UNLEASHED

[div style="
font-family: 'Droid Sans', sans-serif;color: black;width: 700px;text-align: justify;font-size: 18px;margin: auto;line-height: 24px;"]SAINT PETERSBURG, RUSSIA — Clash Entertainment, LLC, which owns the UNLEASHED Fight Championship® brand, announced today a broadcast partnership with American media enterprise Battleground Network. The partnership will see the network air UNLEASHED events in the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom.

This agreement, which lasts for one year, will kick off with UNLEASHED: Spiral vs Chambers 2 on May 5th, 2017, featuring the live feed from Russia with a replay airing later in the evening.

Clash Entertainment will continue to honor its partnership with Amazon, LLC, which allows members with its Prime subscription to stream UNLEASHED events.

Battleground Network will also feature live events from Union Battleground®, Seattle Pro®, and UKWF®.

Wade Crewe, Owner of Clash Entertainment and President of UNLEASHED, said: "Battleground Network is a fantastic fit for us. This agreement will give us more exposure in markets where we have currently only been available online. It will allow us to expand our unique form of mixed martial arts in the North American and UK markets, giving us greater exposure to the entire world."[/div]

The following information will be used by fight writers to help accurately portray your character in the cage.


STATISTICAL INFORMATION
Distribute 280 points to the following attributes. No rating can be higher than 20. 20 is considered world class level. Keep in mind that these ratings should accurately reflect your character's size, age, experience, strengths, and weaknesses.
Punches:
Kicks:
Clinch Striking:
Clinch Grappling:
Strength:
Agility:
Dodging:
Takedowns:
Takedown Defense:
Heart:
Ground n Pound:
Ground Game:
Submissions:
Submission Defense:
Conditioning:
Toughness:
Control:
Aggressiveness:
KO Resistance:


FIGHTING STYLE
The following attributes will shape how your character behaves. For each one, please select the option that most accurately represents your character.
Fighting Style: Very Defensive, Defensive, Normal, Aggressive, or Very Aggressive
Dirty Fighting: Fair and Square or Occasional Fouls
Fancy Punches: Never, Sometimes, A Lot
Fancy Kicks: Never, Sometimes, A Lot
Fancy Submissions: Never, Sometimes, A Lot
Tactical Style: All Power, Mostly Power, Normal, Most Technique, All Technique
Clinch Takedown: Wrestlingor Judo
Submissions: Easy, Technical, or Both


STRIKING STRATEGY
Distribute 100 points to the following attributes. This will determine your character's clinch focus. Attributes can be rated 0.
Punching:
Kicking:
Clinching:
Takedowns:


CLINCHING STRATEGY
Distribute 100 points to the following attributes. This will determine your character's clinch focus. Attributes can be rated 0.
Dirty Boxing:
Thai Clinch:
Takedowns:
Avoid Clinch:


GROUND STRATEGY
Distribute 100 points to the following attributes. This will determine your character's clinch focus. Attributes can be rated 0.
Ground n Pound:
Submission:
Positioning:
Lay n Pray:
Stand Up

[div class="credits"][div class="credits-subheadline"]SYNOPSIS[/div]
[div class="credits-synopsis"]The Blackbird goes to the Royal Aurora Hotel in search of answers.[/div][/div]

[div class="credits"][div class="credits-subheadline"]CAST OF CHARACTERS[/div]
KEANU REEVES       as THE BLACKBIRD
MICHAEL FASSBENDER as KIRILL REZNIKOV[/div]

