"Mayhem" Roger Williams & Lone Star Outlaws © vs. The Dissonant Forces (Drake Nygma © & Orphius Marius) & Týr Dagrsson

AWS Brigade Championships

Trios Match

A trio match destined for chaos—who will emerge as the ultimate victors?

---

3x Maximum Promos, 2500 Word Limit

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Scene: A bleak cliffside. The sky churns with ash-coloured clouds. Wind howls through the blackened fjords below. Týr Dagrsson stands shirtless at the edge, arms outstretched, his scarred body still as stone. His war paint is smeared like dried blood. Behind him, a raven circles.]

“The weak still believe this is sport.”

He does not speak like a man. He declares like a verdict.

“You dance beneath lights. You chase gold. You posture in mirrors. I watch you all from above—from the mountaintop where blood freezes and gods speak in thunder—and I see children. Dressed in armor they did not earn. Screaming for purpose they cannot define.”

[He lowers his arms. The camera slowly pulls toward him. His eyes do not blink.]

“This is not sport. This is war.”

“And I was born of it.”

---

[Cut to: A roaring fire in a longhouse. Bones hang from the rafters. Carved shields line the walls. The wind still howls outside. Týr sits on a throne made from antlers, sharpened steel, and charred stone.]

“They tell me I must team with Dissonant Forces.”
“A fallen king and a mad god.”

“Orphius. You speak of tides and memory. Your pain is ancient. But pain is not strength. Pain does not win battles. You quote the sea like it will drown your enemies for you. But the sea does not follow. It devours.”

“You were born to rule. I was born to conquer.”

[He leans forward, voice dropping to a growl.]

“I do not bleed for monarchs.”

---

[Cut to: A distorted carnival tent. The image flickers with glitch-like effects. A whisper of laughter can be heard in the distance. Týr turns his head.]

“Then there is the laughing one. The broken mirror.”

“Drake Nygma.”

“The gods made fire, ice, storm, and madness. They buried madness beneath the others. You clawed it free and built a throne from it. But chaos without aim is still weakness. You believe yourself above structure. But I have broken warlords who said the same before they choked on their own freedom.”

“Speak in riddles. Dance in your asylum. Just stay out of my way. Or I will break your mind so completely that not even your ghosts will recognize you.”

---

[He stands. The fire reflects in his eyes like dying suns.]

“I am not your partner.”

“I am your consequence.”

---

[Cut to: Outside again. The storm has worsened. Týr walks slowly down a mountainside path, snow and ash swirling around him. His steps are deliberate, brutal, unrelenting.]

“I do not fight for titles. I do not fight for fame. I do not fight for crowds or chants or legacy.”

“I fight because that is what the blood demands.”

“I fight because the gods are watching.”

“I fight because something inside me was born to end you.”

---

[The camera cuts between flickers of his past: his fists cracking skulls in icy rings, a battlefield strewn with broken bodies, the silhouette of Týr holding a rusted axe as men flee in terror. Each moment silent but deafening.]

“You who stand across from us in this match… I do not care your names. I do not care your histories. I do not fear your anger, your fire, your tactics. You are men.”

“And men bleed.”

“You may call yourselves warriors. But I have heard warriors scream. I have heard their ribs collapse beneath my boots. I have watched their eyes widen when they realize—far too late—that I am not a man. I am war made flesh.”

---

[He stops walking. The wind stops. The air goes still.]

“And war does not wait.”

---

[Cut to: A steel-forged training room. Chains hang from the ceiling. Sandbags are shattered on the ground. Týr trains in silence—each motion a violent ritual. No wasted energy. He slams a kettlebell into the ground like a Warhammer.]

“I have no interest in your dysfunction.”
“You squabble like wolves unsure who leads. Orphius wants respect. Drake wants attention. I want destruction.”

“We will walk to the ring together. But we will not walk out the same.”

“If either of you turns on me… if either of you stumbles… if you dare insult the gods by bringing weakness into this war—I will not protect you. I will not warn you.”

“I will end you.”

---

[His breath is visible in the cold air. He doesn’t speak again for several seconds. The fire crackles faintly.]

“Understand this. All of you. Allies. Enemies. The ones watching from afar, hoping to see a moment of glory…”

“This is not your moment.”

“This is mine.”

