight Champion. This is STYLIN' KYLE ROBERTS!"

Christian Young entered with the golden lighting, of the rig above him illuminating him. He wondered about the possibilities around him, and dreamed of it's potential.

The most eclectic of the covers of the night happened, as Paige Clarke started to attempt a little bit o' Lil' Wayne, with the band doing there best to hit the beat.

Frampton couldn't help but laugh, and really this pixie indie chick doing her best to cover "A Milli" was actually kind of adorable.

And yes, Christian Young... Christian Casino swaggered out and dreamt of it all.

The Dunn Cup.

The accolades.

The point spread.

"Hailing from SIN CITY Las Vegas, Nevada, he enters the Church of Fight at six feet three inches tall and two hundred aaand thirty-five pounds. HE IS... CHRISTIAN CASINO!"

The crowd gave him a warm enough reception, but he didn't really care, he was thinking about the spread.





Place: Broken Arrow, Oklahoma
When: August 22nd, 2008

Joe eased onto the brake of his 2006 Toyota Tundra, the dust finally settling back to the gravel road on which he came. His turn had arrived, another winding gravel road, this one had a weather beaten wood sign and mailbox, reading "E & C Slade", driven into the Oklahoma soil. He moved at snail speed down the long drive, glancing back and forth at the green horse pastures on both sides. How long had it been since I'd visited, maybe five or six years? Finally the trip was over, the driveway had led him to an old, two story white house desperately needing a good coat of paint.

Shoving the door open, he slid the truck into park and shut down its powerful engine. Joe liked that truck almost as much as anything, they were tough, durable, and just plain ol' got the job done. It was damn hot, even for light blue jeans and a gray "Broken Arrow Wrestling" T-shirt. He squinted, his eyes doing their best to fight the dust and glare of the sun. Up the three front steps he went, reaching a screen door which needed replacin'.

He flung open the door, "Ol' man, ya around?" His deep, gruff voice resonated throughout the house. From the back murmurs could be heard, a television perhaps, so in that direction he went. The house was identical to what he'd remembered, surprising, considering his mom had passed away roughly seven or eight years ago. He peered into a room on the right; the noise could now be heard more and more clearly. In this room, the kitchen, sat an elderly man on a very intricately designed wooden rocker.

"'ey, old man," he spat out abruptly. His dad, Edward, finally had heard him, turning his head away from a rerun episode of Gunsmoke to acknowledge his son's presence. Grinning, he turned his attention away to disperse his Redman tobacco into a spittoon.

Edward wiped the sides of his mouth with a handkerchief, "Long time no see boy. Whacha up ta? Wrasslin' agin?" Wrestling had long been a passion of both men; the apple had surely not fallen far from the tree in this case. Joe remained stone faced, "Yeah, headed ta New York tomarra'. Place called Legion, heard a it?"

His father's eyes widened, "Legion ya say? Boy, they been 'round fa a damn long time. Back when I was wrasslin' they was 'round even. Ya need ta hang on ta that place ... be good fer ya. Yer wastin' yer time in rinkadink places ... stick yer nose ta the grin'stone an' get it done boy."

Stoic, remained Joe. "I'mma 'bout ta turn Legion upside down, ol' man. Ain't never been a wrassler like me in a long time ... an' they're 'bout to learn that. Real quick."

Place: John F. Kennedy
Time: August 23rd, 2008

Joe grabbed his old black, well more brown now, from the baggage claim at John F. Kennedy airport. A small vibration could be felt in his jean's pocket. Damn cellphone. Who in the hell is this now?

CALL FROM

PATRICIA

Ahh, here we go.

"ello."

"Well, well. You forget about your weekend with Clint?"

"I left ya a message ... this weekend doesn' work. Got business."

"You know Joe, would be great if you'd see your son."

"Save yer breath ... told ya I got business. Man's got ta make a livin'."

"A man should also see his son."

Joe sighed, he was finally through the exit doors. In front of him an endless amount of taxi cabs waited to take patrons to their destinations. He readjusted the bag on his shoulder, returning his attention to his estranged wife.

"No time ta talk, will see Clint 'nother week."

He flipped his phone shut, hopping into the nearest cab.

Place: Church of Fight
Time: Earlier tonight.

Having paid his fee, Joe exited the cab to find himself in front of a tall cathedral. Stone steps only added to the building's mystique, although the three twenty foot stained glass windows were the biggest appeal. For a moment, Joe seemed to be mesmerized. He broke his trance with a subtle grunt, made his way up the steps and into the building.

The Church of Fight.

Upon first entering, Joe had strong feelings about this "church". It smelled like wrestling, it looked like wrestling. It was old school, not a whole lot of glitz and glamour. Honestly, The Church of Fight looked exactly as the name suggested. A place where warriors would enter, fight, and only the strongest man or woman, so he had heard, would be left.

Joe slipped into the ring.

Pulled the ropes, nice, just like he remembered.

Bounced on the canvas. Yep, same ol' same ol'.

The only difference with Legion ...

was him.

Joe Slade.

Tougher than a junkyard dog fighting in a place made for men like him. Once in a lifetime, if a man was lucky, something would come along that was perfect for him. Legion was perfect for Joe, about as close to long lost brothers you could find. A place where Joe could wrestle, how it should be done. Make no mistake, he wasn't trying to resurrect wrestling ... only himself.

For he was a man's man.

A wrestler through and through.

He was LEGION.





Time passing, saw Joe Slade in the ring, once again. Standing among those around him.

Alexandria Malone was also now in the ring, having rocked herself out to the cover of Rush's "YYZ" and even joined Sadie May Crash for a moment for a bit of a dance.

She had realized she did need to make it down to the ring though, so she did so.

Alex still bopped around a bit in the ring, but noticing the look of, "I'm looking forward to punting you." from Rejection, she turned it into more of a leg stretch. Still, dang nabbit, she smiled.

She was happy.

Nibi Augustin couldn't help from smile, behind the curtain. "Just don't trip.", he thought.

Fly.

And it'll be like I'm back in Traverse City.

“Stem” as covered by Sadie May Crash.

"Hailing from Traverse City, Michigan, he enters the Church of Fight at six feet three inches tall and two hundred thirty-five pounds. NIBI AUGUSTIN!"

He mispronounced my name, thought Nibi. Always a good start, he though with a smirk. Something had to be done to rectify that then.

With that Nibi ran down out from the back, charging through the the illuminated stain glass. A mosaic, a rich field of colors, no spotlight, just stain glass, before sling shotting himself into the ring, still wearing that grin. He stumbled a bit, landing in the ring, and Joe Slade smirked. "Rough landing, kid."

"Flying ain't easy." Nibi said with a wink.