[div class="credits"][div class="credits-subheadline"]MUSIC CREDITS[/div]
CHERRY BOMB
WRITTEN by JOAN JETT and KIM FOWLEY
PERFORMED by THE RUNAWAYS[/div]
[div class="blackbird"][div class="blackbird-headline"]2[/div]
[div class="blackbird-body"]
[div class="blackbird-setting"]20 DECEMBER 2016
MOSCOW, RUSSIA[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]THE HOTEL WAS only two kilometers away but the heavy snow made him drive slow and careful. The entire way, his eyes were half on the road, half out the side windows looking for police cars. He didn't expect a problem. The cops had to drive through the same damn blizzard.[/div][/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"][div class="blackbird-indent"]The old car got him to the hotel in about twenty minutes. A parking valet was ready as the car rolled under the Royal Aurora's porte-cochère. He was wearing one of those down parkas made for this sort of weather. Climbing out of the car, the Blackbird remembered leaving his coat in the Rolls-Royce, but the cold didn't bother him none. It never did—especially with vodka still burning through his veins.[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]The parking valet handed him a ticket and said, "No coat? You crazy, man!" Or at least, that's what the Blackbird thought he said before hopping into the car. It was hard to hear over the punk girl singing Cha-Cha-Cha-Cha-Cherry Bomb in his ears. He crumpled the ticket in his hand as the car puttered away with smoke trailing from its tailpipe. It went in the trashcan on his way inside.[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]The Royal was like any other posh, upscale hotel. A cathedral for soft, fat men who are sheltered from the cruel world with money and influence. Take their money away and throw them outside. See how fast they freeze without their gold light fixtures, stained glass ceilings, and turndown service.[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]He killed the music and pulled the earbuds off, then stuffed it all in his pocket on his way to the reception counter. A rattle of metal made his eyes snap left, toward the elevator bank. It was just a waiter pushing a dinner cart onto a lift. The wheels were hiccupping over the metal door track. The Blackbird suddenly realized that his hand had instinctively went to the pistol tucked in the back of his pants. He eased his hand away, letting his jacket fall back over it.[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]The concierge, a middle-aged woman with a mousey face, brightened up when she saw him walk up to the counter. She opened her mouth to welcome him to the hotel when the phone started to ring. Instead she said, "One moment, please," and answered the call. It sounded like a room service order. She started entering the details into the computer.[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]He leaned against the counter and turned his head to look around. There, tucked off to the side, was a small lounge with club chairs and couches situated about coffee tables. It was empty save for a man with slicked-back Blond hair. He was sitting with one leg crossed over the other. Much of his face was hidden behind a newspaper, but his keen, black eyes were staring over the paper, right at the Blackbird. They seemed to burn in their sockets with purpose.[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]The Blackbird returned the stare, but didn't react. He couldn't make out any other details on the man from this distance and he didn't care to walk over to find out more. He told himself, He'll come to me.[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"I am sorry, sir," she said while hanging up the phone. "Are you checking in?" She was smiling when he faced her, but then her smile disappeared. He knew it was his tattoos that made her suddenly uneasy—the flying ravens on the back of his hands and the ornate rings and cyrillic lettering that decorated his fingers.[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]To the initiated, the markings told his story and signified that he was a member of the vory v zakone. The concierge knew nothing of the meaning behind the symbols, but like many Russians, she had a basic understanding of what the tattoos meant: this is a man to be feared.[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]The Blackbird said, "Just visiting a friend. Room 702."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"Oh," she said with a nervous look. "That is the penthouse. Access to suites requires a keycard. I can clear you to go up, but first I have to call the room and verify that you are expected." She reached for the phone and said, "May I have your name, sir?"[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"No," he said simply. "No names."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"But sir, I have to have a name."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]He started to say something, but then he heard the footsteps coming from behind. They came at a steady pace, not in a hurry. He turned to look and confirmed it was the Blond Man. He half expected him to be holding a garrote wire.[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]The concierge relaxed a bit as the Blond approached the desk. "I'm sorry, sir. I did not realize one of you were down here. This man is—"[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]Blondie cut her off. "I know him. I'll take him up."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]The Blackbird heard one of you and made this man as security. It fit. Blondie was tall like him, and the man looked like he could handle himself in a fight. There were no visible tattoos on his hands or peeking out of the collar of his black button-up shirt. This one had the look of ex-military.[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]The concierge flashed her perfect, white teeth. "Of course, sir." Her eyes then went to the Blackbird. Her smile faded and she said flatly, "Have a pleasant night, sir."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"You, too." The Blackbird pushed off the counter and made for the bank of elevators with the Blond locked at his side. There were six elevators, three on each side. The Blond pushed the up button and the two waited.[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"Are you not curious," he said to the Blackbird. "Do you not wonder who I am? What you are walking into?"[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]The Blackbird ran his tongue over his teeth and said, "Are you the man that sent me the messages?"[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]The Blond shook his head. "I'm not the man."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]An elevator arrived. With a ding, the doors slid open and the same waiter from before stepped off. He gave both men a nod and said, "Goodnight, gentlemen," as he walked past.[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]The Blackbird shrugged a shoulder and stepped onto the elevator. He turned and said to the Blond, "If you are not the man, then why the fuck should I speak to you?"[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]The Blond followed with a half-smirk on his face. He waved a card over a sensor and the doors slid shut. A female voice said over the intercom, "Penthouse. Going up."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]It was a quick lift to the top floor. Neither said another word. "Penthouse," the voice announced. When the doors opened, the Blond made sure to exit first, and then turned around. He said, "I will need that pistol and any other weapons you may have. Come out slowly, with the pistol first."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]The Blackbird pulled the gun from the small of his back and held it out, handle first, as he stepped off the elevator. "No other weapons," he said as the man took his SIG Sauer from him.[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]Blondie said, "Pockets. Nice and slow."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]The Blackbird took his wallet from his left pocket, and the iPod and earbuds from his right. He held them up in his hands. "That's all I have."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"You'll forgive me if I don't take you at your word." He patted the Blackbird down, starting at his arms and then down his torso, all the way to his ankles. After finding nothing, he stood and flicked his head. "This way."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]The foyer gave way to a hall that led past a richly-paneled billiard room, then a dining hall, into a sitting area. A grand piano sat in the corner, next to the entryway, and expensive-looking paintings hung on the walls. The right side of the room was dominated by a sprawling view of the Kremlin and Red Square beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. Ahead, a gigantic TV was tuned to the CSKA Moscow game against Lada Togliatti. Grouped in front of the television was a black leather couch with a pair of chairs on either side, facing in. One of the chairs was occupied by another bodyguard, dressed like Blondie, with a the same serious stare, but with hair buzzed to the skin. [/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]Another man was on the couch with his feet on the ottoman. He was cheering on Moscow, shaking his fist and saying Go, Go, Go, getting louder and louder, until finally he burst from the couch. The horn sounded on the television and CSKA went up by one. The man screamed at the TV.[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]The Blond cleared his throat. It was loud enough to get the man's attention, to turn him away from the game. When he saw the Blackbird, he had a big smile. He was in his mid-thirties, with a square jaw, blue eyes, and black hair parted to the right. "Blackbird," he said, coming around the chairs to greet him with a hand outstretched. "I am happy to finally meet you. My father speaks very highly of you."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]The Blackbird took his hand and gave it a shake because it was expected, not because he wanted to. "We've not met," he said matter-of-factly, and let go.[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"I am Kirill Reznikov," he said.[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]The Blackbird knew the name. "Viktor's son."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"Yes," he said. "From the way he tells it, you were one of his best."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"Killing people is easy," the Blackbird said. "Getting away with it, not so easy. Your pop liked anyone who could do both."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"A rare gift these days," Kirill said, then motioned to the free chair. "Come, join me."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]Kirill returned to the couch and used the remote to lower the volume of the game, then looked at his guest. "Would you like a drink?" On the coffee table was a silver tray with a crystal decanter, an ice bucket, and a few empty rocks glasses. The decanter was half-filled with whiskey. Kirill picked his glass off the coffee table and eased back into the couch with it in his hand.[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]The Blackbird thought about it as he went to sit. The vodka was wearing off and it left him wanting a taste. He opened his mouth to accept, but the words caught in his throat. He needed to stay focused. Drink made him weak and slow.[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]As he lowered into the seat, he said, "No thank you."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]Kirill tipped his glass to him. "As you wish."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]The Blackbird wanted to talk to Kirill about the text, but he couldn't shake the bodyguard's hawkish stare. It was getting to him, making him paranoid, and setting fire to his nerves. He leaned back and studied the man, until finally asking, "What is your problem?"[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]The bodyguard sat forward. "No problem" he said. "I just thought you'd be bigger."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]Kirill started to laugh, trying to cut the tension. He said to the Blackbird, "I have to apologize for Yury. He takes his job protecting me very seriously." He then turned to the bodyguard. "Go fetch us some more ice."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]Yury started to voice his protest, but Kirill cut him off. "Do as I say." He was no longer laughing. There was a graveness in his voice, and his eyes were piercing. The bodyguard dipped his head and said, "I am sorry, boss." He gave one final glare to the Blackbird as he grabbed the ice bucket.[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]The Blond had remained near the hallway by the grand piano. As Yury walked past him, he said, "Take your time. Don't hurry back."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]Kirill said to his guest, "I am sorry about that, friend. Great bodyguards do not always have the best manners."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]The Blackbird watched him swallow a mouthful of whiskey and said, "These men are not vory. It is strange that the son of Viktor Ivanski would hire ex-military."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]Kirill poured another four fingers of whiskey into his glass. "Having a dozen men covered in prison tattoos follow you around makes it rather hard to blend in." He returned the stopper and sat back with his glass. "But I don't have to tell you that."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"I normally wear gloves," the Blackbird admits.[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"Of course you do." Kirill took another drink. "Shall we get to it?"[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]The Blackbird didn't wait. "I killed the boss of the Obshina seven years ago. Your father gave the order. Tonight I was attacked by two Chechens. Tell me they are connected."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"They're connected."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"How did they find me?"[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"I told them," Kirill said. "Not directly. Through back channels."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]The Blackbird looked at him hard. "You need to explain that."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"Call it a test. I wanted to see if you could still handle yourself."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"Why warn me?"[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"It was never my intention to see you gunned down in the street."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"You wanted me to survive."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]Kirill smiled. "I was rooting for you. I was hoping you were still the dangerous bastard my father told me about."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"The police will be looking for me."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"I took care of it. Any statement naming you will be lost and never pursued."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"What do you want from me?" the Blackbird asked.[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"I need you to come back home and work for me and pop again."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]The Blackbird shook his head. "No."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"You would deny my father?"[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"He released me to find Tibor Petrov."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"And you never did."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]The Blackbird didn't answer.[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]Kirill said, "Of course, we both know it wasn't Tibor Petrov you were searching for. You wanted to find the girl you pulled out of that whorehouse. What was her name?"[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"Mila," the Blackbird said through his teeth.[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"Mila Petrov. His daughter."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"What is this really about, Kirill?"[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"Before you went all scorched earth trying to find this girl, you fought for my father in the Circuit. We want you to fight again."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"I thought the Circuit was shut down by INTERPOL."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"It was," Kirill said while swirling the liquor around his glass. "This isn't the Circuit. This time, we are legitimate. People are going to watch us all across the world over the internet, but first, we need good fighters who know how to bring the violence. Maxim Gorodetsky used to talk about how brutal you were. That's what I want to see in UNLEASHED."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"Not interested," the Blackbird said.[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]Kirill emptied his glass in one swig and set it down while licking his lips. "I can appreciate your lack of interest. However, everyone has a price."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"I don't care about money."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"Of course you don't," Kirill said, already reaching for the iPad sitting next to him. He entered his password and offered the tablet to the other man. "Your price is much more interesting."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]The Blackbird took the iPad and stared at it in disbelief. The saliva dried up in his mouth and throat, and his stomach twisted and turned into a knot. On the screen was a picture of Tibor Petrov. He was considerably older, with a grey beard and a bit more weight in his face, but it was him.[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]The Blackbird was staggered by the revelation. "Where? When?"[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"America," Kirill replied. "Last week."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"...I thought he was dead."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"Apparently not. He's had help. I've been told that he has a US passport under the name Zakir Biryukov. They don't just hand those out. We knew he was working with both INTERPOL and the American CIA. These are powerful friends. The kind of friends that can fake a death."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]The Blackbird's eyes went to Kirill. "What about Mila?"[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]Kirill nodded his head. "Also alive."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]The Blackbird's heart sunk into his gut and made him nauseous. The happiness came first. Happy knowing Mila was alive, out there somewhere, and he was going to find her, no matter what. Then came the guilt. It took all that happiness and twisted it around. He didn't find her. He didn't rescue her. He didn't keep looking when they said she was dead.[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]He asked, "Do you have a picture of her?"[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]Kirill didn't answer. He just reached over to the screen and swiped left.[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]The next photo was dark, taken in a club. There were outlines of people's heads along the bottom of the frame. Above them, maybe ten feet away, a woman danced on the stage. Beautiful didn't do her justice. With her hands on her waist, her hips were rolled back, and her bare breasts were pushed out through the curtain of long black hair.[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]Mila Petrov. Age 20. The skinny little thirteen-year-old girl had grown up.[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]The Blackbird said, "Where was this taken?"[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"At her father's stripclub in Los Angeles. It's called 4Play."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]The Blackbird couldn't ignore the sick twist of fate. Seven years ago rescued her from the life of a prostitute, and here she was, forced to sell herself all over again. He was going to find Mila, no matter the cost, and a whole lot of people were going to die until he did.[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"How did you find him," he said, handing the iPad back.[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]Kirill shrugged his shoulders. "He made a mistake. For years, he has lived as Biryukov without any ties to the old country, but two weeks ago he reached out to some old contacts."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"That doesn't sound like Tibor Petrov."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"He is desperate," Kirill said. He brought up another picture. "Do you know this man?"[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]The Blackbird eyed the picture. "No," he said. "Should I?"[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"His name is Niels Gram. Calls himself Spiral. He was part of the Circuit for a time, until INTERPOL caught him. In exchange for information on Tibor Petrov, they agreed to hand him over to the Americans, who promptly threw him into a mental hospital."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"He wants revenge," the Blackbird said.[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"He is obsessed, and it made him stupid. Spiral is getting released in two weeks. Tibor Petrov has hired a contractor to kill him."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"You know where Tibor Petrov is, then. Give me his address and I will deal with him."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]Kirill looked out the window. "He has already fled with his daughter. Maybe he figured we were on to him. Maybe he still has friends in the vory v zakone who tipped him off. It matters not." His voice grows severe as his eyes look back at the Blackbird. "You will find him."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]There was no debate for the Blackbird. He was going to find Mila. "You want Tibor Petrov dead. I will deliver you his head."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"I am sure you will, but truthfully, I don't care about Tibor Petrov. He is old business for an old world where men like us fought over scraps. My father and I have moved on to UNLEASHED. All of our money is invested in this venture, and I want you there." Kirill angled his head and pointed at the other man. "My offer to you is this: come work for me, and I will help you find Tibor Petrov and his daughter."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]The Blackbird told himself he didn't need help finding Mila, but he knew it was a lie. If he could find the man so easily, he would have done it many years ago. If the Americans were in fact helping Tibor Petrov, then it would be that much more difficult to locate him.[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]He said, "How will you help?"[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]Kirill smiled. "I have considerable resources, my friend. Tibor Petrov will have a much harder time hiding now that we know he's out there."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"Lead me to Mila, and I will fight in your cage."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"Splendid," Kirill said, cupping his hands together. "But there is one more thing. I need you to go see this Niels Gram. I want you to recruit him."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]The Blackbird cocked his head. "In the Circuit, that was Danilo Myovic's job. Did someone finally put a bullet in the back of his head?"[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]Kirill laughed, saying, "No, not yet. Myovic does still work for my father, and he has retained a similar position in the new company. He is very good at what he does, but..." He trailed off for a moment, while considering his words. "Gram could prove unpredictable. There is a reason why the Americans locked him in that hospital. He is certifiable. If I send Myovic, he likely will come back in a box, or not at all. He isn't used to dealing with a man like this. His mouth will get him into trouble. For instance, Niels insists on going by Spiral."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"What makes you think he'll listen to me?"[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"It's not so much whether he'll listen. It's how you tell him. He's a peculiar man, from what I've been told. Approach him the right way, and he'll be easily swayed by the premise of fighting the cage. If he proves resistant, you two have a common enemy. Offer to him him find Tibor Petrov. He'll want blood after Petrov's assassin fails."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"You're sure the contractor will fail?"[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]"If he doesn't," Kirill said, shrugging his shoulders, "then that is one less job for you, my friend."[/div]
[div class="blackbird-indent"]The Blackbird looked at the other man and said, "I'll have that drink now."
[/div][/div]

