The lights inside the Tokyo Dome dim once more, the energy shifting from anticipation to focus. A low, rolling murmur spreads through the crowd as the camera settles on the ring.Rose Johnston stands at center, microphone in hand. Her presence alone draws a reaction—applause rising in waves, mixed with something quieter, heavier. Respect. Recognition. She waits for the sound to crest and fade, her posture composed, her expression steady.
Scott Slade: It’s good to see Rose Johnston back where she belongs.
Chris Rodgers: I’ll give her that. Takes guts to walk back into this business after everything that happened with Jeremiah Vastrix.
Yashiro Fujimoto: Strength does not always roar. Sometimes it simply returns.
Rose lifts the microphone. Before a word can leave her lips— A sharp crack of thunder rips through the Dome. Blue and white strobes fire in rapid succession as “Hero” by Skillet slams through the sound system. Smoke erupts from the stage, rolling thick and fast across the ramp.
Lightning Man steps through it.
The reaction is immediate and explosive. He pauses at the top of the ramp, head bowed for just a moment, fists clenched at his sides. Then he looks up—eyes locked on the ring—and starts forward.
Scott Slade: Here comes Lightning Man, and listen to this place!
Chris Rodgers: This guy has been chasing Oswald Knight for months, Scott. Close isn’t good enough anymore.
Every step down the ramp is deliberate, heavy with intent. Lightning Man doesn’t play to the cameras, doesn’t acknowledge the fans reaching out over the barricade. His focus never wavers. He hits ringside, grabs the ropes, and slides under the bottom rope in one smooth motion before exploding to his feet. He paces once, then throws his arms wide as another thunderclap echoes overhead.
Yashiro Fujimoto: Lightning Man carries the heart of a hero—but heart alone has failed him in this rivalry.
Takeshi Suzuki: THEN HE MUST BREAK THE ICE BY ALL MEANS NECESSARY! BUT I BET HE DOESN’T HAVE IT IN HIM! AHAHAHAHAHAHA!
Lightning Man climbs the turnbuckles, raising a single fist to the crowd before dropping down and turning sharply toward the entrance ramp. He waits, breathing slow and deep, jaw set.
The lights dim again.
This time, there is no thunder.
A soft, haunting melody drifts through the arena as “Deep End” by Ruelle begins to play. Pale blue light spills across the stage, and artificial snow starts to fall—slow, deliberate, almost serene. Then Oswald Knight emerges. Top hat in place. Mask concealing his expression. Black feathers along his coat catching the light as he steps forward.
Scott Slade: The Young Blood Champion… Oswald Knight.
Chris Rodgers: You know Scotty, this guy has really won me over! He’s a true blue blood! A man of the astricocracy!
Scott Slade: You’re kidding right? The guy is a total scum bag!
Oswald stops at the top of the ramp, tilting his head slightly as he surveys the Dome. He adjusts his gloves with careful precision, then begins his walk. He doesn’t rush. He glides. Each step is smooth, controlled, almost effortless. He reaches ringside, places a single hand on the apron, and slides beneath the bottom rope like water slipping under ice. He rises slowly, removes his hat, and turns to face Lightning Man.
Their eyes meet.
No gestures. No words.
Just tension.
Takeshi Suzuki: Oswald Knight has outthought Lightning Man time and time again. He wins before the bell ever rings.
Oswald climbs the turnbuckle, spreading his arms as the snowfall thickens. The Young Blood Championship gleams at his waist. He hops down lightly, landing with balance and ease, and finally allows himself the faintest smile.
Rose Johnston steps forward again. The crowd settles.
Rose Johnston: Ladies and gentlemen… the following contest is scheduled for one fall—
She pauses, letting the moment stretch.
Rose Johnston: And it is for the Ultimate Wrestling Young Blood Championship.
Oswald unfastens the title and hands it to the referee without breaking eye contact with his challenger. Lightning Man cracks his neck once, shoulders rolling as he steps forward. Bob Sigro the referee moves between them, raising the championship high.
Scott Slade: This rivalry has defined the Young Blood division.
Chris Rodgers: And tonight, one of them finally proves they’re more than potential.
The referee lowers the title. The bell is seconds away. The referee stepped back and signaled for the bell. The sound barely finished echoing before the Tokyo Dome came alive. The crowd began to stomp in unison—thunderous, rhythmic—then clapped over it, the noise swelling into a primal cadence that shook the ring.