Jonathan Wilson.

The eleventh entrant in the battle royale would enter, the air of mystery still around him.

Osario Duke.

The twelfth entrant came in, a confident swagger to him. He stopped to say hello to his crew at ringside. He had made sure they grabbed tickets, and gotten the word out, bringing 'friends'. He wouldn't want anyone to miss his debut for the esteem of the Duke family.

In honor of his grandfather.

His grandfathers, nine generations of Duke.

The architects of the league.

Seeing the empty seat in the balcony where Sonja would have been, he sneered and adjusted his jeans by grabbing at his crotch and shifting.

He stood among those already in the ring, and rustled himself. He had a sense respect for some of these men. Sure. Was still going to kick some ass.

The spotlight on Osario Duke switched off, and the entrance flash illuminated by a strobe light.

"Down in a Hole"

Made famous by Alice in Chains, it perfectly suited the guest band and sounded eerily sinister as GFS entered from behind the black curtain.

God's Forgotten Son walked out to the ring.

The music was new for him, but then so was Legion, though make no mistake the fans remembered who he was. As they cheered him, he ignored them completely. Keeping his eyes front and center on the ring. Analyzing each of his opponents. His walk was confident, assured. Quietly, dangerous.

At least the other dozen men that where currently in the ring. He was lucky number thirteen. Garrett Frampton reached introduced him, and at the specific point of...

"... GOD'S FORGOTTEN SON!"

Off came the designed black hooded sweatshirt. He raised both arms in the air. Never taking his eyes off the other men, in the pony ring, as he cornered himself and waited.

Don’t stop beating my aching heart. Fight proudly not for you but for those you love and I will serve you well, thought the Human Ratings Riot. His back to the curtain and his eyes shut tightly he waited for the band to kick in.

“A! S-S! H-O! L! E!” Sadie May Crash all shouted in unison before breaking into Dennis Leary’s classic.

And the tiny little hairs on the back of J. Leslie Voss’ neck stood up as he tried to block out the world and pushed through the curtains, megaphone being grasped so tightly he could feel the plastic handle edging on it’s joins with the pressure.

He raised one hand up in that notorious Nixon-esque “V” shape and looked out at the fans who for the first time in his life were cheering.

Eyes widening and a lump forming in his throat J. Leslie Voss tried to recollect himself as he couldn’t seem to get used the sound of “RUAR!” as opposed to “BOOOOO!” Taking his first unstable step JLV made his way down to the ring and rolled under the bottom rope as the band continued singing the Leary anthem. Getting to his feet and standing in the centre of the ring J. Leslie Voss slowly raised the megaphone to his lips only to have the fans cheer him harder.

He had made his career on in-ring promotions, saying what other people were thinking and trying pushing what little in-ring ability he had to take him those extra steps. Surrounded by thirteen others wrestlers, he was enjoying this me time of his. With a smile adorning his face he slowly raised the index finger of his free-hand and made a “SHUSH”-ing motion to the fans, the wrestlers surrounding him, Garret Frampton to the side of him and the band cut themselves off for the Human Ratings Riot. He ushered for Frampton to take his mic and walk to the corner.

“If you would please shut your pie-holes for just a God damn moment…” pop! “… I have an announcement to make.”

Letting the tension build up a little bit he lowered the megaphone and drew breath.

“Welcome to RAW is Jeri- whoa! Wait a minute.. wait a minute. Wrong script. That’s a bit awkward. Where was I? Oh right, I did the heel cuss out to shut the fans up and now I’m up to the part- oh yeah. I’ve got my place…”

VossMan cleared his throat.

“THE CHAMP IS HERE!”

Voss stomped his feet in a rhythmical pattern.

Stomp-stomp-stompstomp!

“THE CHAMP IS HERE!”

Stomp-stomp-stompstomp!

The fans popped loudly as JLV mimicked the great Mohammed Ali’s Rumble in the Jungle mind-fuck as he nodded his head.

“It’s been eighteen long months since wrestling was entertaining. Eighteen fucken months of pathetic after piss-weak after snoozeable shows have come out on our screens. Eighteen long months and nbW has released three shows. Eighteen long months and fWo is back… AGAIN! Eighteen long months since you were all blessed with the presence of the Human Ratings Riot…” pop! “…well guess what.

“This shit just got interesting again!”

The fans cheered as JLV began to pace back and forth in the centre of the ring. Eyeing the competition. The stoic Nibi Augustin, who though he might have been a fan on the inside, refused to show his opponent weakness. Not in malice, but in respect. Osario Duke had wished he had brought out a megaphone, though Sonja was certainly happy he'd skipped that possible embarrassment.

“That’s right. Legion is lucky to have me because funnily enough, they put the Religious Icon of Rasslin’ in a church. Yeah, that’s right. God is sitting up there on his couch right now with a bucket of popcorn bouncing like a kid cheerin’ Pikachu in a Pokebattle saying ‘Aw snap! This shit beats church!’ and then I get up on the podium and shout down to the masses and give you such a mind-blowing Religious fucken Rasslin’ experience you goop your strides up like a thirteen year-old getting’ his first tongue kiss.”

The fans cheered but Voss spoke on over the top of them. Flat out ignoring everyone else in the ring and getting a kick out of every minute of it.

“Luckily for Legion the champ is here. Luckily for you, too, coz I dunno what it sounds like with a church full o’ poor fucks snorin’ there heads off but that shit just ain’t goin’ down in VossTown!”

Voss put his hands on his hips, nodding in agreeance with his own words. He grinned at Jacob McKail, who gritted his teeth at this man, and grinned at Jonathan Wilson, a man he didn't recognize but was SURE recognized him. Stylin' Kyle Roberts was leaning in a corner, making a yawning motion, but Voss didn't care! He peered out at the fans who were lapping up his words like cat at a milk saucer. JLV was back in the ring and he was on FI-YAH!

“Tonight is like the resurrection of Christ. He died again and come back three days later. But there’s one major difference between him and me….

“Jesus was the son of god. And I AM your fucken god!”

Voss tossed the megaphone to the referee outside the ring. And the Human Ratings Riot couldn’t wipe that shit-eating grin off his face as the fans, for the first time in his career chanted ‘VOSS! VOSS! VOSS! VOSS!’

The VossMan was here in Legion. Just the kind of man that a Brooklyn crowd could love.

Sammy Brown waited outside the curtain. He could smell the fresh paint in the air and it hurt his lungs. The chanting was starting to die down as Frampton finally gained his position back in the center of the ring. Sammy shifted, and stretched his lower back. Sure this was a great opportunity for a warm meal and a safe dry place to sleep, but was... what ever might happen to him next, worth it. Well, damn, maybe he could make it work. A hundred bucks was a hundred bucks.