The black limousine was waiting for him right outside the JFK International Airport in New York, just like Lara said. Like in a fucking movie. To be fair, all this messed up situation was starting to look more and more like a spy story. Things took a sudden twist in the last couple of days, following his trip to Russia for Unleashed #1. While Ethan immediately flew back to Las Vegas to make his debut for Proving Grounds, Nadja went back to New York. And that's when all kind of shits happened.

She just moved from her apartment, scene of the recent aggression she suffered, to a new hidden location. Taking a run in the park with her dogs seemed like a good idea to release some stress... Did you ever have that weird gut feeling, an overwhelming sense of impending doom? That was exactly what happened to Ethan then. And unfortunately, his instinct was once again right. Murphy's Law never fails. Two men were following her. Something's fishy, it's too fucking soon.

That was Ethan's first thought, while texting instructions to Nadja and, at the meantime, informing Lara on what was going on, telling her to send help. Nadja eventually entered a cafe, the closest thing to a safe haven she could find while waiting for the rescue. The two guards sent by Lady Chambers were quick enough to pick up the tattooed concierge and bringing her back to the apartment.

To safety.

Bullshit.

It's not easy to keep someone safe when you are a thousand miles away. All you can do is reading the signs, and act as a consequence. He failed once, when his mind refused to accept the idea that his father was walking down a dangerous path that eventually lead to the abuses he committed on Heidi, despite the young girl gave him a series of sparks that, in hindsight, he should have read better. Possibly saving her those indelible scars in her soul.

That night, he did worse. He knew, from the first moment that guy, Damian, replied to a text he sent Nadja that something wasn't right. He's supposed to watch over her, not looking into her private stuff. He thought. Then Lady Russia started feeling sick, her head was heavy, her stomach all queasy. Was it something she ate? No, she told him she didn't eat. She just drank a coke, gently brought to her by Damian.

Color me fucking surprised...

His next text was to Lara, informing her about this horrible suspect, asking for help. The Queen Of The Cage wasn't in town, celebrating her victory with a couple of friends. But she knew someone who could help. Dorian Rampage. The owner of Steel Bones Wrestling was quick to get on the scene, ready to move Nadja Ivanov somewhere safe. By any means.
Ethan instead pulled the break, having another plan in mind. It was clear as the sun to him that Damian was one of the bad guys, A small fish. And Ethan Thompson wanted the big shark already.

Never underestimate the idiocy of a common thug.

That's something he learned that night. He can't be so dumb to expose himself this soon, right? Wrong. Instead of doing the smart thing and following Ethan's instructions bringing Nadja to a trusted doctor, he blew up his cover, driving her to her apartment. Thankfully, Dorian was able to rescue her.

How could I've been so dumb? I played poker with her life, I put her in danger.

The car entered the massive decorated gate, slowly traveling the long path to the entrance door. That's why he was here today, instead of with Nadja. He realized his mistake, and the reason why he made it. He got too close, too involved. And he lost sight. Perception is a bitch.

Sometimes you can only see the tree in front of you, ignoring that you're lost in the fucking forest.

Lara could keep an eye on Lady Russia, Ethan was going to meet the rest of the Ivanov family. Her sister Leila. Leila was the younger but equally beautiful sibling. And, most importantly, she thought Nadja died after they moved from Russia, following the murderer of their parents. Now it was almost time for the lost sisters to rejoin. Whenever the older one felt ready.

The fancy Villa had some impressive security system. Cameras were placed at every corner of the surrounding park, patrolled by armed guards. At least one of them is safe... As the limousine stopped and the chauffeur opened his door, he was met by a thirty-something attractive female, with long black hair. She welcomed him in, shared a couple of drinks and then, finally, she lead him upstairs, where Leila was busy studying. A quick, cold introduction and the young girl went back to her books.

"Nice to meet you Ethan. What brings you here?" She was really good at hiding her real feelings behind a wall of courtesy and kindness. It could have fooled everyone. Everyone but Ethan Thompson. He saw over that wall, realizing that the young girl wasn't being completely honest.

"I am just a family friend." He had to play it safe, stay vague and not give her more informations than what was strictly needed.

She looked up at him, her eyes so similar to Nadja's , but yet different. Lighter. "That's what my godmother said. But why are you here?"

"You told me she was curious, Shania. But this... I would say it's impudent" He said, looking at the host. He eventually looked back at Leila, forcing a smile. "I had a very stressful 48 hours day.. Can't you cut me some slack?"

She stared at Shania, ignoring him completely. "Can I go back to my studies Shania?" She waited for her to nod, before sitting back behind her desk. "Have a nice stay Ethan."

A tough cookie. He definitely needed a different approach. "What are you studying?"

"History and art. I'm in my last semester." Her concise answers weren't helping the case, considering that Ethan was never famous for his oratory.

Shrugging, he replied. "Can't say those were my favorite subjects."

"Well, they are mine." She said, picking up her books and giving him an arrogant grin.

"But then again, I wasn't a big fan of school to any degree." He sat on a chair, right in front of her.

"You look more like a fighter. I've seen people like you. Violence disgust me."

"Well you sure are quick to judge, aren't you? But you're right, I am a fighter. I have always been, even before making a career out of it, even before joining the army." He turned way more serious now, the smirk on his face faded. "Do you believe in fate Leila?"

"Should I? My fate is a test tomorrow morning. What is yours?"

"Same as yours, same as everyone else's. Six feet under." He could see her startling, maybe because of what he said, maybe for the way he said those words. "I may be blunt, but that's the only certainty in our lives. What some people call fate is a direct consequence of the choices we, or someone else, made. Sorry to burst your bubble, but your test... That's not your fate."

For the first time her defense slightly cracked. The hidden truth in those words hit her hard, like a punch in the stomach "Why would you do such weird talking? We have only met and you're not very friendly."

He nodded before speaking again, staring again in her eyes. "I am never friendly when I am studying, dearie. And that's something we have in common." The bluff was over, time for the two of them to show their cards.

"Why would I tell you anything when you are the one approaching me?" She got up. "Are you one of them?"

The gullibility intrinsic in that question made him laugh. And he didn't try to hide it at all. "Do i look like one of them? Do you think Shania would let one of them in? Sit down please..."

"I like to stand. Those that approached me last time, they didn't look bad either." She looked out of the window. "Who is Natalie?"

Natalie. Natalia. Nadja. She knows. What the fuck? His expression stayed unchanging, despite the surprise coming from her dropping Nadja's real name. He moved closer to her, avoiding the question. "I didn't approach you. I was invited here, i am a guest. Do you think Shania would let someone dangerous getting so close to you?"

"I am no idiot. You might not be dangerous, but you know things. So I repeat, who is Natalie?" She didn't move.

"I know things, but I know no Natalie.. What I know is that you're scared, and that you're looking for answers."

She was disappointed, and she wasn't trying to hide it. "And you Ethan are the worst liar in the world. I won't tell you anything if you don't play with open cards. You can be as badass as you want. I may be scared, but I don't like lies.."

"I am not lying. I don't know any Natalie." He was staring in her eyes, without batting an eyelid. His voice was firm "You are a smart kid, you figured out why I'm here already. You want me to tell you? FIne then, the reason why I'm here is you Leila"

"To do what? You're not my type man. If you wanna ask me out." She looked back at him. Her body was tense. He grabbed her arm trying to calm her down but she immediately rejected, pulling away. "Take your hands off. As I just said, you are not my type." She stepped back to her seat.

Ethan couldn't help but laughing. " Of course, I mean look at me... I purposely showed up here looking like shit to ask you out." He sat back in front of her "You know why I'm here, you know who I am. Anything else you want to know?"

"Just the one question you keep avoiding". Reaching inside her bag, she pulled out her phone,  walking closer holding it before his face. "Will my sister join us too? Or is it dinner for two Ethan Thompson?"

Finally. "Do I look like I have a fucking clue dearie? That's her call only. And I'm glad you dropped this facade, things are a lot easier now"

"Talk like a normal human being, darling. I ain't your dear. You can speak freely, is she doing... well?"

"She is safe. That's all I know."

"Well, I am safe too. So now that you know, you can leave."

"No not really. I can't really leave." He was shaking his head. "Why would you want me gone anyway?"

"I got no reason for you to stay. I don't know you and on top I don't like you very much. Is that enough?" She took her belongings.

"What you like or don't is not of my concern Leila. So no, that's not a good reason for me. How long do you know about her?"

"Almost a month. But how is this your business?"

He grinned. "It wasn't but thanks for answering nonetheless. How did you find out?"