STOMP. STOMP. CLAP.
STOMP. STOMP. CLAP.
Scott Slade: Listen to this crowd—they’ve been waiting for this moment all night.
Chris Rodgers: Oswald better stop dancing and start surviving.
Lightning Man didn’t wait for Oswald to settle. He exploded forward. Oswald had barely shifted his stance when Lightning Man tore across the ring and crushed him with a running shoulder tackle that snapped the champion backward into the corner. The impact echoed, Oswald’s body jolting as Lightning Man followed instantly with a second charge—then a third—driving his shoulder into Oswald’s midsection again and again.
The crowd roared approval.
Yashiro Fujimoto: Lightning Man is wasting no time—this is pure aggression!
Takeshi Suzuki: YES! NO THINKING! ONLY ATTACK! MAY THERE SOME HOPE FOR THIS DELUSIONAL MAN!
Lightning Man grabbed Oswald by the wrist and whipped him hard across the ring. Oswald hit the ropes, rebounded—and was cut in half by a massive running lariet to the jaw.
Oswald crumpled to the mat, rolling instinctively toward the ropes as Lightning Man stayed on him. Lightning Man hauled him up by the arm, muscled him off the canvas, and snapped him down with a High Angle Slam, driving Oswald flat onto his back.
The ring shuddered.
Scott Slade: Lightning Man came in with a plan—and it was simple!
Chris Rodgers: That’s how you deal with a guy like Knight. You don’t let him breathe.
The stomp-and-clap chant intensified as Lightning Man stood over the champion, chest heaving. He dragged Oswald up again and sent him into the corner with authority, following with a crushing corner clothesline that snapped Oswald’s head sideways. Oswald staggered forward. Lightning Man caught him immediately, scooping him up and slamming him down with brute force before dropping into a quick cover.
The referee slid into position.
One!
Oswald kicked out hard, twisting his body and rolling away.
Lightning Man rose instantly, frustration flashing across his face for the first time. He grabbed Oswald by the ankle, yanking him back toward the center of the ring—but Oswald reacted on instinct, snapping his free leg up and catching Lightning Man across the face. The blow wasn’t powerful—but it was precise. Oswald rolled through the motion, scrambling to his feet as Lightning Man stumbled back half a step.
Scott Slade: There it is—that survival instinct from Oswald Knight.
Chris Rodgers: He’s still on the back foot, Scott. One good hit and he’s done.
Lightning Man surged forward again, but Oswald slipped past him at the last second, gliding around his shoulder and darting toward the ropes. Lightning Man turned—and Oswald launched himself forward, sliding low and taking Lightning Man’s legs out from under him with The Icy Glide.
Lightning Man hit the mat hard.
The crowd reacted sharply, the chant breaking into cheers.
Yashiro Fujimoto: That is how Oswald Knight changes momentum—one opening, one mistake.
Takeshi Suzuki: DO NOT LET HIM BREATHE!
Oswald didn’t celebrate. He didn’t pose. He moved. He bounced off the ropes and leapt, snapping into a fast, spinning forearm that caught Lightning Man as he tried to rise. Oswald landed lightly, already repositioning, eyes locked, breathing controlled. The champion had weathered the storm and now, the ice was starting to crack.
Lightning Man shook his head violently, clearing the fog as Oswald landed the forearm. The momentary stumble vanished in an instant. He roared. Lightning Man surged forward like a freight train, plowing straight through Oswald with a brutal running lariat that flipped the champion inside out. Oswald hit the mat hard—shoulder first, then skull—his body skidding across the canvas.
The stomp-and-clap chant mutated into raw noise.
Scott Slade: Lightning Man just erased him!
Chris Rodgers: That’s power meeting speed—and power winning.
Oswald tried to push himself up, one knee barely under him, when Lightning Man grabbed him by the back of the head and drove him face-first into the mat with a vicious snap slam. The impact echoed, Oswald’s body bouncing before collapsing limp for a split second.
Lightning Man didn’t relent.
He hauled Oswald up again, hoisted him high, and dropped him spine-first with a punishing Lightning Slam that folded Oswald’s body unnaturally on impact. Oswald screamed out, clutching his back as Lightning Man stayed glued to him, mounting and hammering down stiff forearms to the chest and collarbone.
Yashiro Fujimoto: This is turning dangerous fast—Lightning Man is unloading everything he has!