Hell, Sammy thought, he had done much worse things for less money.

He stepped out towards the ring, and the crowd grew quiet. They had known how to react to J. Leslie Voss... but this man? They didn't realize that he'd literally wandered in off the street. Sammy remembered Russel David stepping outside of the Church of Fight not more then half an hour prior. First he had mentioned something about wishing he had smoked, then he had cursed the name of someone by the name of Corbin Michaels. Whatever it was, a no show, a contract dispute, the moment he had seen Sammy, David had shut up and turned away from the homeless man sitting on the Church of Fight steps.

Not unlike those standing against the barriers and sitting near ringside where doing. They still didn't believe he was a wrestler, he might have worked here or otherwise wandered in. They where embarrassed for him. Or either pitied him or resented him. Sammy knew the reaction. But there where a few that recognized him.

"You almost kicked Jason Snow's ass, man!" yelled a guy in what appeared to be a shirt with a chicken robot picture on it.

Sammy Brown nodded and sputtered out. "Ya, almost. that's me."

It was just how Russel David came to the revelation too, about to resign to putting fifteen men into the ring for the Draft Weekend Battle Royale and then after figure things out from there. Then he finally looked at Sammy, the man who had found his way to the Church of Fight, just as much as he had been forced in the direction. He saw Sammy and the craziest idea entered his mind. "Hey aren't you..."

Sammy had just lowered his head and mumbled, "Damn."

"How would you like to make some money tonight?"

Sammy huffed onto the raised lip of the ring, and then awkwardly made his way through the ropes and into the ring. Osario Duke laughed a bit at him, but the fourty-four year old black man turned to the Italian kid and simply said "If it's that hard for me ta get in, then wel', good luckin' gettin' me out."

Fifteen men where in the ring now.

The crowd was as surprised as where a few other men in the ring, but Nibi Augustin shifted his weight hopping from one foot the the other. All opponents where equal. He wasn't about to look past any one of them. Christian Young eyed those around him and one side of him wondered who the hell had the best chance of winning, but also had the steepest odds, while the other wanted to see if he could jump across the gap from the ring to crowd on the other side of the barrier. He bet he could, as long as one of these guys would break his fall. Brian Spaes trusted no one, and it was etched across his face, and shown through the whites of his knuckles... none of these men was going to stop his personal redemption. Joe Slade was calm, the fire burning behind his eyes belied a methodical bruisers soul however. Rejection rubbed the black tape of his left hand, as he grinded it into his right hand.

Fifteen.

Which left one more.

People in Brooklyn where an interesting lot, especially those in the DUMBO district down under the Manhattan Bridge. An art community, a historical area. It brought the hipsters, who would spend there trust fun money, or cash otherwise earned to look then they thought you did. To be cool. Cool was what the punks detested, with there grey and earth toned clothing, counter-acted with shaved sections of hair leaving an oddly colored mass behind. These where two sects of many that had found there way to the Church of Fight. This was their sanctuary, one that was hear to entertain with moving art at it's least humane.

Static.

We do away with your kind......

Well, then "Puritania" escaped the lips of Paige Clark from Sady May Crash. And with those opening chords, their ideal little world began to crumble. To course. A pariah had entered the patrician.

Church was Fight.

Initial reaction was predominantly a wave of shocked disbelief across the Church of Fight. Many of these fans were educated fans of the sport and knew exactly who that particular song accompanied to the ring. Some actually prayed they were right. And others crossed themselves, tossed out a few 'hail mary's to the rafters and hoped to whatever God they believed in that they were wrong.

The thunderous beats of the song in question erupted across the rafters and hitting those in attendance hard, a figure slipped from out of the crowd and joined the fifteen others in the ring. His Sect... no doubt within the crowd. Somewhere. He was the Bringer of the Black Gospel and, in many ways, a man who was eerily suited to this location. The diabolical, conniving mastermind of which was known as the Sect of Black Wisdom and a near 20-year veteran. Not unlike Hornet. He wore a black robe, and underneath it, his long trunks, with the designs of his gods on them.

Frampton stood in the center of the ring still, flanked by the referee, and surrounded by the nights wrestlers. Once again he barked.

"And the SIXTEENTH and FINAL entrant in LEGION'S DRAFT WEEKEND BATTLE ROYALE... standing six feet--"

Violence Jack snatched the hanging mic from his hand.

"As for me...." Brian Shanahan smiled in his own devilish fashion, eating up the mixture of disbelief and resentment riding in from those surrounding him, and the Brooklyn crowd outside of the ring. "Well, I am the holy messenger of the truths of the greater cosmos and a pariah saint in a world of false idols and empty doctrines. I am the man who has felled more industry icons in my career than most of you peons have watched wrestling matches and I've spilled more blood, sweat and tears for this sport than you can fit in the Hoover Dam. I'm the one who put the capital M in Mature, the capital H in Hardcore, and the gap between your honor student's front teeth. And above all else...

"I am the holy father of this most unholy of establishment. The man who will truly christen it as a Church. Of. Fight."

The smile that twisted VJ's face at that moment was just sickening.

"We are vessels of an infinitely higher power," he spouted off, delving into another of the mad theological rants that most fans tended to either adore or hate with a passion. "The Black Pharaoh, Nyarlathotep, preaches that it is better to spread madness and torment to all than to inflict death on the individual. Trust in me, vile children, what will happen in Legion over the coming months shall truly epitomize the glorious wisdom of the Crawling Chaos. These walls are built towards team work? Kinship? These are fleeting, but the Old Ones are forever. Betrothed of the darkness, blessed are we, the damned."

Violence Jack released the mic, and it slid up into the lighting rig. Garrett Frampton had stumbled out of the ring, and towards his announce position moments earlier.

Now sixteen where in the ring.

There emotions where of different scales.

The intensity.

The apprehension.

The excitement.

The bottled, murderous inner hatred, just waiting to be released.

The lines on the faces of most of these men, they told the story of who they were and where they had been. They where akin to the cracks and the crevasses of the Church of Fight that held them, and diverse as the Brooklyn crowd around them.

These men, and the woman certain she could stand with them, they where about to make history.

Fighting for leadership, for captaincy, for the pride and honor of the Dunn Cup.

Four of these people would be given the chance to create there own team, during the draft tomorrow.

To choose those that would battle along side them.

In the trenches. On the battlefield.

As friends, enemies... weapons.

The referee looked towards the balcony and nodded.

The bell went, a call to arms.

The War of Brooklyn had started, some could say. Without anyone knowing what side they where on

Each on a team of one for the very last time. The crowd was into it, all for there own reasons, but they where loving the opening chaos none the less.