There was no point in holding any information back. Leila had to admit that to herself, somehow Ethan won this round, being able, in the end, to have her telling him the whole story, giving her little to nothing back. "They came to my college. Three  guys. One Latino, two Caucasian.There was also a fourth man, with an eastern european accent. Polish I think. But he was waiting aside for some reason."

"Any name you can remember?"

She shook her head no. But suddenly, a memory crossed her mind. "The latino, called one of the guys Damian..."

He rolled his eyes hearing that name, one day too late. "Of course... So they just came to you asking about your sister? And what did you tell them?"

"At that point I didn't know anything about her. So I couldn't tell shit. But what I tell you is this, they are not after me. They are after her."

She was right, and wrong at the same time. "I really hope you're not that naive to think that this makes you safe. Do you really think they won't use you to get to her? You wanted me to be honest with you Leila? You're a liability. Am I still speaking weird now?"

"No you finally speak up." Not anger or frustration. Awareness and resignation were the dominant emotions coloring her voice. "Don't be funny. I don't think I am safe. I just told you she is their focus."

They talked a little longer, mostly about Nadja, about how, according to Leila, he should stay close to her while Ethan was still thinking he could protect her better from a safe distance. Until the young girl went to bed, leaving Ethan on the couch alone with his trusted friend, Jack. The perfect set-up for another sleepless night.

These guys are amateur. The assault at her apartment, the failed attempt in the park, how they easily gave up a name when approaching Leila, Damian exposing himself... All sloppy jobs. Only a desperate man would hire these kind of laborers. And that's not necessarily a good thing.

He had so many things to consider, so many moves to plan. And this was all he got to start with. A name, some vague descriptions and the awareness that people like them make mistake, leaving traces he could follow. This was his environment, this was where Ethan Thompson worked at his best. Alone, detached. But still he was perfectly aware that no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much distance he would put between them, they would never be apart.  The bond was already too deep, stepping back and pushing her away wasn't going to change that fact.
Finally, his body and mind gave up, with a little help of half a bottle of whisky.

Ethan's rest didn't last long. A couple of hours later an almost imperceptible swish woke him up. The only reason why he didn't react with a punch was that scent he immediately recognized as Nadja's. They just reached them at Shania's place, much to Ethan's surprise. And, at the risk to sound blunt, he made sure they knew it. They all were tired, physically and mentally exhausted by the heaviness of the last few days and, as it always happen in these situations, tension inevitably risen, to the point that Ethan was almost leaving. But in the end, they worked it out, Leila joined them and they ended the night on a high note with a few drinks.

The morning after, Ethan woke up early, sneaking out of the bed careful not to wake up Nadja and went downstairs. Leila was waiting for him, sitting at the table laden with all sort of food, from cake to bacon, from fruits to eggs. Shania's hospitality was definitely top notch. "Good Morning dearie. Ready for your test?"

Obviously the test was a code. Ethan had something else in mind and even if Leila didn't knew what it was, she could tell it was something he felt very important, if he had to keep it secret from her sister. After the rough start, they developed quite a complicity last night. Nonetheless the pet name she seemed to hate stuck to her. But at least she found one for him too. "I wasn't expecting you up so early, machoman"

That nickname always made him smile. They had breakfast, their first and last one together, as the youngest Ivanov was set to leave the day after, for obvious safety reasons. At some point, Ethan's mood seemed to change suddenly. "I am sorry Leila."

"What for? You haven't done anything Ethan. Or am I missing something?" She smiled up at him.

"I am sorry for what I am asking. It won't be pretty dearie." He lifted the cup of coffee to his mouth once again, emptying it. "I need you to look with me at the footage of your sister's aggression. I will save you the worst parts. Stay focused on the men face, see if you recognize one of those who approached you one month ago." He stared in her eyes. It was a damn long shot, but most likely their best chance to find somewhere to start.

Leila nodded slowly. She made her hands into fists even though her face remained calm. "We might move to the winter garden. Don't want her to get disturbed, yes?"

Ethan moved his hand over her closed fist, talking with a soft and almost reassuring tone "It's... Disturbing Leila. I won't sugarcoat it. It's something that stings. But there's one slight chance we can make some progress. Can you be strong for Natalie?"

"Of course. She's been strong for me all those years." She smiled at him. The tension leaving her body. She squeezed his hand a moment before letting go. "I am thankful for you Ethan. Thankful you are strong for her. So let's do that."

She moved towards the corridors as if she always had lived her. Opening the huge doors to the salon and the winter garden. Ethan was right behind her. Leila sat at the round table and kicked a chair out for him.  "Are you having problems with weed?" She asked out of the blue.

"I don't smoke." He gave her a serious look, almost admonishing. But he didn't add a word. Instead he turned the laptop on, leaning against the chair.

"I know that look." She laughed. Her eyes were focused on the screen, waiting for it to start. Struggling to keep herself calm.

"If that helps, suit yourself."

"We will see. Don't tell my sister please." Her eyes were glued to the screen. Every now and then she would swallow hard. Covering her mouth even. She sat through the whole piece without saying a word.

Ethan skipped certain parts, the most brutal and those where the assailants faces were not in frame.He also saved her that last, desperate scream, stopping the footage when they left. Leila was obviously shocked. Ethan hugged her to calm her down. "It's over dearie."

"I am fine." She got out of the hug, but not ungrateful. She looked at the screen, the paused image now showed the men and their faces. "The one with the slick, black hair was one of the guys coming to me." He had been the worst one considering the scenario.

Ethan took a screenshot and zoomed on the guy's face, sending the resulting image to his smartphone. He waited for a moment, pondering what to do. One quick look at Leila and he made up his mind, deleting the image from Lara's laptop. "We tried. Such a shame you couldn't recognize anyone."

"Of course. What a shame." She got up, rubbing his shoulder a moment. She stepped outside sitting down in the sun. Ethan quickly joined her. "Is it bad you have this brotherly vibe to you?" She took out a joint, looking a little sorry but still lit it.

"I am a brother so I guess that explains it." He looked at her with a light smile despite he clearly didn't approve the fact that she was smoking.

"But you ain't no brother for my sister." She winked at him, dragging in some smoke. "I will miss you too machoman."

He saw her phone popping out from her pocket. He grabbed it and typed something before giving it back to her. "Keep your head down, low profile and don't fuck up. But if shit happens, call me immediately"

"I will behave Ethan. And I can leave without worry now, knowing that you are in her life." She smiled and showed him a picture she had taken last night. Of him and Nadja, when she walked down the steps. "I take my two favourite people with me."

"Really now? Because I'm sure I heard you saying you didn't like me... More than once actually."

"Oh shut up. I didn't wanna like you. And I didn't till 4 am this morning. Seeing that other face." She poked him in the waist. Ethan was laughing.

She started calling him her adoptive brother. Which he found funny, considering how he was starting to reconsider his brotherly skills. Things with Heidi weren't going as planned, with more downs than ups. For some reasons, everything seemed a lot easier with Leila. His two "sisters" were so different, and yet somewhat similar. Both young, both lives ruined because of their families. And Ethan Thompson swore to himself that he would ease those young girls' pain, giving them back the lives they deserved. Joyful, carefree, the kind of lives teenagers are expected to live, instead of finding themselves trapped in this twilight of the innocents.




Hunt is a game of planning, patience and precision. That's what almost every kid in Montana gets taught since tender age. Elks, Mooses, Bisons even bears. It doesn't really matters, the three Ps golden rule would still apply.

PLANNING:  study your prey, his habitat, his habits. Know his movements, how it acts when in danger. Follow the tracks, careful not to alert him.
PATIENCE: Rush is a hunter's worst enemy. It may take a lot of time to find the prey, and even then, you might have to wait for the right moment to strike.
PRECISION There's only one shot, one opportunity. Zero chances to miss. Aim was a gift he discovered as a teenager, and the main reasons why his old man, that piece of crap,  started bringing him during his Big Game hunts. The kid was ice cold, unafraid to pull the trigger and, most importantly, he never missed a shot. His ability to focus and keep the aim was extraordinary, a skill that turned very useful in his days in the army.

But Ethan Thompson soon discovered how that dogma didn't only work in the Montana wilderness, but it applied to perfection even for manhunt  in the New York City slums. He reached the Big Apple the night before, discovering why it's called the city that never sleeps. Something we have in common. Hiding in plain sight, going unnoticed was an art he perfected through the years. Same could be said for obtaining answers. It didn't take him long to give that face a name and an address.
Jimmy was nothing peculiar, the perfect stereotype of an up and comer street thug. Dumb, quick-tempered, armed.

Ethan followed him the night before, less cautiously than he was used to. Not that his guy required particular care anyways. He was so high when he left his place that it was a miracle he even made it to the nightclub. A couple of drinks, a few talks before leaving with a girl. Always the same. That's what the barman told him after a generous tip. And just like any given night he took her out for a dinner before heading back to his apartment. The douche fell in love with a hoe. He waited, not too long to be honest, for them to be done and followed the girl back to the club, unnoticed. Dealing with hookers was always Ethan's favorite part of any job. Not to mention the easiest. No need for violence, threats or anything else but paying their usual fare. Saying that Lisa, that was her name, was confused when Ethan left without even touching her was probably the understatement of the year. He took her in a motel room and said just a few words. "Tomorrow night. You won't see a thing." He then simply walked away.

Those cryptic words suddenly made sense when she recognized him as the hooded guy that just slammed the car's door on Jimmy's head. He saw him reaching for his gun, but the stranger was quick enough to grab his wrist before the fingers could wrap around the grip, almost as if he knew exactly what her chaperon was going to do. He bent his hand in an unnatural way, Lisa could swore she heard the sickening sound of a cracking bone anticipating a dreadful scream of pain that pierced the quietness of the night.