Takeshi Suzuki: BREAK HIM! NO MERCY!
Lightning Man yanked Oswald to his feet and whipped him into the corner with savage force. Oswald hit chest-first, the sound like a gunshot. Before he could slump, Lightning Man charged in and crushed him with a corner Shining Wizard, Oswald’s head snapping back against the turnbuckles. Oswald staggered forward. Lightning Man grabbed him mid-fall and launched him with a brutal Blockbuster, driving Oswald face-first into the canvas. The champion didn’t roll away this time. He lay flat, arms spread, chest barely rising.
Lightning Man dropped into the cover, hooking both legs tightly.
The referee counted.
One!
Two!
Oswald’s shoulder twitched.
Scott Slade: No—no way—
Two and three-quarters!
Oswald barely kicked out, his leg jerking upward at the last possible fraction of a second. The Tokyo Dome exploded. Lightning Man rolled off him, eyes wide, disbelief etched across his face. He slapped the mat once in frustration, then stood slowly, breathing hard, sweat dripping from his chin.
Chris Rodgers: He was milliseconds away from ending this!
Scott Slade: That’s the black heart of this champion—Oswald Knight refuses to die!
Lightning Man dragged Oswald up by the hair, pulling him nose-to-nose. Lightning Man shoved him back, sprinted to the ropes, rebounded—
SPEAR.
The Lightning Strike smashed Oswald nearly in half, folding him violently on impact. Oswald crashed to the mat, clutching his ribs, coughing air as Lightning Man loomed over him again. The crowd roared louder than ever, the stomp-and-clap restarting with renewed fury.
STOMP. STOMP. CLAP.
Yashiro Fujimoto: Lightning Man is moments away from taking the Young Blood Championship!
Takeshi Suzuki: STAY DOWN! STAY DOWN!
Lightning Man backed into the corner, eyes locked on the fallen champion, pounding his chest once before stepping forward— Oswald moved. Just enough. A hand grabbed the bottom rope. The crowd gasped as the referee waved off the follow-up, Lightning Man shouting in frustration as Oswald clung to the rope, body trembling but alive. The champion had survived again and the violence was only escalating.
Oswald clung to the bottom rope like it was the only thing keeping him alive. Lightning Man ripped his hands away anyway. He dragged Oswald up by the wrist and threw him across the ring like discarded baggage. Oswald hit the turnbuckles shoulder-first and collapsed to a knee, gasping, blinking hard—blood already beginning to trickle from his nose.
Chris Rodgers: Oswald Knight is in real trouble right now.
Scott Slade: Trouble? He’s getting what he deserves.
Lightning Man stalked forward, grabbed Oswald by the head—and headbutted him. The crack was sickening. Oswald dropped flat onto his back, clutching his face as blood burst freely from his nose, splattering the canvas. He rolled instinctively, scrambling backward on his elbows like an animal trying to escape a predator.
The crowd roared.
Yashiro Fujimoto: That may have broken Oswald’s nose!
Takeshi Suzuki: GOOD! BREAK IT AGAIN!
Yashiro Fujimoto: Ahh.. Suzuki-san I don’t think that technically possible…
Takeshi Suzuki: Shut up Fujimoto-san! Your not a doctor the last I checked!
Lightning Man didn’t give him time. He mounted Oswald. Just like that—legs planted wide, pinning Oswald’s arms with his knees—and began raining down right hands. One after another. No finesse. No mercy. Just brutal, thudding shots to the face.
Scott Slade: This is turning ugly!
Chris Rodgers: That’s how you beat a cocky little punk—make him regret getting up!
Oswald tried to cover up, hands coming up weakly, but Lightning Man smashed through the guard. Blood smeared across Oswald’s cheek, his head snapping side to side with every blow. The referee warned Lightning Man, but he barely acknowledged it, driving another fist down before finally being forced to back off. Oswald rolled onto his side, coughing, wheezing—blood dripping onto the mat as he stared wide-eyed at Lightning Man.
For the first time all match—Oswald looked scared.
He shook his head, crawling backward toward the corner, palms slipping in his own blood. He pulled himself up using the ropes, eyes darting, panic creeping into his expression as Lightning Man advanced again.
Chris Rodgers: I’ve never seen Oswald Knight look like this.
Scott Slade: Because he’s realizing speed doesn’t save you from pain.
