Mark Sommers sat in his Cedar Rapids, IA office. On his desk was McW's insurance policy, handed to him by the man across the desk from him. Mark looks over the paper, nodding as he points to several paragraphs. Mark places the paper down on the desk, and puts his signature on the line at the bottom of the sheet. He hands the paper back to the man in the chair.

Insurance Broker: Excellent. Now, just for the record here, is there anything we should know about Cyrus?

Mark sits back in his chair, putting his fingers together at the tips as he smiles at the man.

Mark Sommers: What do you mean?

Mark smirks, as the man adjusts himself in the chair.

Insurance Broker: It's just... we sat and watched the video that was distributed by McW last night, and we saw some things that struck us as odd, and having looked over Cyrus' medical history...

Mark smirks, nodding.

Mark Sommers: Yes, I can see the cause for concern. I can assure you that Cyrus' issues have been taken care of, and the medication that has been prescribed to him fall under your company's policy for people dealing with the mental illnesses that Cyrus suffers from.

Mark looks at the man.

Insurance Broker: Yes, we see that. It's just... he was talking about not taking those meds. I understand that this is a business, and people say things, but, this also isn't a joke. Cyrus' medical history isn't a joke. He's been instituted before, and not by a group of people interested in his wellbeing, but by the state of Iowa. That's not just something you toss around lightly.

Mark nods, sitting forward and placing his hands on the desk, fingers intertwined and locked together.

Mark Sommers: Well, I'm going to be frank with you, Sir. I'm Cyrus' financial advisor and agent. Not his keeper. If he chooses not to take his medication, that is his decision. Cyrus believes that without his medication, he is more free to do what his instincts tell him to do, and facts prove his claim. Now, Cyrus would never hurt a fan in any way, shape or fashion, he sees them as his lifeline, regardless of if he is medicated or not. The wrestlers, however...

Mark smiles.

Mark Sommers: Well, that's a whole 'nother ball game, Todd.

The insurance broker nods, and sighs. He stands up and looks at Mark.

Insurance Broker: Good, good. However, if a fan should be hurt by Cyrus' negligence...

Mark stands, walking around the desk. He pats Todd on the shoulder and walks him out of his office door.

Mark Sommers: I can assure you, if anyone is injured by Cyrus, it won't be due to negligence.

Mark shuts the door in Todd's face.

* * *

“You just… don’t get it, Bishop.”

Cyrus sat on the spiral staircase of the Cathedral. He looked at the camera, brushing off his pants. The beginning of a beard grows on his face; he hasn’t seen a blade in almost a week. O’Haire’s face is emotionless.

“This place isn’t the subject of a ‘higher power’. I’m not making this demons and angels, Bishop. Not everything is about good versus evil. There’s no extraterrestrials in these walls, no literal ghosts that spook you at night.

Just memories. Thoughts. You can FEEL the emotion that men put into what they did between these walls, and it makes you hunger for more. This place holds those things near and dear, much like Soldier Field in Chicago, or Yankees stadium in New York.

The men that put their hearts, bodies and lives on the line at Soldier Field and Old Yankee Stadium, they stay with the stadium, yes? People say that they can feel Babe Ruth when they step up to the plate, or Walter Payton when they make a cut, yes? So why is it so hard to believe that the men that have given EVERYTHING inside these walls, why is it such a stretch to say that they are here, still, living out their most dramatic moment? You’re a fan of sport, Philadelphia. Tell me why.”

Cyrus paused for a second, looking around the area. He reached out and ran his hand down the walls.

“I get it, though, Bishop. You’re the grizzled old, decorated veteran here in McW, and I’m the nobody that just shows up, randomly. I my first video, you see the people of my past, and assume that I’m not looking forward to the future.

So you cut me down. You look at what I have done in the past, and you find a way to negate it. You say that I’m a former champion, but then imply I’ve never had to deal with screaming fans. You say that 20,000 voices will drown out the voices in my head, like you’re telling me something new.

Do you really think I’ve never wrestled in front of 20,000 people? Do you really think the voices that you think I hear just randomly appeared one day, and that day has been within the last few years? Do you honestly think that I’ve never wrestled in front of 20,000 people, while my head tears me from side to side?

Wishful thinking won’t get you the gold in McW, either, Bishop.”

Cyrus sighs.

“I know I shouldn’t care about it, Bishop, but this is my first match here. This is my first impression in McW, so it bothers me… it makes my body itch. When you say that I drank, snorted and smoked my money away, you’re painting your past on me. I was smart with my money, I put my money into investments. Real estate, stock market, CDs… my money went to a place where it could make me money. But when the economy took a shit, my economy took a shit. That’s where my money went.

I suffered during the recession just like all of the fans out in the arena, and I never begged for food, or fucked women that recognized me from a wrestling ring because my wife still loves me, and my Autistic son still calls me daddy.”

Cyrus scoffs, though there wasn’t any emotion shown in it.

“You just… don’t get it. The voices aren’t real, and I know this. This place isn’t evil, it just knows what it wants. It yearns for competition, like I yearn for competition. Like Yankee Stadium and Soldier field, the people that step into it know what they’re getting themselves into. The history that was made in those confines are celebrated and cherished.

I celebrate and cherish the history that was made in THESE walls. If you’re lucky, you may get the chance to understand what I mean.”

Cyrus stands, walking down from the steps to the middle of the Cathedral floor.

“Of course, you think you’re better than all that. Like I said, I’m the nobody. You’re the champion. You’re the one that management was dying to hire back. You’re a man on a mission, and your mission is more impressive than mine is…

Yet you have no clue what my ‘mission’ is.”

He walks to the stained glass window, which depicts a tall, built man with short hair fallen onto grass. He rubs his hand down the glass, examining the creases. In the background is the Cathedral itself, and a man with long, blue hair in one of the windows above. Cyrus rubs his head, slowly, feeling for the scars around his skull. He was the one that fell.

“I don’t care if I intimidate you. I don’t care if you say that everything I do, everything I am is uneventful, means nothing, doesn’t matter. You no-sell the shit out of me and what I came from, and what I say, and I won’t give a fuck, Bishop.  I will have to do more than ‘look pretty’ right here, and you’ll have to do more than slander and libel, Champ.

It’s not just McW in which sacrifices of blood, bone and body are what it takes to win a match, let alone a championship.

I know what I’m doing, Bishop. Worry about what you’re doing.”

Cyrus turns around, looking at the camera.

“Worry about what it will be like if you lose to me, because it is possible. Worry about what kind of argument you’ll have to come up with for your next opponent when he laughs in your face about the fact that you lost to a ‘cracked-out’ nobody has-been, never-was former champion.  Worry about how you’ll save face with management when they look at your broken down body, laying on your back after I roll off of you with the three count.

Worry about where you’ll get your next meal after you step into the ring with the Vyrus, and walk out worse for wear than you ever gave me credit for.”

Cyrus pauses, reaching into his pocket. He pulls out a pill bottle, and pops the top off.

“Don’t worry, though, Bishop. The meds keep me sane.”

He tips the pill bottle over, spilling the few pills left out onto the floor. Several fall through cracks. Cyrus steps away from the camera, his boot crushing the pills that didn’t fall.