…Or Mutts

HatchetHatchet, Promo

“The difference between a bride and a dog is the leash you keep them on.”

“Because it’s all a game of power, ain’t it?”

“The dog gets a collar with its name on it, a speck of gold hangin’ from their neck showin’ just who they belong to. They show who feeds them, who houses them, who mother fuckin’ owns them.”

“But a bride? All you’re ganna do is swap that pretty gold name tag for a shiny diamond ring. They put a brand on their finger instead of their throat, but it all means the same.”

“You’re arm candy.”

“A trophy.”

“Because you can be be the biggest dog or the prettiest woman in all of Arcadia but at the end of the day?”

“You’re only where you are because someone decided to put a ring on that finger and sequester you away by their side.”

“And women, just like mutts, are too fuckin’ dense to realize that they didn’t get into power because they fought tooth and nail for it.”

“The dog don’t eat because it hunted it owns food.”

“The bride ain’t wearin’ silk because she earned it.”

“They were given it.”

“Ain’t that right, Narcy? Or what about you, Eclipse?”

“Now, ole Hatch ain’t ever put any rings on fingers, but he’s had a fuck ton of mutts on his leash.”

“I’ve been watchin’ both of you since you got hitched ya know. Because it was transformative, won’t it?”

“From Aurora the bright eyed babe to Eclipse the brooding bitch.”

“Narcissa the rebellious little girl to Hera the queen cunt.”

“Mongrels masqueradin’ as show dogs.”

“They trimmed your fur, dressed you up in pretty little dresses and told you to sit by their side.”

“And you know it’s true, don’t ya?”

“Because Narcy, you didn’t dear start bitin’ and barkin’ until your owner got put in a coma, didn’t ya?”

“And Eclipse didn’t think she was big and bad until her leash was bein’ held onto by someone bigger and badder.”

“Nothin’ about you two is self made. You’ve been molded like clay, trained like Rottweilers, and sent off to maul and bite.”

“Yet we both know, that the moment someone puts a boot to your ass, a chair to your skull?”

“You’ll go runnin’ back to your owner, tails between your legs, just whimperin’ and whinin’ the whole god damn way.”

“But I think you forgot that part about yourself, didn’t you?”

“You forgot the hand that feeds you.”

“Well lemme give you a reminder.”

“Because I’m a self made man, girlies. Hatchet holds the leash of any bitch he’s ever had. I’ve been the one keepin’ their bellies full and their fur groomed.”

“And that means I know how to put one down.”

“One blow to the head.”

“A ring hittin’ the floor, a collar ripped off.”

“And if you come to miss the power? The thrill?”

“Then my hand is always open for your leash.”

“After all.”

“Eventually, everybody gets downed by the clown.”

Brides…

GrimskullGrimskull, Promo

I know what it’s like to be nothing.

Not weak. Not lost.

Nothing.

Rotting in a gutter, bones leaking through torn skin, a name no one remembered. They passed me by like trash. Until one man stopped.

John the Revelator.

He didn’t lift me up because he saw potential. He lifted me up because he wanted to own me.

And I let him. Because being a whore in the temple is still better than dying in the street.

He fed me scripture and madness. Dressed me in ritual. Turned my pain into power and my body into a sermon.

I was the pretty thing at his feet. The concubine to blasphemy. The vessel for a prophet’s lust.

And with it, came strength.

Not mine. His. Reflected onto me like light off a cracked mirror.

So don’t think I speak from some imagined high ground, Narcissa.

I know you.

Because you were nothing before Zeus crowned you. A seamstress with delusions of grandeur. A designer of empty dreams.

And every time you tried to rise, every time you tried to be something without him, the thread snapped.

You ran back.

Right back into his arms. Right back into the gold and glory. Right back into the bridal gown you pretended was a throne.

You didn’t break the glass ceiling.

You polished it. Kissed it. Wore it like a veil.

You’re not a queen. You’re a kept thing.

A wife, not a warlord. A mouthpiece, not a monarch.

Your name only shines when it’s whispered alongside his.

And Eclipse, you weren’t always this thing that slithers in black.

You used to be Aurora…

The afterthought. The almost. A thrill-seeker with more speed than weight.

But no one saw you. Not really.

Not until you took his name.

Gravedigger. The Valkyrie. The Ferryman.