Lightning Man grabbed Oswald and hurled him into the corner again, then charged full-speed and crushed him with a corner clothesline that folded Oswald in half. Oswald slumped forward, Lightning Man caught him.
High Angle Slam.
Oswald’s spine slammed into the canvas so hard the ring shook. He bounced once and went limp. Lightning Man dropped into another cover, hooking the leg tight.
One!
Two!
Oswald kicked out barely, his leg twitching upward at the last possible instant. The arena exploded.
Yashiro Fujimoto: HOW is he still alive?!
Takeshi Suzuki: HE SHOULD BE FINISHED!
Lightning Man sat back on his knees, staring at Oswald in disbelief. His jaw clenched. His fists shook. He stood—and grabbed Oswald by the hair. Lightning Man yanked him up, screaming in his face before shoving him violently back. Oswald stumbled, hands raised defensively now—not strategically, not calculating—begging off just a little, shaking his head, blood pouring freely.
Scott Slade: Oswald’s not fighting back—he’s trying to survive!
Chris Rodgers: Pathetic.
Lightning Man charged again—Oswald dropped flat to the mat, rolling away desperately as Lightning Man barely avoided crashing chest-first into the turnbuckles. Oswald scrambled to the apron, clutching his face, breathing ragged, eyes wide with fear as the crowd buzzed. The champion was rattled. He was hurt. And for the first time in months— He looked like he couldn’t handle the beating anymore.
Lightning Man stepped toward the ropes, shaking out his arms, feeding off the noise—feeding off Oswald’s fear. That was the mistake. Oswald reached up from the apron and raked his eyes. Not subtle. Not pretty. Just desperation.
Lightning Man staggered back with a shout, clutching his face as the referee immediately admonished Oswald. Oswald didn’t argue. He slid back into the ring low and fast, blood smeared across his face, eyes wild—not confident, not smug—feral.
Scott Slade: That was blatant!
Chris Rodgers: Champion’s advantage, baby—cry about it!
Lightning Man blinked hard, vision swimming, and Oswald pounced. A low kick to the knee. Another to the calf. Oswald chopped the leg out from under him and immediately dropped into a vicious stomp on the back of Lightning Man’s knee. Lightning Man roared in pain, dropping to one knee as Oswald stayed on him, hammering clubbing forearms into the side of his head.
Yashiro Fujimoto: Oswald Knight is changing tactics—he’s going low, he’s going dirty!
Takeshi Suzuki: Brilliant tactics! I love it!
Oswald backed up suddenly, sprinted forward, and snapped into a sliding dropkick that smashed Lightning Man’s face backward. Lightning Man hit the mat hard, rolling onto his stomach as Oswald clutched his own ribs, grimacing—but moving.
The fear was still there. But now it was being weaponized. Oswald dragged Lightning Man up and whipped him into the ropes. Lightning Man rebounded and ran straight through him with a thunderous shoulder block that sent Oswald flipping onto his back. The crowd gasped.
Scott Slade: Lightning Man refuses to slow down!
Lightning Man staggered slightly on the damaged knee but shook it off, hauling Oswald up and launching him with a brutal overhead slam. Oswald hit hard, screamed out, and rolled toward the corner—but Lightning Man followed, dragging him up by the neck. He then mounted him again in the corner this time, raining down fists to the body and head. Oswald’s arms came up too late—each shot landing heavier than the last, blood flying again as the referee started a count.
Chris Rodgers: This is a mugging!
Lightning Man backed off at four, chest heaving. Oswald collapsed forward.
Then—low blow.
The arena erupted.
Oswald drove his knee up between Lightning Man’s legs while the referee was still repositioning. Lightning Man’s eyes went wide, his body freezing for a heartbeat before he collapsed to both knees.
Scott Slade: OH COME ON!
Chris Rodgers: I didn’t see anything!
Oswald didn’t waste it. He grabbed Lightning Man’s head and spiked him with a DDT, snapping him face-first into the canvas. Oswald rolled through, clutching his ribs, blood pouring freely from his nose as he crawled into the cover.
One!
Two!
Lightning Man kicked out violently, shoving Oswald off him and scrambling to his knees. The crowd exploded again.
Yashiro Fujimoto: STILL NOT ENOUGH!
Takeshi Suzuki: THIS MATCH WILL KILL THEM BOTH!