She almost felt sorry for that stranger, knowing that Jimmy's bodyguards would have been there soon, and they don't take an assault to their boss lightly. But surprisingly, nothing happened. He planned everything to the smallest detail. Ethan was dragging him out of the car, wrapping his arms around his neck, choking him from behind. Jimmy stared at her while grasping for hair, struggling, fighting, begging for help.
Lisa ran away, leaving Jimmy to his faith. Tragic, probably, but definitely deserved. To those who will ask her, she would tell she was too drunk, and couldn't remember what happened.

It was a short ride from there to the place Ethan set up in the afternoon, an empty warehouse in the docks area. He's heavier than he looks. Nonetheless, Ethan dragged him to a corner of the room, tied his arms and secured them to a hook hanging from a beam. It was now time to wake up the sleeping beauty, a bucket of cold water instead of the canonical fairy tale kiss.As Jimmy was abruptly awaken from his forced nap, trying to realize where he was and what happened, Ethan started pulling the chain he was hooked to, forcing him to a standing position. He walked in front of him, never taking his eyes off the ground, never saying a word.

"Who the hell are you?" He shouted.

Ethan raised his head, staring at him for the first time. With his eyes still glued on one of the men who assaulted Nadja, he started taking off his shirt, in spite of the cold New York night.

"The fuck are you doing? You want to fuck me you perv?"

He got punched in the ribs for his troubles. Not even the groan of pain he let out changed Ethan's expression. "March 26th. What did you do that night?"

Scornful he replied. "I banged your mom!" He instantly regretted his choice, as a heavy right hand connected on his jaw, knocking a tooth off.

"She's dead you asshole." That obviously called for another fist. He felt a certain pleasure hearing his groan, watching his face writhing in pain. "You, Damian and another guy busted into a girl's apartment... Her name is Nadja"

"Yeah the russian bitch..." It was the nose this time. A shooting pain, followed by the warmth of his own blood dripping on his lips. He hated that ferrous taste.

"Nadja, as I said. She's a friend, and that should explain why we are having this conversation." Looking around he notices a thin steel bar, leftover of some construction work. Pacing very slowly, he covered the short distance, picking it up and walking back to Jimmy. Ethan poked his swollen and bleeding nose with the rod. "Think of it of a remake of that night. With you on the role of Nadja. Obviously, like all the remakes, it will be much worse than the original." Relentlessly he pushed the rebar inside his nostril. The frightful scream of agony that followed sounded even more sinister after bouncing against the walls, echoing in the empty warehouse. Ethan pulled the foreign object away from his nose, cleaning the bloodied tip with a filthy piece of cloth. "I have all night Jimmy. The ball is in your court"

"Fuck you man!" He felt his left leg buckle before his brain could process this new source of pain. The right knee, precisely where he got his LCL repaired, almost as he knew. And of course he did, getting these kind of infos was at the base of the first P in his golden rule.

"It was you, Damian and a third guy. Help me with his name..."

"I don't know, I never met him before! Damian just called him Nieidvjev or some russian shit. Look man it was all his idea. Damian is the one who should be hanging here, not me!!"

This is why torture will never be a one hundred percent reliable source of information. A man scared would say everything and anything just to put an end to his suffering. Luckily enough, Ethan could always count on his 'gift'. And on the fact that he already knew more than he let Jimmy think. "Bullshit." Showing no emotions at all, he limited to swing the rebar again, leaving a deep bruise on his cheek. "But nice try. Easy question now. This Niedvjev, was the guy that drove you and Damian to the college where you approached her sister, Leila?"

He never imagined the poor bastard could get any scared than this. But it happened. Whoever the Polish was, he must have been one tough son of a bitch. "No.. No fucking way.. That guy.. He's a crazier motherfucker than you!"

"It's never smart to call the guy swinging a steel bar crazy." The sudden impact with his abdomen was so hard that cut his breath. He coughed some blood, wondering if it was coming from the busted nose or if it was symptom of some internal damage. Some droplets from that red mist landed on Ethan's chest, but he didn't seem to mind. "Who was that guy?" Another shot to the flank, right in the intercostal space.

It's hard to talk when your chest is burning in pain. Jimmy was realizing it, but his persecutor demanded an answer. "I... I don't know... Him..." He was taking a deep breath when he noticed through teary eyes that the guy with no name was ready to strike again. His instinct told him to squirm, trying to get away from him. Not the brightest idea when you have some bruised ribs. This time though, he was telling the truth. "And what about the latino? You knew him, right?"

Ethan was pointing the bar to different parts of the body, deciding on the next target. The chest, the right knee again, the left one, the abdomen... He stopped on the crotch area, with a sinister grin on his face. "Wait... Wait.. Rodrigo Garza... His name is Rodrigo Garza!! Jesus Christ let me go now! This is all I know..." He was almost crying, overwhelmed by the diffused pain and by the sense of impotence in front of the inevitability of his fate. Jimmy closed his eyes, his mind going to that happy place in the vain hope it would save him the incoming torture. The next noise he heard was the sound of the steel bar hitting the concrete floor. With a new found hope, opened his eyes. "Are.. Are you letting me go man?"

"I thought I made it clear. You are going to suffer just as much as Nadja did. We only just got started." Before he realized, Jimmy turned into a human punching ball. Ethan's fists hurt almost as much as the steel bar, all the rage and frustration that didn't transpire from his face and body language was focused in his hands. He eventually grew tired, picking up once again the piece of metal, and beating him up, until the pain was too much to withstand, and his body gave up. That was then, as if it was the most normal thing to do in a situation like this, he picked his phone from the pocket and took a picture of the unconscious Jimmy, and sent it to Leila.

He couldn't help but notice the funny smell of his hand while he was typing on the screen. Intense. Metallic. Rusty. Of blood and steel.

[div class="playbill"]PLAYBILL[/div]

[div class="credits"][div class="credits-subheadline"]SYNOPSIS[/div]
[div class="credits-synopsis"]Spiral targets Dr. Fedorov while trying to maintain control over the forces within him.[/div][/div]

[div class="credits"][div class="credits-subheadline"]CAST OF CHARACTERS[/div]
MADS MIKKELSEN   as SPIRAL (THE NARRATOR)
ANYA TAYLOR-JOY  as MADDI  (THE ENTITY)
WILLIAM FICHTNER as DR. ARTUR FEDOROV[/div]
[div class="spiral-wrapper"]
[div class="spiral-topper"][/div]
[div class="spiral-content"]
[div class="spiral-content-inner"]
[div class="spiral-headline"]IV[/div]
[div class="spiral-subheadline"]THE GREAT PALE KING[/div]

[div class="spiral-quote"]And as an ev'ning dragon came,
Assailant on the perched roosts
And nests in order rang'd
Of tame villatic fowl.[/div]
[span class="spiral-quote-author"]— John Milton,[/span], [span class="spiral-quote-source"]Samson Agonistes[/span]