Christian Young saw Brian Spaes charge into Hornet and force him into the corner, brutal shots peppering Hornet's ribs soon after. Hornet grunted, knowing he was getting the rust knocked out of him, if nothing else, and out muscled Spaes, spinning him around into the corner again. Young saw the other thirteen wrestlers roaring towards each other, quickly went over the odds in his head.

Lip-readers within the Church of Fight, you know that hipster kid from Park Slope, could almost see the words "Fuck this" come from the mouth of the Casino Kid before he casually walked over so that the ropes were behind him. And then he just hopped himself over the top rope...

...and to the floor.

And so was the first elimination of the night. Not with a bang but with a thought process of a man who was looking to gamble with the draft. Christian Young...

...had just eliminated himself.

ELIMINATED: CHRISTIAN YOUNG

Casino didn't even leave ringside, however, but instead jumped the barrier and started to mill into the crowd, soon meeting a few faces he knew and making himself comfortable in the bleachers.

Thirty second prior...

Longshot looked at Violence Jack, the man who had stood ominously beside him before the bell rung. Longshot lowered his gaze. There was something about this man, and not just what he had known about him while in the Squared Circle. That something made Longshot want to tear into Violence Jack, and Longshot knew what it was. He had been an underdog, hell it was in the name and this man... he picked on that, fed on that, and drew the disenfranchised into his fold.

Into his Sect.

Not today.

Ding. Ding. Ding.

Longshot threw a hard elbow at the side of Violence Jack's head, and Violence Jack recoiled his head back towards Longshot after the elbow, a ringing in his head but a fire in his eyes. This would be his Church, his Fight. He was Father Shanhan. The Bringer of the Black Gospel. This man, this longshot of a chance to challenge him, would feel pain. Violence Jack gave a hard knee to Longshot's ribs in reply to the elbow. Longshot replied with another elbow.

Both men tore into each other.

Fighters of different styles, different pedigrees, but undeniably fighters.

Longshot threw another elbow towards The Pariah Saint, but VJ ducked under it and slung his arm across Longshot's chest.

Redemption Denied?

Denied.

The arm slung across Longshot's chest only opened open a hell of opportunity to rip Violence Jack's arm off. The Perpetual Underdog jumped up and slung his legs up and around VJ's shoulder, locking in a flying armbar and immobilizing the similarly sized Pariah Saint with the moved named Against All Odds. Violence jack stumbled back with Longshot latched to his arm, not willing to fall to Longshot, the underdog had been counter to him... oh, yes he had, and blinded the veteran to the danger around him in his current situation. It just so happened that Sammy Brown saw it clearly, however.

The out of shape looking drifter bum-rushed Violence Jack and Longshot, and with a determined shoulder block, sent Violence Jack careening against the ropes. Brown followed the shoulder block with a strong push, and the crowd of two hundred excitedly roared, cheering on the homeless man against this seemingly more accomplished fighter. Before Violence Jack could react, or Longshot could release his hold, Brian Spaes, himself, stumbled over with Hornet now being controlled by the much more practiced and surprisingly sure footed Nibi Augustin. Hornet just had to ride out this storm, relax back into the muscle memory and then he'd control this kid.

An oddly fitting partner in crime to Sammy Brown, a man who might have reminded Spaes where he had fallen, Brian Spaes gave the final shove and over went Violence Jack and Longshot, bouncing off the edge of the pony ring and thudding to the hardwood flooring.

ELIMINATED: VIOLENCE JACK

ELIMINATED: LONGSHOT

Gone was the Perpetual Underdog. Gone was the man who was to build his own Legion. The Church of Fight in his image.

Then there was thirteen.

Anything could happen.

Meanwhile, Orazio Duke began to circle ‘The Cardiac Kid' Nibi Augustin and as the two approached, he dipped one knee to the mat with a thud and shot towards Nibi when the two were within arms length. O grabbed at both of Augustin's legs and tripped him to the mat with a double leg takedown, but Nibi fought it all the way. the Young Don quickly grabbed hold of ribs of the Cardiac Kid with half hug that drove Duke's right shoulder into his stomach. ‘The Cardiac’ felt the pain shoot through him.

"That's a good try." The youngest member of the Legion roster grunted, and was able to break loose as best as he could before getting back to a standing position. OD was on his knees, looking up at Augustin. He slowly got up, and the two put there fists up. Chaos surrounded them, Duke was not pleased.

"I'll give you try, you sh--" It was Nibi who went on the attack this time, dipping his knee to the mat and instead of going for a trip, shot under OD's outreaching arms to get a go behind, where he grabbed Orazio by the waist. He then shoved OD towards the ropes, and when he bounced off them chest first, to save himself from going over, he came backwards towards Augusin. Nibi lunged forward and took Duke off of his feet with a hard lariat to the back of the head.

J. Leslie Voss, yelled over to Nibi "Weak clotheline kid! Nice try there, anyway", as he allowed Jacob McKail to get to his feet before charging at him, only to be met with a boot to the lower torso, which McKail quickly followed with a swinging DDT. Popping back up to his feet, McKail, charged to the ropes and lept towards them, springboarding and then twisting his body into a beautiful dropkick that sent Voss back off of his feet. McKail, even in his off kilter condition, was showing the evident advantage he had with the quickness one his feet that his smaller size allowed him.

Getting back to his feet, McKail brought Voss to his feet to, and tried to send him up and over with a snap suplex, he gave up seven inches to Voss however. So the bigger of the two men reversed the move and sent McKail to the mat.

Joe Slade almost tossed Stylin' Kyle Roberts out of the ring, but as he goes over top rop, Roberts grabs the top rope and rolls down underneath the bottom rope.

Stylin' Kyle Roberts quickly rolled to his feet and placed one of his boots on Jonathan Wilson's face. Wilson had been sent to the ground after being sent to the mat by Rejection, who was now trading shots with Hornet. Kyle Roberts looked around at the crowd momentarily and then spun neatly, driving the sole of his boot into Wilson's face and leaving a nasty red mark, though no open wound, above the Viper’s eye. Even while being reprimanded by the referee to cease the current attack, Roberts put his boot on Wilson's face again...

...only to find himself wrenched painfully to the mat and locked directly into an ankle lock. With that, Roberts knew to keep his attacked tightened to a pin point, and get as many people out of the ring as quickly as possible. Wilson struggled to scissor his legs around the Stylin' One's entrapped appendage, but Roberts was able to wiggle his way to the ropes, prompting a clean break from the Legionnaire. Wilson moved to pull Roberts back to his feet, but Wilson was met with a headbutt to the forehead from Roberts, which left a growing mark on the head of Wilson. Disdainfully wiping the sweat from his mask, SKR flicked it at the man of mystery, which only served to anger the bigger man.