Both men rose slowly now. Lightning Man swung wildly—Oswald ducked, clipped the knee again, and fired off a sharp forearm to the jaw. Lightning Man answered with a headbutt that cracked Oswald square in the face, reopening the broken nose as blood sprayed across Lightning Man’s chest.
They staggered.
Oswald bounced off the ropes—Lightning Man caught him mid-air and dumped him with a brutal spinebuster that nearly folded him in half. Lightning Man fell into the cover immediately.
One!
Two!
Oswald kicked out again, barely, his body convulsing as he rolled onto his side.
Scott Slade: This has turned into a war of attrition!
Chris Rodgers: Neither of these idiots knows when to quit!
Both men lay there now. Blood on the mat. Sweat everywhere. Breathing ragged. Oswald stared up at the lights, shaking—half terrified, half calculating—while Lightning Man pushed himself up slowly, rage and exhaustion mixing in his eyes.
The cheating hadn’t ended the fight. It had only dragged them both into something uglier. And neither of them was walking out the same. Lightning Man didn’t just surge back—he detonated. The stomp-and-clap chant swelled again, faster now, almost frantic, echoing off the steel and concrete of the Tokyo Dome as Lightning Man tore across the ring like a man possessed.
STOMP—STOMP—CLAP
STOMP—STOMP—CLAP
Oswald barely had time to register what was happening before a boot smashed into his ribs, lifting him off his feet and folding him inside out. Lightning Man grabbed a fistful of blood-soaked hair and hurled him spine-first into the corner with such force the turnbuckles shuddered.
Scott Slade: Lightning Man has snapped—this is pure survival instinct!
Chris Rodgers: Somebody get control of this thing!
Lightning Man charged again, crushing Oswald with a corner splash that drove the air from his lungs in a wet, choking gasp. Oswald stumbled out—and Lightning Man scooped him up and dumped him with a violent overhead slam, the back of Oswald’s skull smacking the mat hard enough to draw another roar from the crowd. Lightning Man stood over him, chest heaving, eyes wild behind the mask.
He dropped down and mounted him again.
Right hand.
Right hand.
Right hand.
Each punch landed with a dull, sickening thud. Oswald’s head snapped back and forth, blood spraying across the canvas as the referee dove in, shouting warnings, trying desperately to pry Lightning Man off. Lightning Man shoved him aside without even looking.
The referee stumbled—and Lightning Man swung again, his forearm crashing into the referee’s jaw. The official collapsed in a heap. The chant died instantly, replaced by a shocked gasp that rippled through the Dome.
Scott Slade: The referee is down! What the hell is going on! Someone get control of this match!
Yashiro Fujimoto: This is chaos—this is dangerous!
Lightning Man didn’t notice. Or didn’t care. He hauled Oswald up by the throat, pulling him into position for something devastating—Oswald struck. A desperate thumb jammed straight into Lightning Man’s eye. Lightning Man screamed and staggered backward, clutching his face as Oswald dropped to one knee, sucking in air like a drowning man who’d just found the surface.
Oswald’s expression changed.
The panic hardened into calculation. He exploded forward, ducking under a wild swing and snapping Lightning Man up into a brutal brainbuster. Lightning Man’s body went vertical for a heartbeat—then Oswald drove him head-first into the canvas.
The sound was horrifying.
Lightning Man’s body bounced once… then lay still. Oswald collapsed beside him, chest heaving, hands shaking uncontrollably. Blood poured freely from his broken nose, dripping onto Lightning Man’s mask as Oswald dragged himself upright.
Scott Slade: That brainbuster may have ended Lightning Man’s night!
Oswald wiped blood from his eyes, then grabbed Lightning Man by the arm and dragged him toward the corner like dead weight. He hauled him up, lifting his limp body and hanging him across the ropes—arms slung over the top rope, legs forced wide and trapped cruelly on the second strand.
The crowd erupted in furious boos.
Yashiro Fujimoto: No—this is vile!
**Takeshi Suzuki: HE IS DISGRACING THE BELT! FANTASTIC!
Oswald staggered backward, spreading his arms wide as if soaking in the hatred. He bowed low, mockingly, blood dripping onto the mat beneath him. Then he sprinted. His boot drove forward with savage precision, smashing Lightning Man directly between the legs.
The impact echoed.