You didn’t marry a man. You married a symbol.

And in return, you got your power. You got your briefcase. You got the illusion of purpose.

But it’s not yours.

It never was.

You wear his name like it’s armor, but it fits too loose.

Too borrowed. Too fake.

You became someone—by becoming someone else’s.

That’s what binds the three of us.

You wore lace and I wore chains. You served gods and I served monsters.

You bent the knee, and so did I.

We know what it is to kneel. To be chosen.

To be used.

But only one of us stayed broken.

You clung to your masters and called it strategy. I let mine burn.

And when the fire peeled the name off my skin, what was left wasn’t beautiful.

It was mine.

Now you face me not as equals, but as echoes of what I used to be.

You want to win this match?

Then go home. Dress yourselves in ivory and gold. Lay down beside your gods and whisper that you were good.

Because in this ring you’re not brides.

You’re offerings.

And I’ve come to carve out what little worth they left in you.

Laughing Man 2 – In Time

NoxNox, Promo

Nox’s lab, the ticking of a clock can be heard steadily and persistently as we see Nox sitting in a folding chair, his shoulders and head slumped in contemplation, his old CRT Television just behind him emitting a blue screen. 

-Tick-Tock, Tick-Tock…-  

“Have you ever taken slow-release medication? Drugs that are given to you so you keep more of the medication within yourself, as it slowly leaches into your system. It’s quite genius.”  

As if on cue, the screen flickers to life. The image that plays is from NXT Level 351 as Felix Foley is sprayed in the face by Nox’s Mister. 

-Tick-Tock, Tick-Tock…- 

“Oftentimes given in repeated smaller doses to make sure the medicine takes and is always persistent in the system.” 

The screen flickers once more.  This time, the image on display comes from Vendetta 369, a purple fog surrounds Felix as he scratches and claws at his skin in a panic. 

-Tick-Tock, Tick-Tock…- 

“It needs to be that way, so the body doesn’t reject it wholesale.  Everything needs to be planned, methodical, and thought out to avoid all that hard work from literally going down the toilet.” 

Once more, the screen comes to life, Forces of Darkness.  We see Foley this time as a Red Fog consumes him, sending him on what can only be described as a voyage to trip-out city. 

-Tick-Tock, Tick-Tock…- 

“Sometimes when you’ve been without a dose for an extended period, all it can take is a… Catalyst, to bring back all that work.  A massive dose introduced directly into the system, something that may be able to do something as unique as cross the blood-brain barrier.” 

The screen behind Nox flashes again, this time to Pandemonium XI, Hatchet slamming the syringe handed to him earlier in the evening into Felix’s veins. 

-Tick-Tock, Tick-Tock…- 

“You see, Felix, you never were the bad apple, but you hid a vile little worm inside of you.   One that eats away at you and gnaws at your very being…” 

The screen now displays the moment Scissor slams his namesake into the guts of Hatchet as screams and auditory horror blare in the background. 

-Tick-Tock, Tick-Tock…- 

“You were a Bestie, a friendly face in dour times, but never a bad apple…  Just an apple that I poisoned. Slowly, methodically, persistently over an extended period.  You planted a bomb in the Pantheon, tried to end me and the people who stood alongside me.  It’s more than fitting that you’re now a time bomb of my making.  Stressing yourself until…” 

-Tick-Tock, Tick-Tock…-  

“You explode, and Felix Foley is no more, and this week is when you get your final dose.  Because when you… Breathe it in, those thin marionette strings that you’ve been hanging by will be snipped again with your own Scissors, and he’ll meet me face-to-face.  While you’ll realize that sometimes there’s a fate worse than death as you’re locked behind his eyes.  Forced to bear witness to the horror and atrocities we can create as everything you never could be is visited upon all of Arcadia.  Sleep well, Felix, it may be the last time you feel yourself.”  

Identity Lost

Destructo BoyDestructo Boy, Promo

There are three things in this world a person holds most dear above all else.

Their heart, their soul and their identity.

Each invaluable, each equally immortal and fragile, and each piece works in tandem to keep a person whole.

Pluck a single part out of the trinity and no matter how much they heal, no matter how long time passes, they’ll be nothing more then a shadow of their former selves.

Every single person I have met in Olympus and Arcadia is missing a part of this trinity. No one unfortunate enough to be born in this cespool of a world has ever and will ever be complete.