---

[Cut to: The cliffs once more. The raven has returned. It lands on Týr’s shoulder as he looks into the storm.]

“I am Týr Dagrsson. The Last Raider. The Mountain That Hunts.”

“I do not entertain. I do not perform. I do not forgive.”

“I conquer.”

---

[Final beat. The screen cuts to black. Only the voice remains, low and final.]

“Prepare the pyres.”
“I am coming.”

[Cut to: Firelight and blood. A memory. We see Týr younger, shirtless and wild, standing among the fallen in a snow-covered village. Warriors burn behind him. Crows feast. His hands are red.]

“I was fifteen winters old when I first tore through a warband. My father gave me no sword. No shield. Only rage. Only this.”

[He raises his bare hand and closes it into a fist.]

“By nightfall, their chieftain lay at my feet, his lungs wheezing like split bellows. I remember his eyes. Not for their color. But for the way they begged for silence.”

“I gave it to him.”

---

[Cut to: A roaring fire in a longhouse. Bones hang from the rafters. Carved shields line the walls. The wind still howls outside. Týr sits on a throne made from antlers, sharpened steel, and charred stone.]

“They tell me I must team with Dissonant Forces.”
“A fallen king and a mad god.”

“Orphius. You speak of tides and memory. Your pain is ancient. But pain is not strength. Pain is not armor. It is a wound that never closes.”

“You quote the sea like it will fight for you. It will not. The sea swallows. It does not strike. It does not kill. I do.”

[He leans forward, voice dropping to a growl.]

“I do not bleed for monarchs. I do not drown in poetry. I carve it into flesh.”

---

[Cut to: A distorted carnival tent. The image flickers with glitch-like effects. A whisper of laughter can be heard in the distance. Týr turns his head.]

“Then there is the ancient one, a mind lost to madness”
“Drake Nygma.”

“Madness is a mask you wear because truth terrifies you. You mock structure because without it, you vanish. A puddle. A stain. A whisper.”

“You believe chaos is strength. I have seen chaos. I have ended it. You will not outpace my wrath. You will not outthink my hate.”

“You will stay out of my way, mad thing. Or I will rip the laughter from your throat and bury it with your teeth.”

---

[Cut to: The cliffs again. The storm rises. Lightning crashes in the distance. Týr begins walking down the slope.]

“I do not fight for belts. I do not fight for factions. I do not fight for mercy. I fight for the sound a rib makes when it cracks like dry wood. I fight for the way eyes widen right before they shatter.”

“This is not performance. This is the hunt.”

---

[Cut to: A spartan forge-room. Iron chains hang from ceiling hooks. Týr trains with violence and silence. No music. No distractions.]

“I tore the limbs from a boar this morning. Not to eat. But to feel the resistance. Its bones screamed as they split. I smiled. It felt honest.”

“The sandbags here are full of stone. I break them anyway.”

“No rest. No strategy. Only repetition. Only certainty. When I strike, it lands. When I grip, it ends.”

---

[Close-up: His hands bleeding from rope climbs. He doesn’t tape them. He doesn't care.]

“This body is not sculpted. It is tempered. I do not lift for strength. I lift to remember.”

---

[Cut to: A storm-lit hall. Shadows flicker. Týr sits in darkness, speaking now not to us, but to the gods.]

“Allfather. Watcher of wolves. Hear me.”
“Let no weak voice stay my hand. Let no false kin slow my step. I ask for no favor. Only war.”
“Let the earth crack beneath my heel. Let my enemies see me in their final breath. Let the shield wall hold long enough to bleed beside it.”

“And if my allies falter, if the Sea-Widow bows or the Mad Thing shrieks—I will feed them to you.”

---

[He stands.]

“Because I will not fall.”
“Because I am not part of this trio.”
“I am its reckoning.”

---

[Cut to: The arena. Empty. Týr walks beneath the lights where the war will be waged. He touches the ropes like a predator tasting a trap.]

“You think we are a team.”

“You are wrong.”

“We are a weapon. Forged from rust, hate, and need. We will swing once. And something will die.”

“But afterward?”

[He tilts his head, eyes cold.]

“When the enemies are buried… one of them will turn. They always do.”
“Drake will laugh too long. Orphius will wax poetic and crown himself king.”

“And I will be there. Waiting. Unmoved.”

“To silence one. To crush the other.”