Nibi charged again, catching OD by surprise, as he was fending off Hornet, and nearly beheading him with a stiff clothesline that sent the second generation superstar tumbling to the outside.

ELIMINATED ORAZIO DUKE

The Duke legacy kid just sat there, on the hardwood floor, then in frustration pounded the floor. "FUCK!"

He was not pleased, now this just wouldn't.... couldn't happen. Not this year. He stood, and looked to the balcony, where Russel David sat. O's face twisted, and then he paced towards the back, this would get to his sister. Oh, he'd still get drafted sure, and he'd hope it was within the top ten, definately. But hell he couldn't be certain. This was not OD's day, no not today. But he made up his mind, looking back at the ring. The day would be his, soon enough.

Alexandria Malone peppered Sammy Brown with kicks, her speed was becoming to much for the hefty homeless man. She slowed down for a moment though, not because she was tired... truth be told she had the stamina of a Malone, so she could go all day. Still, with Brown just taking the hits and trying to defend as opposed to putting up a fair fight... and that's when Brown surged forward with a surprising burst of speed, sending Malone into the ropes.

He sent a right hook at Malone, not adverse to hitting a woman, not after being spiced up by kicks but her. She ducked under it, however and bounced off the opposite roping, weaving through the traffic of human bodies with surprising grace and speed.

Hopping over Hornet as he hit the mat with Nibi Augustin with a spinning neckbreaker.

Past Jonathan Wilson stradling Stylin' Kyle Roberts' chest, as he raining down palm hit after palm hit, as Roberts looked to shield his face. The crowd chanted along to this…

SMAP! “ONE!”

SMAP! “TWO!”

Alexandria weaved past Voss putting the boots to Jacob McKail, trying to force him over the top rope and out of the ring.

SMAP! “THREE!”

SMAP! “FOUR!”

Even ricocheting off Brian Spaes as he was hitting Rejection with a Busiaku Knee Strike, causing it to go off center. Spaes whipped his head back towards her in anger.

SMAP! “FIVE!”

Alexandria Malone was already off the rope, and back towards Sammy Brown, leap frogging off of Slade, who caught in a striking and counter-striking battle with God's Forgotten Son, which he was losing. Speaking of which, with Slade distracted, GFS caught Malone before she reached Sammy Brown once again and quickly and harshly sent her to the mat with an arm drag that he didn't let go of. And instead kept the much smaller Malone locked, giving shots to her abdomen.

Sammy Brown then started trading elbows with Joe Slade, only for Slade to clinch in left elbow, then his right elbow and headbutt. Suffice to say he got more then he expected from Sammy's hard head, and stumbled back. Brown walked him, but Slade reacted with a stiff kick to the man's stomach before hooking his arms in to the side and taking Sammy Brown with a double-arm DDT.

After the rapid succession of mounted palm strikes to the head and neck of Kyle Roberts, Wilson finally rolled one of his many opponents… one reason being the prodding of the referee to take the fight off the mat… oh and the other reason being the retaliation shot from Stylin' Kyle of a punch to the throat of Jon Wilson. Yeah, that tends to move most everybody. Now there’s nothing that was done, because for all intents and purposes it was a legal shot within Legion… it was just fucking mean. Thus Kyle Roberts had bought himself an ounce of extra time. And as he looked over at the referee breaking up GFS's hold on Alexandria Malone's, he had an idea.

Meanwhile, McKail stepped out onto the apron, and looked to go for a springboard version of his Free Fall, or shooting star press. Or at least, would have, but J. Leslie Voss recovered much faster than he had thought he would, after receiving a hell of a DDT just inside of the ring. As Hornet had put the boots to Nibi, he can called out to Voss before he had gotten kicked in the gut, "Feeling rusty, coming out of retirement, old man?", and then had gotten tripped up into the ropes by Nibi for his troubles.

But yes, before Jacob could leap, Voss caught him with a punch in the gut. He leapt over onto the apron, before he executed what had to have been considered the most painful moment of the Legion Draft Battle Royale so far.

vDRIVER, minus the trash can of course...

ONTO THE HARDWOOD.

Jacob McKail was down and out on the outside, legally dead in seven states, half of Canada, and the U.S. Virgin Islands.

ELIMINATED: JACOB MCKAIL

And the fans were going bat shit insane, nuts that J. Leslie Voss would even do such a thing.

"HOLY SHIT!"

Brian Spaes twisted Nibi Augustin away from Hornet, who thanked Spaes for this by pushing the distracted Cardiac Kid into man formerly Impulsive one. Hornet cricked his necked.

"The retirement wasn't bad, by the way older man." Voss finally replied to Hornet.

"That's a shame, you need to have a bad experience for any excuse to get back into the game after deciding to give it up." Hornet said, approaching Voss.

"Like you?" Voss smirked.

"Exactly."

"Well I certainly didn't mind the 'Holy Shit', so that's reason enough for me to stick around at the moment." was the reply to the CSWA legend, before he finally swung at Voss, only for Voss to duck between the top and middle rope and send him stumbling back. Voss hefted his large frame over the top rope and it was less graceful, and more to hurt Hornet then anything.

Except Hornet caught the slightly bigger man, and spun him around in a power slam all in one fluid motion. It was more a muscle memory moment for the man know as Hornet was well, practiced execution. Taking hold of VossMan's arm, he dropped a knee onto it, not one but twice.

Meanwhile, Rejection and Joe Slade rushed one another, but Rejection managed to duck Slade's high knee. Then the Bastard turned and hit a European uppercut with enough force that Joe Slade's head exploded and shards of his skull rained down on the crowd in the Church of Fight, like so much grey and white confetti.

Okay, so old joke?

Needless to say, Slade was rocked back by the sudden show of force of Rejection's strike. But Slade retaliated with a chop so hard that he was going to have chunks of Rejection's chest coming out of his fingers in the morning.

CHOOOP!

Rejection staggered back, but came back with another stiff European uppercut. And they went back and forth with this, too.

CHOOOP!

EUROPEAN UPPERCUT.

CHOOOP!

"WHOO!"

EUROPEAN UPPERCUT.

EUROPEAN UPPERCUT.

EUROPEAN UPPERCUT.

Slade was, needless to say, in bit of trouble. Rejection finished off the uppercuts with a stiff as fuck drop kick that sent Slade tumbling back towards the ropes, and toppling over them!

And grabbing hold as he did do. Before rolling back underneath.