Maybe they lost someone dear, a death that haunts them to their very last day as a crack that will never heal forms deep inside their chest.

Maybe they wandered too far into the darkness, had to do some terrible things in the name of a greater good as their soul evaporates in a pool of corruption.

Or maybe they lost the world they hold dear. Their job, the people around them, the influences they needed as they become just a faceless mook in the masses.

Every single person in Arcadia is missing a part of themselves but a select few are missing two, and verging on losing the third.

I know this because I’m one of them as you and everyone else keeps reminding me.

Fallen parents, broken ideology, an angry, bitter man screaming into the void whose only goal in life is vengeance that may never come.

But I’m not the only one who has no heart or soul, who is clinging to an identity for their very lives, am I Hana?

Way back when a timid little girl wandered where she shouldn’t have. Torn apart by demons, a so called Goddess gave you a second chance in exchange for your soul.

The second chance fused with Ayame, a creature you grew to love and need like you’d always been together. And then without warning, she was ripped away by a so called hero.

I know that pain, I know that agony of forcing yourself to keep going when everything you know is gone. The person you needed most taken away, the reason you fought torn asunder and made redundant.

But the difference between you and me Princess, is your identity is something that was forced on you. Something you despise yet something you need to keep yourself going.

The broken former hero who finally woke up? This is the only identity that has truly been my own. I live to show all you little heroes the truth, to wake you all the fuck up.

And in the end, continue down the path of ending his miserable existence.

Get it through your thick, fabricated skull. The Seekers are an means to an end, a tool to help me kill Nox.

We are not friends, we are not allies, you are just not on his side. So keep my fathers name out your fucking mouth, stay out of my way or else.

I’ll shatter the so called Dragon too.

The Question

GeminiGemini, Promo

They say this is a war.

Lines drawn. Names called. Blood primed to spill.

But I don’t feel like a soldier.

I feel like a question.

Something unspoken. Unwanted. Whispered behind locked doors and guarded gates, hoping no one hears.

Because if they do…

If someone asks it out loud…

Arcadia starts to unravel.

That’s what this is about, isn’t it?

Not the Seeker versus the Preservationist. Not who gets to rule or what laws get written. It’s about the ones who are brave enough to ask: “What’s beyond the door?”

We didn’t come to burn anything down. We came to see.

To know.

To understand the shape of our cage.

And the Hounds, oh, the Hounds bark so loud.

Jasper roars like he’s already won. Narcissa whispers riddles in the dark, afraid of the silence between them.

Graves preaches, Gravedigger digs, and Hatchet laughs like the war’s already over.

But none of them answer us.

None of them.

Because if they could — if they knew what waited beyond the walls — they’d say it.

They’d say, “There’s nothing. There’s no sky. No stars. No truth.” And we’d all go home.

But they don’t.

They chain the door. Snarl and snap at anyone who gets too close.

Not because there’s nothing there. But because they’re terrified there is.

You can dress up fear in tradition. You can wrap silence in sermons. You can crown a lie with power and call it protection.

But a question doesn’t care.

It waits.

And when someone finally dares to speak it into the world, it spreads like wildfire.

We are that wildfire.

They call us Seekers like it’s an insult. As if yearning is weakness. As if wanting more makes us dangerous.

But of course it does.

Because a person content with their cage won’t rattle the bars. But a Seeker?

We rattle.

We scratch.

We dig.

We ask.

We ask what’s on the other side. We ask what they’re hiding. We ask why our skies never change and our streets never forget.

And when the door answers — because it will — it won’t speak in words.

It’ll speak in wind. In light. In the kind of silence that makes even the gods shiver.

That’s what scares them most.

Not our weapons. Not our names.

But our questions.

Because they can kill a person, but they can’t kill a question.

They can chain a door.

But not a whisper.

They can send their Hounds to bleed us dry.

But the door doesn’t care.

It waits.

And so do we.

Not with patience or peace.

But with purpose.

Because war isn’t the sound of violence. It’s the sound of a question refusing to go away.

And in the heart of Hades, where the Hounds wait with bared teeth and their backs turned to the truth—We will ask it again.

We will ask it louder.

We will ask it together.

And no matter how many times they try to drown us in silence, no matter how many times they call us mad, foolish, or wrong—

We’ll ask it again.