“To remind them… the war does not end.”

---

[He walks up to the hard camera. Slow. Deliberate.]

“I am not your savior. I am not your monster. I am not your spectacle.”
“I am Týr Dagrsson.”
“The Warborn. The Mountain That Hunts.”
“And I did not come for peace.”

---

[Final shot: The raven from before lands on his shoulder. Lightning cracks. In Norse runes behind him: “ONLY WAR.”]

“I did not come to survive this match.”
“I came to end it.”

 

[Scene opens in complete darkness.]

The sound of crashing waves.

A storm groaning far away.

Not thunder—something older. Something beneath.

Then his voice. Measured. Cold. Beautiful.

Orphius Marius (V.O.)

"They poisoned the tide with their oil and war machines.

They crushed coral into ash beneath their tankers.

And they dared to call it progress."

[Fade in: a dim, watery blue room—somewhere submerged. A throne made of coral and bone. Upon it sits Orphius Marius, hair wet and silver, skin pallid like moonlit marble. He stares into the camera, one silver gauntlet resting on the hilt of a trident planted beside him.]

Orphius Marius

“You cheer for monsters wrapped in mortal skin.

You chant their names—champions, you call them.

But I have seen true war.

I have buried princes at sea.”

“I have watched mothers drown with babies clutched to their breast as your missiles sank their sanctuaries so forgive me…If I do not play your game with a smile.”

[Tilt of the head. His voice drops.]

“I am Orphius Marius. Firstborn son of the Abyssal Crown. Exiled heir to a kingdom you erased with greed. And I do not enter your ring for honor, or belts, or fame. I come… to make you remember.”

[Cut: footage of Orphius in the ring. Each move is deliberate and agonizing—stretching a joint, snapping a spine, dragging his opponent like driftwood across the ropes. He moves like an executioner, not a wrestler.]

Orphius Marius (V.O.)

“They call me The Silent Tempest. But silence is a lie. The ocean is never truly silent. It waits. It rises. It claims.”

[Back to the throne room. A pool of dark water bubbles at his feet, whispering.]

“Your champions talk of legacy. Of banners and belts. But I carry names you’ve never heard— Entire bloodlines lost beneath your factories. Cathedrals turned graveyards. And now… I turn this battleground into my altar.”

[Shift tone – he smirks faintly.]

“But what delights me most is your confusion. You see a villain. A warlord. Some aquatic myth dredged up from folklore. And yet— You feel it, don’t you? That whisper in the marrow of your bones. That quiet, aching truth: You deserve this.”

[Cut: A wrestling match flashback where Orphius tortures his opponent—locking in a brutal submission as the crowd boos. He drinks it in.]

Orphius Marius (V.O.)

“Every blow I land is salt in the wound you opened. Every scream I pull from a man's throat is a hymn to my people. You taught me violence. Now watch me perfect it.”

[Cut: A flooded city street, waves crashing over burning buildings. Symbolic. Mythic.]

Orphius Marius

“I don’t want your titles. I want your truth. I want every man, woman, and child to look upon me and feel it— Guilt. Dread. The weight of the oceans you forgot.”

[Pause. He leans forward.]

“And if to get that truth… I must tear your darlings apart, if I must drown your heroes in their own blood… Then so be it. Let them fall. Let the water rise. Let the tide reclaim what was always hers.”

[He stands. The throne room begins to shake. Water rises around his feet. His gauntlet glows faintly, casting eerie silver light.]

Orphius Marius

“Your gods will not save you. Your gold will not shield you. And your cheers? They are a choir of rot. I walk the surface now, but I am no longer surface-born. I am ocean made flesh. Grief forged into muscle. A tide wrapped in sinew and steel.”

[He walks toward the camera slowly.]

“The next man who faces me in that ring? He will not be pinned. He will be claimed. Broken upon reef and rock. Offered to the currents. And when his eyes beg for mercy… I will give him only the truth. That this world… This empire built on sand and sin… Is already underwater.”

[Final shot: Orphius stands ankle-deep in black ocean, trident raised, lightning flashing in the distance.]

Orphius Marius

“Let the reckoning begin.”

[Scene opens in Orphius’s underwater sanctum—a chamber carved into black stone, lit only by flickering jellyfish drifting through a glass ceiling. Everything hums with low, sorrowful music—a cello in mourning.]