Meanwhile, Stylin' Kyle Roberts had laid the boots on God's Forgotten Son, taking care of the more dangerous opponent, so he imagined, and now waited for GFS to finally pull himself up to his feet just to go on the attack again. GFS struggled, but as he pulled himself up, a loud CRACK echoed throughout the arena when Roberts struck GFS down with a hard lunging knee right square to the jaw, knocking him down near the ropes.

Deciding to proceed on his “TAKE DOWN THE MEAN LOOKING THREAT-GET THE GIRL AFTER” plan, Roberts continued to throw a few stomps to the throat of GFS, making him gag with every blow. Rejection Irish-whipped Slade into the ropes, but Slade reversed it and sent the big man into the ropes instead. As Rejection came running towards Joe Slade, Slade wapped his arms around the two-hundred and forty-five pounders waist, and used his momentum to jettison him with a BELLY-TO-BELLY UP AND OVER THE TOP ROPE, towards the crowd.

"HOLY SHIT!"

Started the chant, but instead, Rejection was somewhere else entirely... not in body, but in mind, this is how he had gotten here, in the Church of Fight. In mid-air. Half way through the Battle Royale.





Russel scratched out a number with the black ink from his pen and pushed down the receiver with his index finger. After a couple of seconds he sighed and started to punch in the numbers he read off the next line.

Two more numbers and this one would be officially done. As little as it mattered to Russel he was concerned about what would come next. The Fourth Man specifically gave him the task of recruiting this particular individual and his presentation of the assignment had a sense of importance.

"Hello?"

"Hi, my name is Russel David. I'm calling in regard to-"

"The writer?"

"Yes. At PWM and on The Mark. Is this Kyle Ricci?"

"It is, but this isn't for an interview or anything right?"

"No. I'm actually looking to get in touch with a former pupil of yours. His name is Trevor Wilson."

"Yeah, Trevor, sure. But what's this about?"

"I assure you he's not in any kind of trouble. I'm actually interested in contacting him to come work for us."

"Oh okay. That's great. I'll go check through some of my paperwork and dig up his information. Can I get your number and I'll call you back when I have what you need?"

"Sure. I really appreciate this. But let me ask you something first. In the time you've spent with Trevor has he ever mentioned being in an organization called Legion, or just mentioned the name?"

"Not that I can recall."

"All right. I appreciate your help Mr. Ricci."

Russel circled Kyle's number on his index card as he rattled off his own number through the phone. He hoped that after a while he'd stop thinking about what Trevor's connection to the Fourth Man might have been.

After a while he did.





And then Rejection slammed half into the metal security railing and the floor, knocking the railing into the crowd and causing a small bit of general chaos.

ELIMINATED: REJECTION

Meanwhile, Roberts still slammed a succession of elbow drops right onto the throat of the GFS and also across his chest before dragging him to the center of the ring by his ankle. He then dragged GFS up to his feet, doing the hard job of seemingly immobolizing the dangerous machine that was GFS, before throwing him into the corner with an Irish Whip. He rattled the turnbuckle and then Roberts rushed in after him.

Problem?

GFS wasn't there, he was only going to let Stylin' Kyle Roberts take advantage of him once... and then after that the man would pay, and Roberts crashed chest-first into the turnbuckle. Kyle grabbed his sternum, he turned around and was met with a double palm thrust that sent Roberts flying right back into the turnbuckles before GFS rushed in and threw a wicked forearm shot into his head. Finally, to complete the chain of moves, God's Forgotten Son clutched onto one of the louder members of his new roster's waist before lifting him up in Fireman's Carry, and setting him down...

ACROSS THE ROPE.

And remember Robert's previous plan of women last? Well, it's come back to haunt him in the form of one Alexandria Malone back to her controlled chaos glory, having just given a DDT to Nibi Augustine, she had climbed to the top turnbuckle, and hit a leg-drop to the OUTSIDE across the back and nesk of Stylin' Kyle Roberts, so that she would land on the apron and he would flip up and over on the floor on the outside of the pony ring.

ELIMINATED: STYLIN' KYLE ROBERTS

Alexandria Malone stumbled to her feet, with a big ol' smile on her face. She was so exhilerated by what had just happened, and so was the crowd that only the Cosmo Kid, the member of the posse here for her tonight, saw coming what was coming next.

"LOOK OUT!" Cosmo yelled in his deep baratone voice over the rowdy Brooklynites.

But God's Forgotten Son wrapped his hands around her throat and lifted her up in choke, Alexandria kicked out a him, thinking of all things 'By the Christmas Christ!' The referee demanded he released the choke, and GFS obligued, having not changed his emotional reaction, when he released her. Alex's feet where now above the floor, and there she dropped in a gasping heap. She'd get up quickly enough, much more sour about what had just happened, then anything.

Who did that sum bitch think he was?

ELIMINATED: ALEXANDRIA MALONE

Hornet was probably asking the same question, leaving his strikes on Voss to be what the t-shirt said, really. The Hero. He chopblocked GFS in the back of the leg, before grabbing him in a sleeper, and clubbing away at the side of his head as he did so. Hornet grabbed GFS by his red hair and irish-whipping him in the corner wtih force. Hornet ran and hit GFS with a running knee strike, not comfortable with going for the BIG SPLASH on the first run, but as he turned around for the second run, Spaes dropped what he was doing with Jonathan Wilson, which was picking Nibi Augustin apart, a few peices at a time. The fans cheered for Spaes as he grabbed GFS's left arm while Hornet took his right and whipped him into the opposite ropes. When GFS came back, he was hit with a double elbow smash. Then Spaes when to do some equally oppurtunity asskicking to J. Leslie Voss, whom Slade had in a bad way.

Then went to send Voss over the top rope but Voss mulekicked, and caught Slade between the legs then whipped Spaes towards the rope, Spaes turned with it and came back at Voss with a drop-kick to the knees, crashing him to the ground.

Hornet went to work by applying a front facelock on GFS.

GFS didn't like that.

Not one bit.

He pulled himself and Hornet back up to a vertical base, and started to move towards the ropes. Finally, he pushed Hornet into the ropes into the ropes, forcing the break. Now, not only did GFS know he'd force that break with the rope, but that'd also put Hornet in front of...

J. Leslie Voss.

Who was still a little sore from losing there war of words earlier, something that never EVER happened, according to Voss.

Voss BLASTED Hornet in the back with a knee strike.

That's when Nibi swept in and caught GFS off guard with a bulldog, and then rolled to his feet so he could drop his leg across the back of GFS's neck.

Voss smacked Hornet in the back again, causing the man who was LEGION even more pain and misery and all of those other words that meant that it hurt a fucking lot. Voss had hit on the man's decade old back injury. Or was at least helping start it again. Another blow to Hornet's back caused Hornet to cling to the ropes. JLV made him let go by Irish whipping him into the opposite ropes. He didn't realize that Nibi now had Hornet's back, until Hornet slid between the VossMan's legs.