[div class="spiral-indent"]DR. FEDOROV IS EXITING THE ELEVATOR and I wonder if his instincts are screaming warnings of Turn Back and Danger Ahead. I watch him as I've watched so many like him before: hidden in the shadows and coiled to strike. Watch as he lights a cigarette and blows smoke into the air while walking toward his car. Watch as he shoves a hand in his pocket for his keys. He fumbles for the right one. I hear the key go in and the door unlocks. He gets into the car, shuts the door behind him, turns the engine over, and then—[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]I sit up in his backseat and clamp my gloved hand over his mouth. He panics and begins screaming through my fingers. His hands are trying to grab at mine, trying to pry it from his face. His jerks are rocking the car back and forth. He doesn't see my right hand coming from the other side, not until it drives a needle into the meat of his neck. He freezes in an awkward position, not screaming but breathing hot air in and out his nose. In the rearview mirror, his eyes are wide and staring at the syringe, at the neon blue liquid in the plastic barrel, and my thumb hovering over the plunger.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]I lean forward, just behind his ear. I say in Russian, "There are twenty millilitres of drain cleaner in this syringe. Do as I say without hesitation or I will inject all of it right into your jugular. Nod if you understand."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]He slowly, carefully nods. His eyes are nearly coming out of their sockets.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"Good, doctor. Very good. Now I am going to remove my hand from your disgusting mouth. No screaming. Speak only if I ask you a question." I take my hand from his mouth and wipe off the saliva and snot on his shoulder. He takes a long deep breath and lightly coughs, but he sits still and doesn't speak.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"Keep this up," I say, "and you may yet survive the night."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]We drive, first out of the garage and then on to the highway. He follows my directions without question or hesitation. We drive north for an hour. The tires hum on the road and the engine rumbles like a lawnmower. He never tries to speak to me and his hands, boney and white-knuckled, stay locked on the steering wheel.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"There is a turn up ahead," I say at last. "Take it."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]His eyes shoot to mine in the rearview mirror, unblinking and full of panic. Fear overwhelms him, and dread. His rat-face, drained of color, is grey, blotchy, and slick with sweat. Each breath is a rapid chestful of air. The car isn't slowing down. His mouth opens, about to speak, with strings of saliva between his lips.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]I put my thumb against the plunger. "Turn now!"[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]He is starting to cry as his hands turn the steering wheel. The car leaves the highway for a two-lane road, passing a big wooden sign that reads [span class="spiral-smallcaps"]elk island national park.[/span] The roadway winds for two miles through the forest before turning into a dark, empty parking lot. He eases a foot on the brake and looks at me in the mirror for instruction.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"Not yet, doctor." I point ahead at a dirt road. "Go there."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]The car leaves the asphalt. I say, "Easy now," as rocks and branches begin to pop and crack under the tires. We drive slowly along the straight path. Outside the windows a black forest creeps past, and above, a moonless sky.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"Stop," I tell him. The car jerks to a halt. The headlights reflect off a warning sign.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"][span class="spiral-smallcaps"]boloto vnimaniya.[/span][/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"][span class="spiral-smallcaps"]attention swamp.[/span][/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"Kill the engine. Leave the lights on."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]The key turns and the car gives one last rumble before falling quiet. He is sobbing like a child with these big heavy breaths in between heaves of spit and mucus. I say, "Do you know how repulsive you are, doctor? Do you see it in the mirror every morning?" I reach my left hand over his shoulder. "Give me the keys."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]He pulls them from the ignition and hands them over.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"Get out." I remove the needle from his neck and replace the plastic sheath. "We're going for a walk."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]He stumbles out and falls on his knees. "Please don't do this," he says with a soft whimper, as if his miserable pleads could affect me. The syringe goes into my jacket pocket. I yank him hard off the ground and throw him hard into the side of the car.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"Why me?" he chokes out.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"You are inadequate, Dr. Fedorov." I let go of him and take a slow step back. "Unfit to live in this new world like so many others, but why you? Truthfully, if you are looking for a reason, the answer is simple: most sheep mind the wolf. You called out, and the wolf came running." One step brings me closer, and another. He recoils as I near. I tell him, "That is the why, doctor, but like you, it is inconsequential. Equally boring is the what. You are here to die, doctor, but how? That is the real question. Do you want to know? Listen close..."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]I grab him by the jaw and tell him.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"You're going to kill yourself."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]He pulls his head away and shakes it. "No, never," he says. "You'll have to do it yourself, you sick bastard."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"Oh, tut-tut, doctor." I wipe the hair from his face and grab a handful. "Let's not resort ourselves to name calling. After all, what would Emilia think."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]He screams in my face, "How do you fucking know my wife's name?" His hands are beating on my arm to get free. "I will fucking kill you!"[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]I laugh right in his stupid rat-face and pull him, head first, from the car. I'm dragging him, kicking and screaming, by the crown of grey hair on his head. "And your daughter, Sofia. You wouldn't want her to hear that kind of language."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]His words devolve into the growls and grunts of a desperate animal caught in a snare. He tries to dig through my Hilts Willard lambskin glove and fails. The farther we get from the car, the softer the dirt gets, and wetter. The smell of stagnant water is overwhelming, and the crickets chirp all around us. Finally, I throw him forward, and he lands in a foot of swamp water. He thrashes about, trying to get to his feet, but the mud is making it difficult.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"Your wife is Emilia." My hand slips into my pocket. "Your daughter is Sofia." I pull out a zipper storage bag and hold it out sideways, letting the headlights shine through it, letting him see the scalpel floating in the bottom of the bag. His eyes are fixed on it.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"It is disturbing how much of our lives are on the internet. Take you, for instance. In the hour I waited in the backseat of the car, I invaded your life through your VKontakte profile. Names, faces, behaviors—I learned it all. I even found out that you recently purchased the house at Proletarskaya 23—"[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"Stop!" he shouts with his hands pressed together. "Please, don't hurt them! Kill me, but leave them be!"[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"Not I, doctor." The bag is tossed at him. "You are going to slit your wrists and sink under the marsh. Tomorrow someone will find your body rotting in the water, invaded by microorganisms, maybe even ripped apart by a bear. Your family will be devastated and confused, but alive."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]I bend down and level my eyes with his. "If you don't, I will kill you anyway, then I will drive to your home." My voice rises above his pitiful wails. "Yes, doctor, and I will force your wife to watch me take Sofia apart piece, by piece, by piece, and hang her entrails around the living room like garland. Then I'll do the same to Emilia, and in one night, your entire family will be erased from existence."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]His words tremble. "This can't be happening..." He rocks back and forth with his hands over his head.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"Maybe I'll spare your cat. He'll enjoy dining on the remains for a few days."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]He has the bag open. His hand is on the handle.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"Will you take your own life to save theirs?"[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]He pulls out the scalpel and, in one violent motion, drags it across his throat from ear to ear. Exquisite blood bubbles and poures out of the gaping wound and runs down his chest. It is quite black in this light, and shiny. Agony and regret swirl around in his eyes, and his expression is terrible, but soon peace finds him, and he relaxes all over. His body goes limp and he falls backward into the water.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]I watch him for a moment, then stand and walk back to the car. His death is unsatisfying, but killing him myself would not have sated my hunger. A dragon cannot live on insects. My tastes are much too refined for such common fare.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]Ultimately, the doctor died as he lived: pathetically. He was not worthy to witness My True Face. He was a slug slithering through life, ill-equipped to testify of my transformation. A slug cannot describe the warmth of the sun or fathom the vastness of the universe no more than the doctor could comprehend the nature of the Great Dragon.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]Maddi is waiting for me by the car. "I didn't think he had it in him," she begins. "Even when you told him about the family, I thought he'd puss out."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]I agree with her while reaching into the front seat to switch off the headlights. "Killing his family would have been enjoyable"—I shut the door and stand—"but too dangerous."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"The code," she says with a very Spiral-like smile. "Rule number one."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"Never get caught," I say, starting to walk away.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"But there is a problem," she says next to me, looking at me sideways. "You know of what I speak."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]I say abruptly, "I don't want to talk about it."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"Oh, come-come now, precious."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"Go away."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]She returns to the raging tempest of my mind, leaving me to make the walk back alone. I call out to her, but there is only silence. Fine, I say, and head on.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]It's a thirty minute hike back to the main road, and another thirty to the bus terminal in Korolyov. It's a sad, ugly building, made completely out of concrete. There are buses idling next to it, spewing out noxious fumes. There are passengers, too—some loading, others unloading. Drug addicts. Prostitutes. Derelicts who cannot afford to fly, who wouldn't be welcomed on an airplane even if they could. As I move around the building, I wonder if anyone has ever blown up a bus depot.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]Taxis are lined up in front of the terminal. I choose the one with the least amount of cosmetic damage. When I open the back door, it smells...okay. I can suffer the stink of fake pine trees because it looks clean inside. Then I hear Maddi say, "Get in, kiddo."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]Not inside my head, but in my ears. I bend down and see her sitting by the other door. She pats the seat next to her. I get into the car, shut the door, and tell the driver, "Airport." I am already annoyed because of the garbage this country calls pop music blaring out of radio. I tell him, "Turn it down," and he does.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]Maddi says, "You feel it bubbling up from the deep."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"What?" I say and look at her. "Are we still having the same conversation?"[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"You need to talk to me," she says, staring back at me with those wild eyes. "It isn't time yet. We have much to do."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"The Eater must eat," I say in a low voice. My voice feels strained and gritty. "The hunger is becoming harder to ignore, and I am becoming less interested in ignoring it. How long can I maintain this façade? How long until this person suit can no longer contain the Real Me?"[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]Her hands finds my shoulder. "Patience, my sweet." Her fingers knead into my shoulders, then my neck. "The time will come when you look upon this world with serpent eyes and there is no more skin left to shed. You, the Great Pale King of Death shall walk without fear."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]I twist beneath the skin when I say, "And the funeral pyres will blot out the sun."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]She hisses in my ear, "We know what the prophecy says, precious, and we are seeing it. See the mad men around the world move their great forces into strategic positions. See them antagonize one another, condemn one another, threaten one another. They ache for the war to end all wars."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"The final battle," I add with a growing smile.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"Ragnarök," she whispers, smiling back.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"You're right. It is too soon." I relax in my seat. The hunger subsides, if for only a time. My mind is filled with images of savageries and delights. My eyes drift out the window. There is that moon, no longer hidden behind trees. It is a bone hook slung low near the horizon, just above the distant buildings. My mind wonders out loud. "But if we're as close as you say, then there isn't much time."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]Her hand has moved down my arm, past my elbow, to my hand. Our fingers interlock. She says, "You are right, of course. You need many more lives, but not like the doctor. His light was much to dim. You need bright lives. Beacons so bright that no one will doubt their testimony." She leans against me, and puts her head on my shoulder. "And you know where we can find them."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]As the taxi zooms down the highway, I look out the window, and scrawled in bright red on a billboard are the words [span class="spiral-smallcaps"]they are the not born.[/span][/div]
[/div]
[/div]
[div class="spiral-bottom"][/div]
[/div]

Please enjoy.

https://fightwriting.net/wp/2017/04/15/greatly-exaggerated/

[div class="playbill"]PLAYBILL[/div]

[div class="credits"][div class="credits-subheadline"]SYNOPSIS[/div]
[div class="credits-synopsis"]For his entire life, Spiral has been accompanied by an inner voice he calls the Entity, a separate consciousness that resides in the dark recesses of his mind. Together, Spiral and this disembodied passenger have found themselves lost in limbo. The Entity can help him escape, but it has a few conditions to discuss first.[/div][/div]

[div class="credits"][div class="credits-subheadline"]CAST OF CHARACTERS[/div]
MADS MIKKELSEN  as SPIRAL (THE NARRATOR)
ANYA TAYLOR-JOY as MADDI  (THE ENTITY)[/div]

[div class="credits"][div class="credits-subheadline"]MUSIC CREDITS[/div]
WOULDN'T IT BE NICE
WRITTEN by BRIAN WILSON and MIKE LOVE
PERFORMED by THE BEACH BOYS

FROGGY WENT A'COURTIN'
WRITTEN by TRADITIONAL
PERFORMED by SPIRAL

FEELING GOOD
WRITTEN by L. BRICUSSE and A. NEWLEY
PERFORMED by NINA SIMONE[/div]
[div class="spiral-wrapper"]
[div class="spiral-topper"][/div]
[div class="spiral-content"]
[div class="spiral-content-inner"]
[div class="spiral-headline"]III[/div]
[div class="spiral-subheadline"]BEYOND GOOD AND EVIL[/div]