Because we are the question.

And this time?

There will be an answer.

Frog’s Revenge!

Captain ArcadiaCaptain Arcadia, Promo

A scorpion and a frog meet at a flooded riverbank, both seeking to cross. The scorpion looks towards the frog and asks if he can catch a ride. The frog hesitates, concerned that the scorpion will sting him if he goes across. The scorpion promises that he won’t, and the rules of right overtake the frog’s instinct.

When the two reached the middle of the river, the frog felt the painful sting of the scorpion in his back. Crying out in pain, the frog asked “Why did you sting me here? It will doom us both!” To which, the scorpion merely replied.

“It is only in my nature.”

Backstabbing with you seems to be a favorite pastime, isn’t it Savor? Even when you were down and surrounded, when all of my allies would have called me a traitor, I did what I thought was right and rescued you. I lunge in and step in when no one else, Preservationist or Seeker, came to your aid.

And how did you repay that? By stabbing, again and again, into me as a person. You came with venom and poison, trying to concoct the right words and actions to turn the hero that broke his own rank and file to save someone. You call to the entirety of Arcadia, crowing “Look at what you call a hero.”

You don’t want a hero?

Fine.

No more hero. No more saving a sorry chef, well past his expiration date from the threats that he’s got himself surrounded by. No more honest pleas with the people, no more heroics and bravado to push around. You’ve poisoned the kindness, and guess what? You’re not ready for what’s coming.

For when you kill the hero, you drown in the monster that only you have made.

Because you know, you’re right! I do miss them every damn day. I had my family torn out from around me, thrust into a mystery that continues to spit in my face day after day after day. I’m tired of being lied to, misdirected, and beaten for just trying to do a good damn deed.

So no more! Your poisoned words finally did something other than keep one star reviews off a restaurant that doesn’t fucking exist anymore. When we meet up in that ring, no more masks! No more heroic speeches! I’m just going to get in there, break you like an expired spaghetti noodle, and leave you for Sunshine’s vultures.

And when you call out, when you’re surrounded and not a single ally of yours comes to help you? When five people are breaking the few ribs that I won’t have already shattered? I sure won’t as hell be there to save you. Why would I stay to be stung?
Because the truth is fucko, there ain’t nothing beneath the mask! You want something deeper than me losing the only family I’ve only had? There really ain’t any! The only thing that’s been saving me from breaking you is the hero!

And now that’s gone.

The Siege of Heaven

Reverend Ezekiel GravesEzekiel Graves, Promo

 Revelation: 12: 7–8

“And there was war in Heaven. Michael and his angels fought against the dragon, and the dragon fought back with his angels…but they did not prevail, and there was no longer any place for them in Heaven.

They would climb the walls of if they could.

 They fashion themselves as light bringers.
 Messengers. Heralds of something new.

 But I have seen this story before.
 I have read this rebellion in blood.
 And I know what becomes of the ones who dare breach the sky with sin in their mouths.

 This is not War Games.
 This is prophecy fulfilled.
 This is the Siege of Heaven.

 Arcadia is our Heaven.
 The last sanctuary.
 A kingdom reforged by fire and faith — and I am its gatekeeper.
 I do not guard gold.
 I do not guard thrones.

 I guard the promise.
 To my Disciples, Arcadia is salvation made flesh and to the wicked who seek to overrun it?
 I am the sword that bars Eden.

 They come not with swords, but slogans.
 Not with truth, but tremble in static.
 Cade. Foley. Nero. Gemini. Tombstone.

 Five false angels, each wearing stolen light like armor, marching into the sacred place to dethrone the divine.
 Each believing they are the first to wage war on the gates above.
 They are not.

 The dragon rose once.
 And he was cast down.

 So now I rise as Michael did.
 Not to reason or plead.

 But to cast them out.

 They speak of freedom. I bring order.
 They scream of revolution. I deliver retribution.
 They follow shadows. I walk in fire.

To Foley…
 To the broken boy who cut the cords of my flesh and bound me in silence…
 You whisper that you’re still in control. That the beast inside you “Scissors” remains locked behind will and fear.

 But I know better.
 I felt the trembling.
 I heard the voices.

 And even now I do not fear what’s inside you.
 Because what dwells in you is not prophecy. It is not holy.

 It is Legion,
 And I do not run from demons.