Orphius Marius sits cross-legged before a rippling pool. His reflection stares back: pale, almost translucent skin; lips painted like dried blood; silver-lined eyes that shimmer with grief and hunger. His robes cling to him like seaweed—half armor, half gown. Genderless. Timeless. Myth made flesh.

Orphius Marius (softly):"He wears a mask… Not because he must. But because he fears the truth behind his eyes."

[He trails a silvered hand across the pool. The water shows an image: Drake Nygma—The Sphinx—arrogant, sharp, tailored like a riddle with a gun.]

Orphius (voice rising like a tide):"Drake Nygma is a man of mirrors. Of cleverness mistaken for depth. A ‘Sphinx’ in name only— with riddles as shallow as the men who worship him."

[A pause. Orphius looks away.]

"But the sea does not care for riddles. The sea knows only pressure… weight… Truth beneath all performance."

[Cut: flashback — Orphius watching Sphinx in the ring. Cocky, flamboyant, taunting an opponent mid-submission. Playing to the crowd.]

Orphius (V.O.):

"He performs pain. He decorates cruelty with irony. But he does not feel it. Not truly. He has never drowned in silence."

[Cut back to Orphius. He’s standing now, slowly circling the pool.]

"To him, suffering is theater. To me? Suffering is ancestral. It is the choir I was born into."

[Suddenly his voice snaps, cold as a blade drawn underwater.]

"He makes a mockery of grief. Of gender. Of identity. Of everything the drowned fought to protect."

[The camera lingers on Orphius’s androgynous form—fluid and fearsome. He’s not performing gender. He is something ancient that predated it.]

"I do not wear this form to seduce or confuse.I wear it to reclaim.Before men split divinity into Man and Woman— the gods moved like me. Fierce. Beautiful. Terrible. Whole."

[A pause. Then, quieter:]

"And so did the ocean."

[Cut: a flashback—Orphius, before exile. Standing on coral steps with his siblings. All androgynous. All radiant. The sea was ruled by those who did not split into binary.]

Orphius (V.O.):

"When the flood came… when your world poisoned ours— you burned that beauty into ashes. You forced names upon us. 'Freak.' 'Boy.' 'Monster.' And left our bones to bleach beneath oil rigs."

[Back in the sanctum, Orphius speaks directly to the camera now. As if Sphinx were watching.]

Orphius Marius:

"You wrap your venom in velvet. You joke because you're afraid to scream. You dance around truths I would bleed for. You are clever, Drake. But I am inevitable."

[A final walk toward the pool. The surface is calm. His reflection shivers with every syllable.]

"You treat pain like art. I treat it like scripture."

[Suddenly—he kneels. His voice, a whisper:]

"Let me teach you what happens… when a man without depth meets the ocean."

[He presses two fingers into the water. It ripples—then turns black.]

Orphius Marius (almost lovingly):"I will drown your ego. I will tear the mask from your face. And when you cannot solve the riddle of yourself…you will finally understand why the sea does not speak."

[Fade to black. The water begins to boil.]

Orphius Marius (softly):

"The world above…

...divides."

[He paces slowly across a floor carved from whale bone and obsidian.]

"They split the sky from the sea. The flesh from the soul. Man from woman. As if creation were a courtroom. As if divinity must pick a side."

[A pause. He stops before a shattered mirror. The reflection is unclear—fluid. Flickering.]

"You call it 'binary.' I call it a cage."

"An illusion for the fragile. A trick of frightened minds, desperate to name things so they can control them."

[He leans close to the mirror. Whispering, like he’s confessing something sacred.]

"I have never belonged to one body. Or one name. Or one god."

[He straightens, his voice sharper now. Not louder—just heavier.]

"You look at me and demand a label. He. She. They. It. You beg to sort me into drawers, because the unknown threatens you."

"But I am not a drawer. I am the tide. And the tide answers to no map."

[He lifts his arms—fluid, graceful, divine. His silhouette is not male. Not female. Not anything you can pin down.]

"In the beginning… there were no genders. Only aspects. The sea was mother, and father, and the child who sang the first storm into being."

"You lost that, when you made war between sun and moon. When you said ‘only two.’"

[He closes his eyes, and something painful flickers across his face.]