[div class="spiral-quote"]Under conditions of peace
the warlike man attacks himself.[/div]
[span class="spiral-quote-author"]— Friedrich Nietzsche[/span], [span class="spiral-quote-source"]Beyond Good and Evil[/span]

[div class="spiral-indent"]FOR SOME TIME, THERE IS only darkness. A nothingness everywhere and nowhere, all at once and not at all. There is no movement. There is no feeling. It is a moment that stretches in all directions indefinitely. It is a shadowland without definition, a gloom without purpose, a void without beginning or end. This bleak, bottomless nonexistence will not be bargained with. It will not be reasoned with. It simply endures, and somewhere in this nowhere land, I am floating through obscurity, locked in an invisible coffin. No matter how loud I scream, how hard my fists beat on the lid, I cannot escape this prison.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]And yet, there is something, a feeling of another consciousness from a further place trying to break through the veil. I call out, "Who's there?" My body twists, turning this way and that in my box to scan the void, but there is nothing to be seen out there in the murk, only felt. And so I go quiet, let my eyes slip shut, and listen.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]At first it is a distant thing, nearly indistinguishable from the nihility, but bit by bit, its presence grows larger and more powerful. This invading force buckles, bends, and distorts the darkness, around and outward, exerting the full weight of its will upon the plane of nonexistence. And lo there comes a great and terrible voice bellowing across oblivion. Its malice seeps throughout the emptiness, til only the Entity remains. Hark![/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"][span class="spiral-smallcaps-reg"]You screwed up, pal.[/span][/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]It is my Dark Self. It has come back to me.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"I thought I was alone," I call back.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"][span class="spiral-smallcaps-reg"]I go where you go. We're a package deal.[/span][/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"Then how do we get out of there?"[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"][span class="spiral-smallcaps-reg"]Slow up, kiddo. First we need to have a little chat.[/span][/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]My head goes back and forth. "No no no," I say with a punch to the lid of the box. "We can talk after we get out of this place."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"][span class="spiral-smallcaps-reg"]Oh, cupcake. You may be in charge up top, but down here I run things.[/span][/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]A loud thunk hammers the lid from above—not a blunt smack, but a chop, like an axe cleaving through wood. Another follows, this one louder and meaner. Dirt falls from the lid into my eyes and mouth. My hands are wiping my face when a third hack takes a chunk out of the lid, spilling light into the coffin. I get enough grit out of my eyes to look through the breach. Far above, a white ceiling is lined with rows of humming fluorescent tube lights.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]THUNK! A long jagged crack slices down the middle of the lid and the two halfs pull apart, squealing and groaning, until finally it explodes in a shower of splinters and grit. Air howls into the coffin like a hurricane and roars around me, surrounding me in the gust. Far off, the Entity booms, [span class="spiral-smallcaps-reg"]Buckle up, buckaroo.[/span][/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]The darkness blows apart in tattered tenebrous strands and I plunge downward, whipping through an empty, blank, white space with my stomach five seconds behind me. I fall over myself and tumble, faster with each breath, and disappear into a swallowing light. All my senses abandon me, and, for a time, I am left only a feeling of weightlessness inside some other place, until—[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]I wake up in a lime-green chair, one of eight arranged in a large circle with nothing but space in the middle. There are people in those chairs, too, and all of us are dressed in starched cotton hospital clothes, except for the man at twelve o'clock. He is wearing a shirt and tie under a doctor's coat, with a name badge that says [span class="spiral-smallcaps-reg"]M. Renaud, m.d.,[/span] and underneath, [span class="spiral-smallcaps-reg"]Ascension Asylum.[/span][/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]Wouldn't It Be Nice is playing over the tin-can intercom and the woman at 3 o'clock is talking through tears and snot. The others in the group are locked in on her sad story, but not me. I defiantly turn away and look around at all the patients mingling in the day room. Look at them, shambling around like zombies, drugged out of their minds in those tacky getups under terry-cloth robes. Most are content to just wander aimlessly, or drool all over themselves in their wheelchairs, but some are with-it enough to interact and hold conversations. They gather around tables, giggling and cackling over nonsense, or indulge in good natured battles of Checkers or cards.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]Is this the real life? How am I back at Ascension? It is certainly possible that I was never released from the hospital and the events of the last three months are just some elaborate dream. A lesser mind might go down that rabbit hole, but there is a problem with this scenario: There are two of me here.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]I'm watching him, the Other Me, strolling through the arts and crafts area, whistling Froggy Went A'Courting or something like that. As he passes a nurse, he tips his head to her and wishes her a good day, then continues whistling along his path. Of course, the Other Me isn't actually me, rather a memory, and what I am seeing is a replay of my first day in the hospital.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]The Other Me grabs a chair and drags it, screeching deafeningly, over the white tile floor. Everyone looks up, even the crazies high on klonopin, and winces with puckered, angry faces at the horrible sound blaring like a dying elephant. It whines behind him, kicking up in pitch every time the legs run over the lines of grout, all the way to the puzzle table at the far end of the room. The chair gives one final squawk when he lifts it off the floor, whips it around, and plops it down next to the man they call Risotto Guy.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]The middle-aged black man with graying hair and stubble is focused on a Starry Night jigsaw. He is a big guy, but gentle. The never-hurt-a-fly type. Think Lenny from Of Mice and Men. No one knows his name because all he ever talks about is Risotto. How to make Risotto. How not to make Risotto. The best place to get Risotto in every major US city. Ask him a question, and he will respond with a recipe or some little-known-fact about it.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]The Other Me begins whispering into Risotto Guy's ear. At first, his face is unflinching and his eyes are locked on the puzzle, but not long later, he lifts his head, shaking all over, and stares past me to the nurses station.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]All at once, he shoots up out of his chair, knocking it over and spilling puzzle pieces on the floor. He stomps through the day room, weaving around the islands of couches and chairs, and right through group therapy. All the patients are watching with me as he blows past us, all the way to the station where Orderly Wetmore and Nurse Carrie are engaged in conversation. Risotto Guy takes the pen from the nurse's pocket and jabs the ballpoint deep into Wetmore's neck. The nurse screams as blood spits all over her face. Wetmore ties to fight back, but Risotto Guy is bigger and stronger. He wrestles the orderly to the ground and continues to stab him in the neck, face, and chest, over and over, screaming Risotto before yanking the pen out and flinging ribbons of blood in the air.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]The code red alarm begins to wail over the intercom. A great swell of laughter comes over me as hacks and whoops that are matched only by the Other Me back at the puzzle table. Both of us are hoarse and breathless, slapping our knees and rocking in our chairs. It takes six orderlies and two shots of Haldol to peel Risotto Guy off Wetmore. Dr. Renaud is working on CPR as nurses put pressure on the worst of the wounds, but it's too late. Wetmore is a gonner.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]I am still laughing when time slows to a halt, grinding like old machinery succumbing to rust and age. Every person in the day room, from the patients to the staff, are locked in awkward moments and gravity-defying stances. Even the Other Me is frozen in place, body bent backward, face contorted and mouth-agape, with his chair reared up on its hind legs.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]I turn forward in my chair. After a few seconds, I begin to drum my fingers impatiently. I call out to the Entity, "I know this is you, so can we get on with it? I have things to do, people to kill." With each annoying second that passes, my fingers roll on the armrest faster, building to a singular moment when a long, growling sigh comes out of me and I smack both hands down out of frustration.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]I run my fingers through my hair and grab handfuls of it. For a minute, nothing is happening, and then I hear a sound, like a low whisper. My eyes shoot up and search all around, panning from one side of the room to the other, then behind me. All the wackos are still locked in suspended animation with their dumb petrified faces, as are the gestapo orderlies and half-wit medical staff.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]My head turns forward and the world slows down, way down. A young woman has taken the good Doctor Renaud's seat, but not just a woman—a beautiful creature, with big, wild eyes, and a mop of curly dark hair. I am almost unable to contain myself when she gives me a very Spiral-like smile.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]It is my twin sister. My dead twin sister.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"Maddi," I say, squinting at her, as if at the sun.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"Hey, kid," she says while twiddling her fingers at me. "This is quite the pickle." She is looking around the day room with raised brows. There is a strangeness in her movements that remind me of, well, me. My sister, my real sister, never exhibited such behavior. She was a saint, a perfect being, a—[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"Is that why you killed me?" she asks with her eyes point blank on me.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]Was I speaking? She looks at me and shakes her head no. Suddenly all this makes sense. The limbo world, this flashback to my own personal hell—all of it was created by the Entity, but why? My Dark Self has always manifested as a voice that only I can hear. It nurtured me from birth, guided me to grow beyond the limitations of the human form, and become the Great Beast.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]Now it sits there as alive as can be, wearing a Maddi suit.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]She says, "Tell them about killing me. It's so romantic."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]I stop, confused, and then look around. "Tell who?"[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"Them," she says, motioning to the stock-still patients sitting with us in the circle. "Who else could I mean?"[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]Before I can say no, the words are already coming out of my mouth. "Okay. Well, my sister and I were twins." My eyes move around the marble-eyed, slack-jaw characters as I talk. "From birth, we were inseparable. Where there was one, the other was not far behind. We did everything together—the same hobbies, the same afterschool programs—we even decided to go to NYU together after graduation."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]Maddi looks at me in a very doctor-like way. "Tell me, Mr. Gram, When did you first recognize these aberrant feeling for your sister? When did you begin to covet her?"[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"We were always close, but as we grew older, a darker connection surfaced... I remember our bedroom. Our parents always offered us to split up, but we never wanted to. My sister liked me being in there because I made her feel safe. I enjoyed that feeling, that need she had for me."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"You wanted her to want you."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"Yes... Every night I watched her sleep with unnatural curiosity and entertained terrible thoughts. My mind was always bent on my sister, but I never acted on my desires. I was afraid to tell her how I felt because of what I would do if she said no. So I assumed the part of the loving, protective brother, and I played it well. I crawled inside her mind and implanted ideas that festered, until she was convinced the boys our age only wanted to hurt her."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"Niels," Maddi says, "tell the group about New York."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]I take a long breath. "We had just started at NYU. It was October and we were eating at a restaurant. She was so happy when she broke the horrible news. I'm seeing someone, she said. A graduate student she met in the city. I wasn't ready and I panicked. I had many years of practice at being normal, but the stress made my human visage crack and for a moment, she saw my true self. It unsettled her and drove her to leave the restaurant. As I watched her disappear out of the door, I knew what had to be done."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]I look longingly to Maddi. "You were there for me. You whispered in my ear."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"If we can't have her"—she says with a very Spiral-like leer—"then no one will."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"My sister was dead," I tell the group, "the moment she confessed her whorish ways, but I had to be patient. I had to wait and plan. So for three months I contained my murderous lust. I pretended to be a loving brother. I became friends with her pathetic boyfriend, David. By hook or by crook, I crept into their lives and infiltrated every aspect of their relationship."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]The Maddi-Entity cackles. "Tell them how we did it."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"Why?" I am staring at her. "You know how. You watched me strangle that whore in his bed after he went for work. You watched me dispose of the evidence. David of course pleaded his innocence, but he had no reason to suspect me because I had played my part so well with your help. The police never even asked me where I was that morning. I was the grieving brother. No one suspected my darker side."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]Images flash in my head. My sister is staring up at me with pinpoint pupils and terror. My hands are around her slender neck, squeezing. She can't scream because my thumbs have clamped off her trachea. My human disguise slips away and she sees the true evil in me for the first and last time. She is a weak, pathetic thing beneath me. In ten seconds she is unconscious, but still alive. My hands stay locked around her neck. After three minutes, she opens her eyes. Her pupils are giant black mirrors that reflect my inhuman face. I climb off her. She is beautiful. She is my goddess. I want to touch her. I want to be close to her, but I can't.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]I feel a hand on mine. I open my eyes. Maddi, the Entity, she is climbing on top of me, straddling me. Her hands touch my face and run through my hair. She is grinding against me. Pulling me into her. I am losing my mind. She says she forgives me and presses her lips to mine. It is a kiss for the ages. Is this what love feels like? A blast of music erupts from the intercom. No longer tin-cans, but high definition surround sound courtesy of BOSE. Jazz horns tumble down a blues scale and Nina Simone sings about Feeling Good. Fireworks explode around us. I stand with her legs around my waist and carry her to the floor. She grinds against me causing friction, heat, and mania. I rip her shirt open and bury my head in her breasts, then lick up her neck. Her teeth find my ear and says, "I love you, brother."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]It all stops—the music, the lights, everything. I am staring down at her. "Why are you doing this?" She just starts laughing like a mad person. It's a very Spiral-like laugh. I get up and fall back into the chair. My hair is over my face and wet with sweat.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]She stands, still laughing, saying, "I am doing this because you're acting like a pussy, bucko. We're here because I wanted to remind you of what happens when you don't listen to me. You need me, kid, just as much as I need you. We are nothing apart." She has her hands around my face, holding my head still. "Without me, You are just some weird little boy from Denmark. Without you, I am lost to the ether, man, floating out in space with the monkeys."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]She pushes my head away and kneels at my feet. She starts kneading my legs and looks straight into my eyes. "But together, we are more. Together, we are Spiral. We are beyond human definition. We are a new species. We are the Next Becoming."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]I shake my head and say, "You think I forgot? I know the Plan. I know the Code."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"Oh yeah, killer?" She rises to her feet and steps back three paces, then throws her hand out. From the ceiling, a white movie screen unrolls and the lights go dark. Video begins playing of a cage fight. I am one of the fighters. The other is a woman. What is her name...Lara Chambers. She has me in a choke hold. I am fighting to get free, trying to rip her arm from my neck, but my body is going limp.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]The video pauses.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"This," Maddi says, pointing at me on the screen. "This is you right now in the real world, getting your head twisted off by a little girl. And why did this happen?"[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"Jackson." My memory is coming back to me. "He went for one of my eyes. I fought Lara half-blind. It is his fault."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"Wrong. You let it happen because you didn't take care of him. I told you we needed to kill him the moment we got out of this joint. That should have been the first priority, but you fucked up, bro. This MMA shit isn't the Plan. It is a side business at best, and at worst, it's a distraction."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"You're right." I bring a hand to my face and breath out. "I spent every moment preparing for that fucking tournament. I wanted to win. I was obsessed with it. I convinced myself that winning was crucial to achieving our goals."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"Hardly. Convenient? Yes. Crucial? Never. We do not need trinkets to becoming the Great Beast. All we need are witnesses to bear our message to the civilization. That is all we have ever needed, my sweet. This fight game can be useful in that regard, but hardly necessary. Make no mistake, it is they who need us."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"I agree." I stand from my chair prepared. "I am ready to go back."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"One thing first," she says with a coy look. "I'm tired of riding in the backseat. I want shotgun."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"I don't know what you mean by that."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]I watch her eyes roll. She says, "I am over the whole 'disembodied voice' routine. It's a stale act, kid. We need to up our game. Besides—" She fondles her breasts through her ripped shirt. "—I can be a much, much better sister to you than she ever was."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]I am breathless watching her touch herself and at the way her eyes run over me. I cannot deny how it makes me feel to be near her again, to lose myself in her being. There is no debate to have. I want her. I need her. She is everything my sister should have been.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]I say to her, "I agree. Now let's get back to work."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]She gives me a very Spiral-like grin. "Fasten your seatbelt, chief. It's about to get bumpy."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]It all goes dark and that feeling of weightless overtakes me again. Sound rushes into my ears. Applause. Screams. Music. Feeling returns to my body. It is heavy and worn out. I force open my eyes search around. I am back in the cage, and standing over me is that fucking physician that kept pausing the fight. I look for the badge hanging from his neck. A. Fedorov, MD.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]Past his shoulder, Maddi leans over him and inspects him like a piece of meat at the butcher. She looks down at me and gives her approval.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"I love what you're thinking. We're gonna go far, kid."[/div]
[/div]
[/div]
[div class="spiral-bottom"][/div]
[/div]

