The unseasonable warmth of the November monday had turned into a too-warm, uncomfortable rainstorm. The bus station was a horrorshow of faded beige tiles in the walls, plastic chairs from 1975, and a Chinese food buffet. Mechanicsville's Greyhound terminal wasn't exactly the most fantastic of locations. 

The kid had shown up off a bus, jacket hanging off 'im, face a hangdog mope of disappointment. His duffel bag sat securely on the cheap plastic bucketseat beside him, one arm looped casually through the shoulder strap. He was staring off into the distance at nothing in particular, hands hanging limp by his knees.

He had failed. Even though he had won his match, gotten the decisive, victorious moment, and even nearly pulled the mask off of YAZ's... Kai's face. Sure, Kai had escaped, but wrestling was like a cartoon. He'd get him next time.

When it was too late.

The Untouchadriver, one of his childhood fantasies for "best move" along with the Figure Four and the ol' through-the-tables routine... That one hurt.

The Ghetto Stomp to the balls into the Truly Untouchadriver... That one REALLY hurt. Tom had ended up laying in his bathtub, icepacks clamped around his neck, trying not to spew for most of the night. And he had won his match. Gotten a nice, big, fat paycheck outta it. Who knows if it would be the last one. Something was going down at the DEFIANCE office. His meeting with Merchandising had been postponed, his contract negotiations with Talent had been postponed...

So, in short, Tom had lost. He had misjudged what the threat was and paid the price. His shallow, hollow victory had bought him nothing more than a crowdpop, and he should have listened to his instincts.

They had said "Go to Jeff Andrews". And so he had. The Rider showed up to bail Jeffy Andrews out of his bad spot. But that wasn't what the instincts had wanted. He probably should have shown up...

And helped Jiles and White kick Jeff Andrews' teeth all over the building.

Tom hung his head, planting his face in his hands. Three days' worth of stubble just barely tingled his fingers. He wasn't one for much facial hair. What would Tom possibly do now? The Untouchables... Kai Scott... 

There had been five casefiles he had come up with for who he was hoping YAZ wasn't. His "worst-case-scenarios". James Mandrake, .eyedentity. or Terry Woods, Dante Greco or London Freemantle, Kai Scott and a reformed Untouchables, and Ryan Blasier. He discounted pretty much all of them. Blasier was managing a pizza restaurant, Scott's back was destroyed, Greco was committed, Woods was living in Thailand as a wealthy heiress' live-in boyfriend, James was dead...

And then, of course, one had to come true. The problem now was twofold. Any of the others could also be based on faulty information, and Kai Scott was refocused, the Untouchables were reformed, and they likely had seized DEFIANCE's power.

This was worse than a worst-case-scenario, because Eric Dane had never lost before. This time had gotten bad, even with Light finally claiming ultimate victory for wrestling over sports entertainment. How could Tom possibly compete with four world champions?

He had Light on his side. He hoped. Eugene and Turner had come out with him, so that got the numbers level... But not the odds. Eugene was no Heidi Christenson. Sam Turner was no Kai Scott. Tom was no Ronnie Long, and as for Light and Jeffy...

Well...

He wanted to be sure that match was resolved fairly. So the true question came down to "What would Tom do to make that happen?".

He couldn't ensure that he'd be able to rely on anyone else. So he had to be good enough to carry any problems. He needed to be stronger. Faster. Smarter. More lethal. 

And hopefully, able to hang with a talent on the level of an Untouchable.

Tom looked dully up, and around at the dingy Greyhound depot. Mechanicville's little bus depot didn't exactly inspire confidence. There were no amenities, it seemed as rundown as the rest of the landscape on the way up the highway. 

He didn't quite think that this would be the Mecca that had been promised. But Tom had a carefully-folded piece of paper in his jacket's pocket. The leather yellow-and-black racing jacket held his golden ticket to a new world.

A world where he wouldn't have to be afraid of a Heidi Christenson or a Jeff Andrews. Despite his claims to the otherwise, past successes, or future plans, Tom Sawyer knew very well that he had no business in a wrestling match with someone of their caliber. Not after it became personal.

So he needed to be better. And this would do it. He had made an awkward phone call to someone he had never met, asked a favor, cajoled and promised and pleaded... And now, a car was on its way out. A room was being prepared in the so-called "barracks" on-campus. He was to become a pupil at the Faces of Death Training Temple.

"You are Sawyer," snapped the curt, sharply-held words wielded like an epee. Tom snapped his gaze up, before hopping to his feet, hands offered respectfully to the other man for a shake. 

"Yessir, I am." Tom swallowed heavily, as he grasped the bigger, stronger man's hand and shook it firmly. "I didn't mean you had to come pick me up-"

"If I am to train you, I must understand what you want." Sergei Bogorovich gestured to the doubledoors out of the bus terminal. "Come. We have a drive ahead of us."

Tom nodded, shouldering his bag. "What I want... is to be able to hold my own with confidence amongst Heidi Christenson, Kai Scott, Christian Light, Ronnie Long, Jeff Andrews and Eric Dane."

Serbo, the tall, bald Russian with the neatly trimmed goatee eyed Tom up and down carefully. "We have much work to do, then."

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