"You buried the gods who danced in both skins. You silenced the songs sung in two voices. And now you wonder why the world groans."

"You fractured it. With blue and pink flags nailed to the bones of the infinite."

[He opens his eyes again—burning with sorrow. And fury.]

"But I remember. I remember when a being could wear mascara and muscle. When hips were holy, and beards divine. When to change was not deception— but worship."

[He kneels before the mirror. Gently pressing one hand to its surface.]

"I am not confused. I am not undecided. I am complete."

"And if that breaks your system— then let it shatter."

[He breathes in. The waters around him swirl like breath.]

"I do not want to fit. I do not want your approval. I do not want to 'pass.'"

"I want to unmake the walls. I want to drown the binary in the truth of the tide."

[He stands once more. Regal. Untouchable.]

"And when your sons and daughters come to me, unsure and ashamed— I will show them the mirror. I will teach them the old names. I will anoint them in the truth of chaos and beauty."

[Final line, barely above a whisper, but it shakes the chamber.]

"I am not a man. I am not a woman. I am the question that ends the war."

Orphius Marius (softly, without looking up):“Let’s get something… extremely clear.”

“I am not your 'he'.

I am not your 'she'.

And I am not your joke.”

[He finally meets the camera’s gaze—eyes unreadable, dangerous.]

“You don’t get to pick my pronouns like you pick your ring gear.This isn’t a costume. This isn’t drag.This is who I am.”

[He runs one black-painted thumb down the side of his jaw. Like it’s sharpening.]

“You will say ‘they’— or you will say ‘Orphius’. And if your tongue stumbles? Let it bleed.”

[He turns slowly to face the camera fully now, a shadow of a smile curling.]

“I’ve heard it all before.‘What are you?’ ‘Are you a man?’ ‘You trying to be a woman?’ No, darling.”

“I’m trying to be a reckoning.”

[He steps forward. Closer. More intimate. As if whispering a spell.]

“Orphius…”

[He repeats it, slowly, like it’s sacred.]

“…is the name gods whisper when they want the world to end soft.”

[Beat. His voice lowers further.]

“Get it right. Or get hurt trying to.”

CAMERA OPENS
A flickering spotlight swings lazily across the ruined circus tent. It catches glimmers: a cracked lion mask, a mannequin missing an eye, red paint that might not be paint.
We hear a faint “la-da-da-da… do you know the answer?” whispered like a lullaby through static.
In the center ring, seated on a warped throne made of bones, candy-striped wood, and twisted logic—Drake Nygma, The Sphinx, polishes a bloodstained monocle with eerie precision.
________________________________________
The Sphinx (quiet, amused, eerie):
“Once, I ran a show for the dreamers…
The bold, the broken, the believers.
And then the questions came.”
He smiles, wide and wrong.
“They came like knives wrapped in riddles,
like riddles wrapped in fire.”
A bearded man wearing clown makeup whimpers nearby, tied to a carousel pole. Electrodes on his temples twitch with sparks.
The Sphinx (ignoring him):
“So I turned the ring into a lab.
My dancers into data.
My clowns into control groups.”
He walks over to a cage where a mime sobs silently. Drake tilts his head, watching.
________________________________________
The Sphinx (low, reverent):
“You see, the world wants answers.
But answers are greedy things.
They eat questions. They erase mystery.
They devour wonder and spit out boredom.”
[He flicks a switch. The mime jolts. Drake smiles wider.]
“So I became the answer that eats back.”
________________________________________
He walks toward the camera now. The background hums with carousel music played backward. His voice lowers.
The Sphinx:
“I don’t wrestle because I love pain.
I don’t talk because I crave applause.
I perform… to dissect you.
To strip away your masks.
To see what meat lies beneath your riddles.”
He taps the camera with his gloved finger, rhythmically.
“Each opponent?
A puzzle box in human skin.
Each match?
An autopsy of ego.”
________________________________________
Suddenly, Drake growls, shoving the camera back.
The Sphinx (sharper now, unraveling):
“You think you’ve figured me out?
That I’m ‘crazy’? That I ‘need help’?
Let me offer you this final joke—”
He hurls a cracked porcelain doll at the mirror behind him. It shatters.
________________________________________
The Sphinx (screaming now):
“I AM THE CONTROL.
YOU are the experiment!
This ring, this circus, this WORLD—
I built it to tear off the face of every smug little ‘solution’.”
________________________________________
He slumps into the throne again. Whispers return. The carousel turns once, slowly. A slow, soft smile returns to his painted lips.
________________________________________
The Sphinx (calm again):
“So come one, come all.
Step into the ring.
Ask your questions…
And I’ll answer you in screams.”
FADE OUT.
[CAMERA ON]
A rusted intercom crackles to life in the corner of the room, breaking the eerie silence. Outside, thunder rolls. Inside, Sphinx leans over a dissected ventriloquist dummy, scalpel in hand, his back to us.
Voice from the intercom (nervous):
“Drake… uh… Sphinx. You’ve been booked for AWS Monday night ward. Six-man tag. It’s official.”
He pauses, lets the words settle like dust in a tomb.
Intercom Voice:
“You’ll be teaming with… Orphius Marius and Tyr dagrsson. Against The Lone Star Outlaws and ‘Mayhem’ Roger Williams.”
[SILENCE.]
[LONG. HEAVY. SILENCE.]
The Sphinx (whispering):
“…A cowboy. A cowboy. And a riot with fists.”