Lightning Man’s body convulsed violently. A strangled gag escaped his mask as he collapsed forward, hitting the canvas face-first, both hands clawing at his groin. Dark liquid seeped through the fabric of his mask as he vomited inside it, choking and rolling weakly onto his side.
The Tokyo Dome was livid.
Scott Slade: That’s sick! Somebody stop this!
Oswald stood over him, breathing hard, then leaned down and spat on Lightning Man’s back. With eerie calm, Oswald knelt beside the fallen referee, shaking him, slapping his face until the official stirred and groggily pushed himself up. Oswald didn’t wait. He dragged Lightning Man into position, climbed the turnbuckle slowly—pain etched into every movement—and steadied himself at the top. The Dome rained down venom.
Oswald leapt.
The Emperor’s Descent.
His elbow crashed into Lightning Man’s chest, crushing him into the mat. Oswald hooked the leg deep, pressing all his weight down as the referee crawled into position.
One.
Two.
Three.
The bell rang—and the reaction was nuclear. Oswald rolled off and lay there for a moment, staring at the lights, chest rising and falling in ragged bursts. Then he pushed himself up and seized the Young Blood Championship, raising it high above his head as blood streamed down his face.
Scott Slade: Lightning Man gave everything he had—and Oswald Knight stole this championship with the lowest tactics imaginable!
Chris Rodgers: Champion’s still standing. That’s all history’s gonna remember.
Oswald screamed through broken teeth, hoisting the title higher as the Dome drowned him in hatred. Young Blood Champion. Still. And as Lightning Man lay broken at his feet, one thing was unmistakably clear—
This rivalry was far from over.
The M.O.X broadcast had ended, but the glow of it still lingered.
Inside Rupert Mudcock’s secured executive suite, the wall of monitors continued cycling triumphant images of President Ronald McStrump at the Rose Garden podium, waving flags, emergency banners, and bold patriotic graphics washing the room in red, white, and gold. The sound had been muted, but Rupert did not need to hear it again. He had built the machine. He knew exactly what it was saying.
Victory.
Strength.
America first.
Pay the price.
Rupert sat in a reinforced leather chair beneath a cone of low amber light, looking less like a businessman and more like a bloated king spider at the center of a web spun from satellites, panic, and lies. A cigarette smoldered between two thick fingers. Smoke curled past his broad face in slow gray ribbons as he stared at the largest screen in silence. His tie had been loosened. His pinstriped jacket strained against his chest. The room around him was cluttered with signs of a man who had been running an empire from exile for too long. Open folders. Half-drained glasses. Security briefings. Flight manifests. Ratings reports. Japanese market analytics. Bodyguard rotations. Pandemic protocols. All of it piled together into one suffocating monument to control.
On another screen, the M.O.X panel still rolled clips celebrating the “miracle” of Operation Super Mega Speed. Rupert took one last drag from the cigarette, then crushed it into a crystal ashtray with quiet contempt.
He did not smile.
He calculated.
A cure for Blovid-13 meant more than headlines. More than ratings. More than one more grotesque moment of televised nationalist theater. It meant movement. Borders reopening. Restrictions easing. Air corridors unclogging. It meant the west beginning to breathe again. It meant there was finally a window, however narrow, to get Ultimate Wrestling and the rest of his people off the island they had been marooned on since last fall. And if he had to crawl through Ronald McStrump’s diseased ego to make that happen, then so be it.
Rupert reached for the secure black handset resting on the desk beside him and pressed a coded sequence from memory. The line clicked almost immediately.
No assistants.
No pleasantries.
No screening.
Just the soft hum of power connecting to power. A familiar voice came through a second later, thick and theatrical even over encrypted signal.
President Ronald McStrump: Rupert. Rupert. My friend. How are you? Great to hear from you. Great, great to hear from you.
Rupert leaned back in his chair and stared at the screen showing McStrump’s own orange, self-satisfied face.
Rupert Mudcock: Save it, Ronald.
There was a beat of silence on the line. Not offended silence. Measured silence. The kind two old predators shared when both remembered exactly where the bones were buried.
Rupert Mudcock: I just watched your little Rose Garden coronation. Very stirring. Very patriotic. Very expensive. McStrump let out a low chuckle, but Rupert could hear the caution in it.
President McStrump: It was huge, Rupert. A huge moment. Maybe the biggest. A lot of people are saying that already.
Rupert Mudcock: I’m sure they are... Especially the ones on my payroll.