 I hunt them.
 I burn them.
 And I send them screaming into the pit where they belong.

 Let them all come.

 Let them strike Heaven’s gate with fury in their eyes.
 Let them climb.
 Let them bleed.
 Let them believe that five is stronger than One.

 But this is Hounds of Hades
 The black mouth of the pit yawns wide.
 And the howling you hear is not theirs…
 It is mine.

 For I am the wrath at the gates.
 I am the trumpet at the end of days.
 The scroll is broken.
 The seal is undone.
 The fire was sent forth.

 And when the smoke clears inside that cage, there shall be no throne for them to steal.
 Only ash.
 Only judgment.
 Only the echo of Heaven roaring back down upon them.

 This is not your victory march.
 This is not your revelation.
 This is your fall.

and I Reverend Ezekiel Graves am the angel that casts you out.”

A Dog Never Forgets

Felix FoleyFelix Foley, Promo

When I was a kid, we had a dog.

My father didn’t want it. Said we couldn’t afford another mouth to feed. Said it would stink up the house, scratch up the floor, and bark too loud. But my mother—God bless her—she convinced him. Said it’d keep me quiet, give me something to love when everything else was too hard.

We called him Benny. Little mutt, scruffy and all bones, but loyal like nothing else on this earth.

And every time my father came home, drunk and cruel and looking to remind us we were beneath him, Benny stood his ground. That little dog would put himself between us and the blows, bark and bite and growl like he could stop a monster.

He never could.

Every time Benny defended us, he got hit too. Boot to the ribs, smack with a belt, the sharp end of a bottle. He took it all. Just like me. Just like my mother. Just like we always did.

But here’s the thing about a dog: A dog never forgets.

One night, my father came home worse than usual. He was meaner, louder, and Benny… Benny had had enough. He snapped.

Tore into him. Bit his arm. Ripped the skin right off. Left a scar my father wore for the rest of his miserable life.

It was one of the best days of my childhood.

Because for once, the pain went the other way. For once, someone who took and took and took—bled.

And now, all these years later, I realize I’ve become Benny.

A beaten dog.

I’ve taken hits. I’ve been betrayed. I’ve been poisoned, tortured, broken down and dragged through the dirt.

Hatchet slipped poison in my neck with a smile on his face.

Tombstone tried to kill me, over and over again, because that’s what he does—he breaks people.

They all think because I keep coming back that I’m weak. That I don’t remember. That I’m just some dumb mutt who doesn’t know when to lie down and die.

But they’re wrong.

I remember everything.

Every scar, every betrayal, every word they spat at me while I was down. And like Benny, I’ve reached that point.

The snapping point.

At Hounds of Hades, I’m not standing between the blows anymore. I’m not shielding anyone. I’m not barking from behind the pain.

I’m biting.

I’m going to leave a mark.

Hatchet’s smile? I’ll wipe it off. Tombstone’s shadow? I’ll drag it into the light. Every single person that’s put me down?

They’re going to feel it.

Because the thing about a beaten dog is that when he finally bites back, when he sinks his teeth in deep… he makes sure they remember.

Like a scar that never fades.

At Hounds of Hades, they’ll learn what it feels like to hurt and be hurt. They’ll learn what it means to be pushed too far. And they’ll learn one final truth:

A dog never forgets.

And I’ve remembered long enough.

Dirty Dog

GravediggerGravedigger, Promo

There’s a certain kind of dog you come across in this world. Not the barkers. Not the biters. I’m talking about the ones that’ve been beaten so badly, they flinch when you raise a hand—even if it’s empty.

That’s you, Felix Foley.

You’re not the showman anymore. You’re not the master of ceremonies. You’re a broken animal. Skittish. Shaking. Covered in the scars of a story that should’ve ended a long time ago.

You’ve taken beatings. You’ve been brutalized. You’ve suffered, over and over again—and for what? So you can crawl back to the same man who breaks you every time? The same man who holds your leash tighter each time you try to stand?

Tombstone.

He’s not your partner. He’s not your friend. He’s not your salvation.

He’s your master.

And he’s going to hurt you again, Foley. At Hounds of Hades, he’s going to beat you the same way he always has, with no remorse and no hesitation. The only difference this time? He’s going to do it in front of everyone, and when you reach for his hand, looking for mercy, he’ll let go.