He chuckles.
“Oh, how quaint. How charmingly brutish.”

He rises slowly, scalpel still in hand, and approaches a board covered in photos—one labeled “OUTLAWS: Symptoms of Delusion,” the other “ROGER WILLIAMS: Functional Psychosis.” Strings and pins connect them all like a crime scene mapped by madness.
________________________________________
The Sphinx (contemptuous):
“You put two Texans in a ring and all you get is a slower apocalypse. Guns, leather, mustaches... nostalgia with a head injury.”

He taps the photo of the Outlaws with the scalpel.

“Broken men… desperate to cosplay relevance. Legends of a time that never wanted them in the first place.”

He moves to Roger’s photo.

“And you—Roger Williams. You glorious accident. You are a Molotov cocktail in human skin. Mayhem with a beer gut and a baseball bat. Delightful. Predictable.”

He smirks.

“And predictability is a kindness I do not extend.”
________________________________________
He slowly turns toward the mirror, looking at his reflection with unsettling calm.

The Sphinx (to himself):
“And I’m expected to share a corner.
To cooperate.
To... ‘tag.’”

He lets the word hang in the air like a disease.

The Sphinx (coldly):
“No. There are no partners in art.
Only paintbrushes…
…and blades.”
________________________________________
He reaches into his coat and pulls out a cracked domino mask, holding it in the candlelight like a relic. A smirk grows on his face—offended and thrilled all at once.

The Sphinx:
“Let the rodeo boys bring their grit. Let Roger bring his chaos.”

He leans close to the camera now, voice a hushed promise.

The Sphinx:
“I will bring a scalpel sharp enough to split this match into philosophy.
Let them bleed in iambic pentameter.
Let them fall… in riddles.”
________________________________________
He steps back, throwing the scalpel like a dart—impaling the center of the Outlaws' photo. It quivers in silence. Then—

The Sphinx (with a smile too wide):
“Three horses ride into the ring.
Only one meets the guillotine.
Guess which.”
________________________________________
[FADE OUT.]

The metal door creaks open. In struts “The Sphinx” Drake Nygma. His long coat drips rainwater onto the floor like ink stains. His smile arrives before he does, eyes glittering with mischief, chaos, and absolute contempt for stability.

The Sphinx:
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Daddy Deicide and Goth Aristotle.
This must be the wrong dressing room. I was looking for the main characters.”

Tyr doesn't look up. Orphius lowers his book—just slightly.

Drake:
“Let me guess… Tyr, you’ve already killed nine ravens before breakfast, and Orphius, you’ve just finished your daily soliloquy on how vowels are a tool of the bourgeoisie?”

He walks between them like a ringmaster entering a cage of lions he’s already declawed.

Drake (mock-reverent):
“It’s such a gift—truly—to be graced by the presence of two men who think they’ve transcended narrative. One forged by war and weather, the other by ink and inference.
Both… allergic to joy.”
________________________________________
Orphius (coldly):
“I find no amusement in the cartoon theatrics you call identity.”

Drake (gasps):
“Ohhh—'Cartoon theatrics!'
How deliciously bitter!
I can feel the Nietzsche sweating off you like bad cologne.”