J Leslie Voss looked up again to see Nibi Augustin springboard off of the top ropes. The next thing he saw would be both of Nibi's boots smacking Voss right in his face. Hornet grabbed Voss in a side headlock, trying to grind down the more physically intense with his strength and experience. However, Voss was wily enough to get to his feet. A open-handed blow to the gut was enough to stun Hornet off of him again and send him into the ropes. Voss tried a clothesline, but Hornet ducked. When Hornet rebounded, he stopped a back body drop with a nice simple boot in the gut.

Then Hornet ran into the ropes behind him. Only, thing that Slade PULLED DOWN THE TOP ROPE, and Hornet fell over the top rope and to the outside.

ELIMINATED: HORNET

Oppurtunity knocks, so you answer.

There was now seven men left in the match.

Three more to be eliminated, and the captains, the leaders of Legion's innageraul season would be decided. Then after that... it was all a question of who got the first draft pick.

ELIMINATED: JOE SLADE

Two more to be eliminated until then, so it was.

J. Leslie Voss also heard oppurtunity knocking thanks to Joe Slade, the blue collar WARRIOR of the night. Voss waited for a moment, and enjoyed Hornet going over the top rope. He knew he would have to hold it over his head later, and then he bounced off the rope opposite from Joe Slade just as Hornet had, and lunged at Slade, with what J. Leslie Voss called the...

New & Improved Formula.

Joe Slade, balled his fists up, so that they became almost white knuckle, burning an eye through Voss. Voss held his arm in pain, the powerful as fuck clothline had done the job, but damn it if Hornet hadn't have left a lasting impression his arm. The crowd reacted how they did, but Slade didn't hear them. No, he just headed to the back. He would just have to win the Dunn Cup, yes, yes he would. Tonight he had gotten close. Within the top ten. Not quite close enough for his liking though.

The crowd roared, now Brian Spaes and Sammy Brown where throwing haymakers at each other. Spaes soon connected with a solid one against Brown's chin, and the bigger man bowed to one knee. Sammy Brown pushed up, off his knee though, he refused to stay down. Whether it was his mind or his body, it wouldn't give up on him. At least not easily.

"AAAAAAAGH~!"

Roared Sammy as he spun around, towards Spaes with his roaring elbow. Spaes however spun away from it, and followed through with a spinning back fist, the Uraken. The crowd groaned, as Sammy Brown's face distorted. The homeless guy had gone further then anyone thought he might have, but... it connected and cracked Sammy Brown across the jaw. He would have gone done like a sack of concrete, if not for the ropes.

Spaes went to toss the bigger man over the ropes, but was blindsided by Jonathan Wilson of all people.

"It's not his time." Wilson said down at Spaes, before Spaes, breathing heavily swept Wilson's legs out from under him.

He didn't know what he meant, and didn't care. The less people in the ring, the better his chance of winning.

Meanwhile, Nibi grabbed the weak arm of J. Leslie Voss and twisted it with a standard arm wringer. Voss was caught off guard, still in the wrong kind of shape due to his recent New & Improvement of Joe Slade after Hornet had done a number on his arm, and Nibi used the moment to his advantage, quickly spiking Voss's arm onto his shoulder, connecting with an arm breaker. Nibi lifted up Voss's arm again, and went for another arm breaker, managing to hit it successfully again. Nibi let go of Voss's arm, and the recently unretired twenty-six year old stumbled away, holding his fucked up shoulder and arm in pain.

GFS had gotten a hold of Sammy Brown, quickly grasped his leg in pain as GFS lifted up Brown, and quickly grabbed the weak left leg again; spinning it and spiking it onto the mat with a Dragon Screw, further dibilitating the bigger man's mobility, suffice to say his shot conditioning didn't help either. Sammy Brown on his stomach. GFS quickly took advantage of Brown's predicament, and quickly slapped on a Revere Kneebar, squeezing Browns leg.

Everyone was in a bad way, more or less,

Nibi Augustin, the nineteen-year-old wunderkind, the 'Cardiac Kid' was stalking after J. Leslie Voss. Not as much for Hornet as himself he knew he wasn't on a team with anyone yet, not anyone but himself.

Augustin grabbed at Voss, and was elbowed in the gut. Then Voss irish-whipped the Traverse City local, towards the ropes. Well, more threw him then anything. Then the Cardiac Kid really lived up to his name, instead of simply rebounding off the ropes, Augustin jumpeded up and twisted, agilely landing on the second rope and then boucning off of it, and towards Voss. JLV was so caught off guard by the kid's feat of ring sense, that he was swept up in the hurricurana that caught him with.

He tumbled towards into the opposite ropes, and teatered over them. Before grabbing the ropes.

"HA!" laughed Voss, before yelping in pain and a good bit of exhaustion, "AH!"

JLV had grabbed the ropes, but with his injured arm. He groped for the rope with his healthier arm, but it was to late, he tumbled over the ropes and to the outside.

ELIMINATED: J. LESLIE VOSS

The fans roared in approval as Nibi eliminated Voss, even though they seemed to enjoy Voss at the start of the night, they had learned to love the quietly charasmatic Nibi a little bit more. He didn't have a chance to recover, though, because Brian Spaes immediately raced across the ring, and stomped Nibi in the chest. Nibi held his aching chest in pain.

Meanwhile GFS was more then ready to take toss Sammy Brown over the top rope as well, the unprecidented stretch the man had put into the match, had seemed to have punched itself out, let alone suffered a bit of a punch drunk endng as well. One more elimination meant, the final four remaining where captains. The Brooklyn crowd was racus, the scenesters had eaten this night up to a surprising degree. As did the Brooklyn natives, the African American loved Sammy Brown, so as GFS shoved him out of the ring, they held there breath.

When once again, Jonathan Wilson shoved another wrestler out of the way to save Sammy Brown.

Though not this time, not with GFS.

God's Forgotten Son let the intense Wilson, reach out his weathered yet strong hand to grab Brown's.

Then GFS pushed his two fourty year old plus, opponents, over the ropes. Brown pulling down Wilson...

And Wilson, pulling down GFS in return.

Yes, in the craziest of turns, that brought the Church of Fight to it's feet... all in attendance stand in attention, as Sammy Brown hit the ground first.

ELIMINATED: SAMMY BROWN

Followed by Jonathan Wilson.

