The Turnface
[Little Bobby, if you're not a coward, come out here right now and challenge me for this belt.]
Wyatt stood in the ring with the belt slung over his shoulder, oozing charisma. The heat from the arena climbed the walls and seeped all the way back into the locker room. Smirking, I checked the monitoring TV.
Amid a deafening roar, Wyatt kept talking without pause.
[We have a duty to give these people what they want! No need to wait — let's start right now!]
At the resounding cry, the crowd chanted Wyatt's name over and over. Moments later, Bobby's music hit.
The black-skinned beast. Weighing in at over 130 kilograms, he looked like a hero out of myth.
The pay-per-view kicked off with the GCW Championship as its opening match.
The standard practice was to open the show with a performer who could draw feverish cheers and set the tone for everything that followed. By that measure, the two of them were a perfect fit, and the crowd reacted exactly as we had planned.
Though the wrestling itself was a bit lacking.
Even after quitting drinking and working hard lately, Bobby still had a long way to go. But he made up for that weakness with sheer charisma, and the crowd cheered him without reservation.
As the match matured, momentum swung Bobby's way. A traditional powerhouse, he hoisted the massive Wyatt up again and again and tossed him around like he weighed nothing.
The crowd roared for Bobby's superhuman strength. With both men earning respect, a chant swelled through the arena that suited the moment perfectly.
[Fight Forever!]
Clap! Clap! Clap-clap-clap!
[Fight Forever!]
Clap! Clap! Clap-clap-clap!
Over the thunderous applause, Wyatt launched his counterattack. But Bobby refused to give an inch.
It was the toughness you'd expect from the man ranked as the strongest in all of GCW. As if Wyatt's tournament victory had been nothing but dumb luck, Bobby kept the offense coming.
Wyatt crumpled helplessly under the relentless assault. The entire audience, captivated by Bobby's raw power, erupted.
And then, just as Bobby struck his pose to set up his finisher, the Dominator —
a bizarre, deeply unsettling music suddenly blared through the arena.
Screaming voices, the skittering of insects, nails raking down a chalkboard — all of it blended into one chaotic din, and for a moment, darkness swallowed the venue.
The crowd murmured in confusion, and the commentators' voices cut through the unease.
[Wh-what is this?! What's going on?!]
[It looks like Broken Wyatt is playing more mind games!]
Amid the chaos, the lights snapped back on with a sharp crack.
Wyatt and Bobby were still in the ring. But in that brief blackout, two men had appeared at ringside.
Wearing black ram masks, the pair radiated a heavy, oppressive presence. The Black man wore a boiler suit, and the muscular white man wore overalls.
The referee spun around in shock, and Bobby, frozen mid-Dominator, turned to warily eye the two intruders.
I smiled.
Looking good out there.
The crowd, however, didn't understand what was happening — their faces were frozen in horror. And then the masked men grabbed the ropes and climbed up onto the apron.
Bobby whirled around, bewildered, as the two men flanked the ring.
Wyatt seized the opening and attacked him. The masked pair joined in, and the three of them descended on Bobby in a merciless mugging.
[Ahh — what on earth is this?! Broken Wyatt, alongside two men of unknown origin, is brutally assaulting Bobby Ashley!]
[I have no idea what Wyatt is thinking here! Rick — is there some purpose behind this?!]
What would that purpose be? A stable, obviously.
I snorted quietly.
Wyatt's overwhelming charisma meant that pairing him with two rookies would let them grow through the experience. That was the logic. The two greenhorns selected for the job were, of course, 'Shawn Cena' and 'Eddie Morris'.
Cena's role had changed drastically from my past life — but then again, he never really stood out in GCW to begin with.
His rise had only started once he reached the WWF main roster. This would do just fine for now.
[Boooooooooooo!]
The crowd's boos were thunderous. The match had ended without a conclusion, cheapened by an ambush, and everyone was furious. But that, too, was exactly as intended.
Broken Wyatt had to be a heel through and through. Pushing a cult leader as a babyface would do the promotion's image no favors.
That was why GCW had ordered a stable built around Wyatt — to push him as a charismatic top heel.
And so the first match of Takedown was being successfully ruined.
The three matches that followed all set the crowd ablaze, because the top-tier stars carrying the card delivered results of an exceptionally high caliber — and because everyone beneath them had worked themselves to the bone to keep pace. GCW had naturally risen to become the hottest territory in the North American wrestling scene.
And the best of those top-tier stars? Well — that was me, of course.
Before heading out, I loosened up lightly, refilling the confidence that had been threatening to spill over.
I am the best.
There was no other outcome possible. I could feel it in my bones.
Ned, the little kid, was watching.
I'm going to pull it off.
Like the King of Pop himself, Miracle Jackson, I'd put on a match so electrifying that someone in the crowd would faint from watching me. I would become an Icon and carve my name into the history of pro wrestling.
Right after I made that vow, a staff member's shout pierced my ears.
"Sin! You're up!"
My music thundered to life. I threw back the curtain and stepped out, and the crowd's fervent cheers came pouring down.
[Woah-woah-woahhh-ohhh-ohhhh!]
That's the stuff.
The fans belted out my theme song along with the choir, full-throated. Like a babyface superstar, I gestured for them to sing it louder.
Great reaction.
Thinking that, I climbed into the ring. Riding the energy, I stepped up onto the middle ropes between the turnbuckles and spread my arms wide.
"You wanna see me win?!"
There was no way my voice carried over the noise — but my heart did. The crowd sang their lungs out for me.
Then Russell Hart made his entrance to the music of his family.
A razor-sharp guitar riff. No vocals — just drums and bass snarling wildly. Russell came down the aisle with a grave expression, entering the ring slowly.
That's the cool part about him, I'll admit.