SKILL BREAKDOWN
40 % Striking, 40 % Take Downs, 20% Submissions

YOUR CHARACTER'S NAME
Edward, (Eddie, or Ed) Terryn

NICKNAMES
N/A

TWITTER
@ETAnthropologer

PICTURE BASE
Thom Yorke

HEIGHT
5'8"

WEIGHT
170 lbs

REACH
71 inches

DATE OF BIRTH
1/04/1984

PLACE OF BIRTH
North Yorkshire, United Kingdom

FIGHTING OUT OF
Only required if different from place of birth.

FIGHT TEAM
Who does your character train with? That's a damn fine question. Doesn't seem to have anyone in his team.

SPONSORS
N/A

ENTRANCE THEME
Sirius by The Alan Parsons Project


PORTRAYED BY
Hans

STYLE SUMMARY
This man is a Mixed Martial Artist".

STRIKING BASE
Shitō-ryū Karate

GRAPPLING BASE
Judo

FAVORITE STRIKE
- Toba Yoko Geri

FAVORITE SUBMISSION
- Keylock

STRENGTHS
- Elastic – A bounce back, counter-attack specialist
- Quick and Agile – Slippery in a submission, speedy on his feet and with his strikes..
- Strategic - Not only a calculated assessor pre-fight, but adaptable and fluid as the fight wears on and new tactics are required.


WEAKNESSES
- Size  - Height and Weight don't help him, especially against larger opponents.
- Deathwish - He's fearless, which is good, with a never say die attitude, which is also good. But this ultimately reflects a man not overly attached to his body or its safety.
- Strength – Not the strongest, and can't often rely on overpowering foes.

AWARDS AND ACCOMPLISHMENTS
N/A

PRIMARY STYLE
A well-versed practitioner in the formalized five rules of defense exemplified in Shitō-ryū Karate. The best offense is a solid defense is his motto. Strikes come after successful destroying his opponent's attack. He'll rarely attack outright, more likely to tease or frustrate his opponent into making a costly strike leading to a counterstrike or takedown. 

TENDENCIES
Focused is an understatement. Tends to respond rather than act, and heavily reliant on a strong block and counterattack game.

APPEARANCE
At times clean shaven, more often a varying amount of stubble. Hair is typically messy but it generally seems to work for him. Toned and muscular in spite of his lean, semi-gaunt wiry form.

CAGE GEAR
Taped hands, taped bare feet. Bare chested, with black compression pants.

ADDITIONAL CHARACTERISTICS
Almost to the point of shy. If he wins, he'll raise an arm, but the eyes won't move too far beyond the cage, and on the way to the cage he won't make eye contact.

ENTRANCE DESCRIPTION
The opening synth drone of Sirius by the Alan Parsons Project pours onto the speakers. Within the tunnel, alone, head bowed as the familiar guitar line stars, Ed makes his way towards the cage calm and collected, his march incidental to the music which builds quite on its own before he reaches the cage ready to be checked by the official.

BIOGRAPHY
Ed Terryn doesn't have much of a biography. He doesn't have anyone in his circle, and tends to keep to himself. Boring, eh?