ELIMINATED: JONATHAN WILSON - Captain - Fourth Overall Draft Pick

And God's Forgotten Son, who roared with all the frustration and hatred for what just occured. He hadn't been cost it all, but these two had cost his the control he knew he deserved. The Brooklyn crowd, watched quietly, as he stood off with Wilson, Sammy dissapearing into the Brooklyn crowd and the cheers following him. Tonight he hadn't done the impossible, and become a captain after being taken from the steps of the Church of Fight that very night... but was as close to do so, as he could have been. It would be the start of some sort of Brooklyn folk legend, to be sure, Russel David thought as he watched it all from the balcony.

ELIMINATED: GOD'S FORGOTTEN SON - Captain - Third Overall Draft Pick

But it wasn't over, oh no.

Double leg enzugiri!

The fans roared as Augustin's feet hit Spaes in the back of the head, knocking him down. Both men were down, Nibi being exhausted and Brian making with the knocked outtedness.

In that knocked outtedness, Brian knew what he had thought earlier that day.





Moonside Diner, DUMBO, Brooklyn 5:49 PM

A restaurant that screamed of the times of old. Red vinyl seats, Formica countertops, an old jukebox playing blues and Motown. Pictures of old actors and Yankees players cover the walls. The smell of coffee and grease waft through the air. Moonside has served artists and workers for decades, and will continue probably until only the cockroaches and Keith Richards survive.

Sitting in one of the few beat up booths was Gus Dariankos. Gus was a portly, balding gentleman wearing a Greece soccer jersey and camo cargo shorts. He had short-cropped black hair and handlebars mustache coming down his chin. In front of him was paper work with the LEGION emblem emblazoned on it. He sipped his black coffee and worked on a pile of hash browns in front of them.

*jingle jingle*

The front door of the diner opened and Brian Spaes entered. He wore a sleeveless white t-shirt that was caked in dirt and sweat. His normally light denim jeans also had dust all over them. His gray hair was tucked under a Dallas Stars baseball hat. Gus looked up, acknowledged Brian and motioned for him to come over to his booth. Brian walked over and slumped in the booth. He flipped over the coffee cup and the waitress filled it.

"What's your pie today?" he asked.

"We got lemon meringue and peach."

"I'll take a slice a' peach with ice cream."

She nodded and walked back to the kitchen. Brian added some sweetener into his cup and took a sip. Gus fumbled around in his briefcase and pulled out another file.

"You passed your last test," Gus said while looking over the file, "and the foreman said you've been working well with him. Mentioned he might try to put you on a backhoe." Gus spoke with a tinge of both a native Brooklyn accent and Greek background. He might not be an immigrant, but he sounded like he was not much removed from it. Brian nodded, as he was now face down eating his pie.

"No lunch break today?" Dariankos asked.

"Had to cover someone else's while they had an union meeting, don't get to join until next month," Spaes replied.

"So you're sticking around with the company? That's good to hear, knowing the difficulties you had with the other work. I talked to James Boyd yesterday about you wrestling again."

"And?"

Gus sighed, "I don't really think this is the best idea for you. Both the shrink and others have identified this as possible dangerous behavior. Each time you tried to start back wrestling, you've had relapses and have gone on drug binges. On top of that, the court said that they might wave your visitation."

"All because of wrestling again?"

"Brian, you know what all has happened with wrestlers lately. The deaths, the drug addicts, the steroid addictions, don't get me started about Chris--."

"-- I haven't failed a test since I moved out here to see my children!" Brian stated pushing away the crust of the pie, "On top of that, how can I get strung out when I have work each morning and all the tests I do for you and for the shrink. Anyways, you are the one who's tired of me just goin' home each day after work and doin' nothin'. This way I could get back into better shape, have somethin' to look forward to each night and won't sit in my apartment. Plus, what better way to test my resolve than to test myself. I know Russel David pretty well from the business, so I think I'd have some one lookin' out for me."

Brian shifted around in the hard booth. He couldn't believe that this would be the barrier that would prevent him from making his redemption. A parole officer. He prayed each night to get this opportunity. To right the wrongs of the past.

And now so close to this chance, he was going to get it pulled out from underneath him.

"And if visitation is a problem, I'll waive it until it's proven that I am not going to relapse. It's a season system with this group. I'll go supervised for several months, and we can reassess from there."

Gus's disposition lighted up, "I think the judge'd let that work. I'm going to keep a close eye on this Brian. If you start missing work or NA meetings, that's it. Both Boyd and David want to meet with you before this first show. I'm giving you my okay, for now."





As for now... they both stirred to there feet within the Church of Fight.

Then Nibi Augustin and Brian Spaes circled one another.

Both men where sweaty, bloody and worn to hell.

Brian Spaes still held that fire in his eyes, he gasped for air between spitting out blood and saliva, Wilson had split his lip earlier.

Nibi Augustin, the kid, stood there with his black hair, soaked with sweat and stuck the sides of his strong Native American face.

One, looking to regain the past and regain a new future. A better future.

The other, the hopeful present, the upside of all things in the wrestling world. Yet still, so very different from the wrestling world. A world of potential.

They where both LEGION.

Neither said much, Augustin nor Spaes did... but what they didn't say... said volumes about the respect they had for this moment.

Nibi nodded at Brian, and Brian just wanted this win. He balled up his fists for one final push.

To start off number one.

They had already made it so far, so had Jonathan Wilson and God's Forgotten Son, just moments before. But... they could control there very path, and no one could, with this win.

The crowd buzzed with exciting. The Draft Battle Royale's end… began…

NOW!

Brian, meet straight jab, follwed by a blistering toe kick.

Nibi, meet a cracking right hand.

Brian faints in, and Nibi goes for it, and gets a hand knee in his left ribs, so Spaes takes the oppurtunity to irish whip the Cardiac Kid HARD into the turnbuckle him.

Nibi hits with a force that buckles his knees.

Spaes sprints in, with his last huph of energy, going for the kill.

He can taste it.

Nibi Augustin hooks Brian Spaes arm and sends him up and over, for a hip-toss backbreaker.

SPINAL SHAKEDOWN

Except the thing that's breaking Spae back is the turnbuckle, as he rolls off the top of it, and tumbles to the hardwood below.

ELIMINATED: BRIAN SPAES - Captain - Second Overall Draft Pick

Brian Spaes could taste it, the blood in his mouth. He was a captain, he had done that, he had proved that... but he hadn't won, he hadn't won anything, not yet.

But it was about Nibi Augustin. He was the potential, of a new league, someone different, something new. He took a few stumbling steps, and then sank to his knees within that black and white ring, and touched his forehead to the spray painted on Legion logo in it's center. Looking into the crowd, he found Aurore, and she mouthed something to Nibi.

"What are you smiling about?"

She was smiling so wide, tears streamed down her face.

Something you've never seen before.

KNEE-bee aw-GUS-tan. Captain. First Overall Draft Pick. Legion.