You’ll come crawling back, of course. That’s what a beaten dog does. It returns, no matter how much pain it’s in. It hopes that maybe, just maybe, things will be different this time.

But they won’t.

Because Tombstone isn’t going to stop. And you? You’re too far gone to walk away.

You’ve confused pain for loyalty, suffering for strength. You think just because you keep getting up that makes you brave. But it doesn’t. It makes you predictable. Pathetic. And worst of all, replaceable.

I don’t have to do anything to end you, Foley. I don’t have to ferry your soul. I don’t have to put the shovel in the ground.

Tombstone will do that for me.

He’ll lead you behind the curtain. He’ll tell you it’s time to rest. And when your back is turned, he’ll do what every cruel master eventually does to the dog that just won’t stop whining.

He’ll put you down.

He’ll end your story—not with glory, not with honor—but with a bullet behind the ear and a grave already dug.

And I’ll be there. Waiting. Watching. Because that’s my job, isn’t it? To guide the dead where they belong.

You’ve been circling that grave for a long time, Foley. Every match, every betrayal, every heartbreak has brought you closer. And at Hounds of Hades, the circle finally closes.

You are not a fighter anymore. You’re not a hero. You’re not even a man.

You’re just a dog who doesn’t realize his final day is here.

And when it comes?

I won’t have to lift a finger.

You’ll go into the ground like all the others.

A victim.

A story.

A dirty dog who didn’t know when to stop.

Cerberus Protocol

NeroNero, Promo

Cerberus was never meant to protect the living.

He was no noble guardian, nor loyal pet.

He was a jailer. A monster forged at the gates of the underworld, bred for one purpose.

Not to keep evil out… But to ensure the dead stayed in.

Three heads. One singular instinct.

Containment.

Cerberus didn’t roam. He didn’t chase.

He waited.

His jaws weren’t weapons of conquest — they were the final lock on the last door. A barrier of bone and fury, stationed at the threshold between silence and rebellion.

Between what was lost, and what dared to return.

Arcadia? It’s no different.

It’s just just another gate. Another illusion.

Another lie.

For generations, its people have wandered spotless streets, smiled through synthetic sunrises, and whispered about peace.

But this isn’t peace — it’s programming.

They’re not free. They’re not even awake.

They’re archived. Suspended in a digital afterlife, dulled by design, and pacified by convenience.

They move, they speak, they breathe — but nothing in them burns anymore.

Arcadia is a kennel. A pristine, polished prison built from circuits and surveillance.

Obedience is branded as virtue. Compliance is labeled clarity. Every choice is curated. Every instinct, softened. Every spark — extinguished.

Zeus and the Pantheon didn’t save this place. They didn’t light the way forward.

They shut the door behind them.

They didn’t teach the people how to live — they taught them how to stop trying.

The calm the Baron engineered? It’s not peace. It’s sedation.

A muzzle, clamped tight across a population that’s forgotten how to growl.

But not all of us.

Some of us heard the static behind the screens. The scratch at the door.

Some of us woke up.

And when we did, we remembered the truth.

That we were never made to kneel.

That we weren’t programmed to obey.

We were born to break.

The Seekers? We don’t bark for attention. We don’t sit when commanded.

We dig beneath the illusion.

We rip out the wires.

We tear holes in the silence and we listen for the truth buried below.

Now, there’s only one door left.

The final barrier between your perfect lie and the chaos of what you tried to erase.

And it’s not guarded by firewalls or encryption — it’s guarded by monsters.

Five of them.

Genetically engineered, mentally conditioned, and unleashed by the Preservationists to strike without hesitation, conscience, or pause.

This is the Cerberus Protocol. The last defence of a system too fragile to survive on honesty alone.

Five heads. Five collars.

Five loyal beasts trained not to protect the innocent — but to punish the defiant.

You call them necessary, but we call them for what they are.

A final warning. A threat with fangs.

Cerberus, split across five bodies and weaponised for obedience.

Only we didn’t come to run — we came to cut the leash.

To face the hounds, and to take their heads.

Because when the growling stops — when the last jaw goes still and the fight is over — the gate will swing open.

Not by permission — but by force.

And when it does, Arcadia won’t be caged again.

It will rise.

Unfiltered.

Unforgiving.

Unchained.

And finally — alive.