That one landed. There was another small pause, this one just long enough for the ghost of North Korea to pass between them. Neither man said the words. Neither needed to.
The mission.
The fallout.
The ash.
The millions dead.
The strain that followed. Old friendship had survived it, but not cleanly. McStrump recovered first, as Rupert knew he would.
President McStrump: Look, we both know there were... difficult times. Very difficult. Bad people involved. Weak people. Saboteurs. But we did tremendous things too, Rupert. Tremendous things. And nobody, nobody has been more loyal to this movement than you.
Rupert’s eyes narrowed slightly. There it was. The pivot.
President McStrump: M.O.X has been incredible. Really incredible. Your people get it. They understand what we’re doing for the country. And Ultimate Wrestling, by the way, what you’ve done over there Tokyo, just unbelievable. Unbelievable. You went into Japan, you took that whole market by the throat, and now everybody sees it. Everybody. You conquered them. Frankly, I’m very proud of you.
Rupert said nothing. He enjoyed silence the way other men enjoyed applause. On the other end, McStrump kept going, because he had to.
President McStrump: Very proud. Very, very proud. Ultimate Wrestling is stronger than ever. The ratings, the spectacle, the dominance. You made it happen. Nobody else could’ve done that. Nobody.
Rupert finally moved, reaching for another cigarette but not lighting it yet.
Rupert Mudcock: You sound needy, Ronald.
President McStrump: Not needy. Appreciative.
Rupert Mudcock: Needy.
McStrump exhaled sharply through his nose.
President McStrump: Fine. Maybe a little. The media situation is ugly. You know that. You see it. The fake outlets are going insane, the weaklings are crying on camera, and my base needs reinforcement. They trust M.O.X. They trust you. When your people tell them I saved the world, they believe it.
Rupert’s mouth twitched into the faintest, ugliest approximation of a smile. There it was. Not diplomacy. Not friendship. Not even mutual respect. Just the old truth laid bare. President McStrump needed Rupert because Rupert still controlled the funnel through which millions of furious, frightened idiots received reality.
Rupert Mudcock: Now we’re speaking honestly.
President McStrump: I’m always honest.
Rupert Mudcock: No. You’re always loud. It’s different.
Rupert finally put the unlit cigarette down and leaned forward.
Rupert Mudcock: Here is what I need.
McStrump did not interrupt.
Rupert Mudcock: A priority shipment of the vaccine for Blovid-13. Not promises. Not a photo op. Not some bureaucratic labyrinth run by one of your dead-eyed little ghouls. An actual secured shipment. Enough doses for my senior executive staff, my key production personnel, security heads, medical staff, and my top on-screen assets.
President McStrump: That can be done.
Rupert lifted a finger.
Rupert Mudcock: I wasn’t finished.
His voice did not rise. It got colder.
Rupert Mudcock: I also want travel clearances. Immediate. My aircraft, my crew, my talent, my cargo, my security teams. No delays in customs. No quarantine circus. No international bottlenecks. No one grounding my people because some clipboard parasite wants to feel important.
President McStrump: Rupert, we can move things. Absolutely. We can move very fast for you.
Rupert Mudcock: You will.
McStrump shifted gears instantly, eager now.
President McStrump: Done. We’ll get the right agencies aligned. Transportation. State. Homeland. I’ll make the calls personally. Your planes land clean. Your people come home. No nonsense.
Rupert’s thick fingers tapped once against the desk.
Rupert Mudcock: Good.
President McStrump: And Rupert... when they get back, I want coverage. Strong coverage. None of this weak half-critic, half-praise garbage some of your second-string people flirt with when they think they’re being clever. I want the country to understand what this was. I want them to understand who delivered.
Rupert gave a dry, joyless chuckle.
Rupert Mudcock: You want me to wrap your miracle drug in a flag and pipe it directly into the skulls of your trailer park disciples.
McStrump laughed louder than the line deserved.
President McStrump: You always had a way with words.
Rupert Mudcock: And you always had a weakness for hearing your own mythology repeated back to you in baritone.
The president chose not to fight that one.
President McStrump: I’m serious, Rupert.
Rupert Mudcock: So am I.
He let the silence press again, then continued.
Rupert Mudcock: M.O.X will celebrate the win. We will frame it correctly. We will keep your people euphoric, angry, and obedient in whatever proportions are required. But in return, I get my shipment, my exemptions, and my corridor back into the United States.