I smirked, and when the bell rang, I feigned a handshake, extending my hand — then attacked.
But Russell wasn't about to fall for anything so cheap. He slipped the strike effortlessly and dipped his head. Then he offered me the handshake.
"……"
"Well?"
The tables had turned completely. Until now, I'd been the one playing games like this. Now the roles were reversed.
I glanced around with theatrical surprise, and the crowd erupted, urging me to accept the handshake. I drew my hand out slowly, milking an even bigger pop — and it came. I moved to take Russell's hand.
But in the very next instant, Russell pulled his hand back and swept it through his own hair.
Beautiful heat.
I froze for a beat.
[Russell! Russell! Russell!]
The crowd roared their approval. Russell had turned the tables on me, giving me a taste of my own medicine in style.
Chuckling, I lifted my head, and my eyes locked with his.
The real match began.
Russell and I had drilled this together for so long that our timing was uncanny as we felt each other out in the opening exchange. Arm wrenches, headlocks, takedowns — pure chain wrestling. None of it was specifically choreographed, but the blistering pace set the arena alight.
Then I took control, overwhelming Russell with the striking game of a brawler. Hammering fists, chops, a whole arsenal of kicks — woven through with suplexes and scoop slams.
They were the moves that let me drive a match forward at maximum speed, crisp and clean. Russell kept up with the fast tempo well enough.
Back and forth we went. Anyone in the industry — or any fan fluent in wrestling — would have been stunned into silence by now.
Countless repetitions had raised the quality of the match to another level. Russell and I had become partners who could trust our bodies to each other without a single word.
Thud!
My body was caught mid-air and slammed down. I rolled through it, biting back the searing pain, and absorbed the follow-up shot to my face from Russell.
[Russell! Russell! Russell!]
[Sin! Sin! Sin! Sin! Sin!]
The crowd called out both our names in turn. It was, without exaggeration, the pinnacle of what a pro wrestler could experience — the rivalry, and me. Not one thing about this moment was lacking.
We were the Icons of this very instant.
And so the match ripened toward its climax.
"Hahh — huff…"
Acting out the limits of my stamina, I faced Russell down. He was panting hard too.
The referee, who had been watching us both, came over to my side.
"Sin, they want you to take a big one."
"Oh, yeah?"
"That's right — and he says he's coming."
This was the final moment of the match. The referee walked across the ring and relayed the same message to Russell. A moment later, he looked into my face.
And without needing to decide who went first, we tore into each other in a furious exchange of blows.
Russell chants and Sin chants crashed over the arena in waves. I wore the exhausted Russell down, whipped him into the ropes, and charged in for the knee strike—
But Russell dodged it and caught my leg at the same time.
Thud! I hit the mat, and grabbed at the collar of Russell as he bent over me — but he forced his way into a Sharpshooter.
Our bodies tangled together. The crowd couldn't hold back any longer — the whole arena surged to its feet—
[Crack!]
With that grotesque sound, darkness fell over the arena once more. To a chorus of groans, we released the hold.
Immediately, I heard a scuffle beneath the ring. Shawn, Eddie, and Wyatt were making their way out to stage the ambush.
In the pitch dark, someone slid in under the ropes. I delivered my line on cue.
"Shawn, over here."
"O-okay!"
"It's fine to whisper. Just get your footing first and start stomping."
I crouched down on the mat. Then I nudged Shawn with my foot to show him exactly where I was. An awkward stomping followed.
Thud! Thud!
The crowd buzzed — and the lights came back on.
[What — what is happening?! Wyatt and his companions from the opening match have appeared out of nowhere!]
[What on earth is going on here?!]
I could practically hear the commentators shouting in confusion.
Shawn, in his black ram mask, stomped me into the mat over and over. Across the ring, Eddie was doing the same to Russell.
Clang-clang-clang-clang-clang-clang-clang!!
The ring bell hammered out the disqualification in rapid succession. The flustered referee rushed over, trying to tear Shawn away — but Wyatt appeared behind him and started attacking the referee too.
[Booooooooooooo!]
The crowd booed the ambush mightily. But Wyatt and his crew seized control of the ring, beating me and Russell without mercy.
The fans, robbed of a result without ever learning why, were furious.
Having taken just enough of Shawn's stomping, I rolled out of the ring and onto the floor. Wyatt, standing tall in the ring, looked down at me.
I held his gaze for a moment with a stunned expression — then turned and trudged back up the entrance ramp. From that point on, Wyatt and his crew's assault focused entirely on Russell.
[Boooooooooooooooo!!]
The crowd showered me with boos. I deliberately stopped dead on the ramp, as if hesitating — and some of the fans caught it at once. A chant was born.
[Sin! Sin! Sin! Sin! Sin! Sin!]
Go back and help Russell. That hope was written all over it.
At the height of the tension, I deliberately drew the moment out, letting the atmosphere simmer. This was the ending we had decided on.
Sin turning face. Bobby Ashley turning face. The formation of a villainous stable led by Wyatt.
It was the perfect ending to make it all land — and we had laid the groundwork long enough. Two men who had hated each other into the ground, gradually winning each other's respect, finally standing together against a greater enemy.
And I could feel from the crowd's reaction alone that it was working.
[Sin! Sin! Sin! Sin! Sin!]
Wrestling with the chant, I eventually walked over to the fans seated by the barricade — and honestly, I was a little surprised.
"……?"
"S-Sin! Go save Russell, please!"
Sitting front row was Ned — the kid who'd come for my autograph earlier.
I held a beat of silence, then spoke with practiced composure.
"Sir, could you hand me your chair?"
"Yes! Yes, of course!"
"Ned, don't try this at home."
"Yes sir! You got this!"
Steel folding chair in hand, courtesy of Ned's father, I charged back toward the ring to the biggest pop of the night.