The blood drips slowly onto the ice, white strobe-lighting turning it into stop-motion footage.

Fault Line.

The voice is that of the Tomorrow Man, Jackson Kraven, cool, calm, deadly. Not a trace of his usual murderous rage flickers in that voice, as cold as the tomb, as cold as ice.

Embrace The Power.

Now we see what he means, where he's getting at. Still the blood drips.

We've been told to embrace the power. We've been told to fight, to break, to batter, to bulldoze aside.

It's nigh-on hypnotic. So much blood...

We're told lots of things.
Told to cheer.
Told to boo.
Told who to cheer for, who to boo for...

I don't rightly give a *beep*.

It's almost black against the snow, almost black in the halogen light.

I don't take orders.
I do what I want, when I want, to who I want.

I sided with Matt Warr because I felt like it.

I beat Bionica senseless because I wanted to.

On Meltdown...

The Tomorrow Man chuckles. Still all we see is blood on ice.

...On Meltdown, I will kill a legend.

Or rather, to put it more realistically, I will come down to the ring, and I will wait for a crippled old man to come to his own execution.

I will stand tall, and a hero will fall.

He's done it before.

We know what he's talking about, who he's talking about- Shaman.

I beat him in his own speciality match, the Himalayan Pit Match.

Beat the Native American Bad-Ass.

Beat him fair and square.

And that was at his best.

That's not quite how we remember it, not quite how we remember it at all, but the voice of the Tomorrow Man is almost hypnotic, the voice of a killer, the voice of a god.

Now...

He's broken.
He's beaten.
He's battered.

He's less than a man.

And me?

Kraven chuckles again. Still the blood drips into the snow.

I'm better than ever.
I've not fought one-on-one since I came back.
Not fought one-on-one since my return from the darkness.
I'm looking forward to it.

After Shaman, who does the WWA have to offer, eh?

A simpleton who talks to an imanimate object.
A midget who barely knows himself, let alone victory.
A lunatic, clutching a flag and a lifestyle that no-one believes in any more.
An old man, lost in yesterday.
Cowards and cheats and morons and losers.
The filth of humanity.

No-one, that's who.

No saviours.
No heroes...

The camera pulls up and we see where the blood was coming from- Kraven's own fist, clenched so tight that his nails have ripped open his own flesh.

He's grinning.

No More Tomorrows.

Black.