President McStrump: You have my word.
Rupert Mudcock: Your word is ornamental.
Another beat.
Rupert Mudcock: I’ll trust the paperwork.
McStrump’s irritation flashed through for the first time.
President McStrump: You always did know how to take the joy out of a moment.
Rupert’s face hardened.
Rupert Mudcock: Joy is for consumers.
That shut the other man up.
Rupert glanced to the monitor showing rolling images of Ultimate Wrestling in Japan. Packed visuals. Flashing lights. Blood and spectacle. The invasion that had become an occupation. The company had survived the island, the war, the fear, the lockdown, the waiting. Now it was time to move the empire home.
Rupert Mudcock: One more thing.
President McStrump: Name it.
Rupert Mudcock: When my people touch American soil, I don’t want any grandstanding from your agencies. No “health inspection” stunt, no leak to the press, no attempt to put one of your flags behind me and pretend you rescued us. Ultimate Wrestling returns on my terms.
McStrump’s voice came back silkier now.
President McStrump: Of course. Of course. This is between friends.
Rupert looked at the dead cigarette in the ashtray and thought about how many times that phrase had cost the world blood.
Rupert Mudcock: We’ll see.
President McStrump: Rupert.
Rupert did not answer immediately.
President McStrump: I meant what I said. About Japan. About Ultimate Wrestling. You built something powerful over there. Very powerful. The whole world sees it.
Rupert stared at his reflection in the black edge of one of the monitors.
Rupert Mudcock: They’ll see more soon enough.
He ended the call without saying goodbye. The room went quiet except for the faint hum of screens and climate control. Rupert remained still for a moment, the handset still in his grip, as if listening to the silence for weakness. Then, with a grunt, he set it down and reached for a different phone. This one was silver. This one moved nations.
He hit another speed-dial. The line rang once. A clipped professional voice answered immediately.
Voice: Halcyon Executive Air, priority dispatch.
Rupert rose from his chair as he spoke, moving toward the glass wall overlooking the Tokyo skyline. Far below, the city glittered beneath rain and neon like a drowned circuit board. For months it had been his prison disguised as a market.
Rupert Mudcock: This is Rupert Mudcock. Activate all return protocols.
Voice: Yes, sir. For full fleet mobilization?
Rupert Mudcock: I said all return protocols.
Voice: Understood, sir.
Rupert’s eyes stayed on the city.
Rupert Mudcock: I want every available jet prepared. Long-range. Medical support onboard. Security reinforced. Crew rotations locked. We will be moving executives, talent, production equipment, specialists, and protected cargo. No delays. No substitutions. No excuses.
Voice: Departure window?
Rupert’s face darkened with satisfaction.
Rupert Mudcock: Soon… but first I have business to take care of.
He turned from the window and began walking again, the old engine inside him fully alive now.
Rupert Mudcock: Start with the primary manifests. Executive team first. Broadcast core second. Then the main roster. I want contingency birds ready for overflow, injury transport, and private routing. Coordinate with my legal team, my medical office, and corporate security. Have them all awake in five minutes.
Voice: Yes, sir.
Rupert Mudcock: Also prepare a separate luxury configuration for me. I will not be crossing the Pacific in a metal tube filled with protein farts and C-list narcissists.
The woman on the other end did not laugh.
She knew better.
Voice: Of course, sir.
Rupert stopped at the desk and looked over the stacks of papers once more. Japan had been profitable. Brutal, chaotic, historic. It had also become a cage. A dangerous one. One with too many enemies, too many moving parts, and too many ancient things stirring beneath the surface.
Enough.
The west was opening.
America was thirsty and Rupert Mudcock had no intention of remaining stranded on a crumbling island one second longer than necessary.
Rupert Mudcock: Begin repositioning immediately. And tell the pilots to be ready to fly into hell if I ask for it.
Voice: Understood.
Rupert ended the second call.
Then he stood alone in the monitor glow, big shoulders hunched slightly, breathing slow, eyes cold and alive again.
On the wall behind him, M.O.X had already shifted to a new banner.
AMERICA SAVED THE WORLD
Rupert looked at it, then at his reflection in the glass.
Rupert Mudcock: No.
His voice was low and certain.
Rupert Mudcock: I did.
He reached for another cigarette as the city burned quietly beneath him and the first engines of departure began, somewhere far below, to wake.
To Be Continued In Part - 3