He circles Orphius now, slow, catlike, lips curled in faux admiration.

Drake:
“You wear androgyny like armor. Refuse the binary. Embrace the void.
It’s all so fashionably cerebral.
But tell me—what do you do when the lights hit you, darling?
What happens when the people want something more than whispered riddles and glacial disdain?”
________________________________________
He spins on his heel to face Tyr, standing inches from the Norse brute’s chest.

Drake (grinning):
“And you, mr tall dark and brutish.
Tyr Dagrsson. Mr. Hammer & Honor. The funeral dirge with fists.
You think the gods gave you purpose. You walk like thunder, but talk like a eulogy.”

Tyr’s jaw ticks. Still silent.

Drake:
“You two are supposed to be… my partners?”

He throws his head back, laughing—a noise like shattered glass.

“Oh no no no. This isn’t a faction. This is a poetry reading inside a mausoleum.”
________________________________________
He slinks toward the exit, speaking over his shoulder with a wink.

Drake:
“I’ll see you boys in the ring.
And when I do? Don’t bother reaching for the tag.
I’m not here to share the stage with statues or sermons.
I’m here to carve riddles into your bones.”
________________________________________
He pauses at the doorway. Turns once more.

Drake (softly, with venom):
“You call yourselves men above men.
I call you opening acts.”

HE’S GONE.
The flickering bulb sways as silence falls. Orphius shuts his book. Tyr clenches his fist once—and cracks the tape in his palm.

[CAMERA ON – In-Ring]

Tyr stands stoic in the center—muscles tense, battle-ready, a walking myth. Orphius stands just behind and to the side, elegant, statuesque, expression unreadable. Drake… well, Drake lounges on the top rope, upside-down like a bored bat, mic dangling from one hand like a lollipop.
________________________________________
Tyr Dagrsson (calm, low thunder):
"We are forged not by alliance… but by inevitability.
The Outlaws… Roger Williams… you are prey trespassing into the gods' domain.
I am storm.
He is silence.
And the one on the rope…"

He doesn't finish. Just glares at Drake.
________________________________________
Orphius Marius (measured, cool):
"Entropy favors chaos, but it also favors intelligence.
And though I do not crave union, understand this:
A trinity—when aligned—can dismantle any false regime.
We will not lose.
Even if our souls reject the idea of ‘team.’"
________________________________________
Crowd murmurs. Sphinx finally flips down off the rope and snatches the mic like he’s about to host a cabaret. Huge grin. Unblinking eyes.

Drake Nygma (mocking):
“Ohhh wow. I almost believed us just now!
Did you feel it?
That precious moment where it sounded like we weren’t going to implode halfway through the first tag?”
He twirls the mic like a knife, grinning.

Drake (to crowd):
“Let’s review, shall we?
We’ve got Ragnarök Barbie—Tyr—with the emotional range of a tombstone.
Over here? Our favourite melancholic pronoun cyborg, Mister Orphius Marius,
‘The Absence of Gender Wearing Velvet.’
And then me—your Sphinx, your chaos, your favourite puzzle you never solve.”
________________________________________
Orphius turns his head, slow and cold.

Orphius:
"You mistake complexity for mockery. As always, Drake."

Drake:
"No no no, darling. I mistake you for someone who knows how to have fun."
________________________________________
Tyr steps forward, mic to his lips.

Tyr (growling):
"Enough."

Drake (widening eyes):
"Oooo, Daddy spoke.
Tell me, Tyr—when you bathe in the blood of the guilty, do you exfoliate?"
Crowd: OOHHHHHHHHHH.
________________________________________
Tyr:
"This alliance stands… because war demands it."

Drake:
"Mm. Sure. Until I tag myself in, hit my finisher, win the match, and paint my name across the sky in glitter and goat’s blood."
________________________________________
He steps between them now, arms draped over their shoulders like an uninvited serpent.
Drake (whispers, too close):
"We are not a team.
We’re a Greek tragedy in slow motion.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way."
________________________________________
He flings the mic into the crowd and waltzes backward up the ramp, laughing manically, leaving Orphius glaring into the void and Tyr seething in controlled rage.
________________________________________
Crowd Reaction:
A mix of screaming laughter, boos, and chants of:
“CHA-OS SPHINX! CHA-OS SPHINX!”
“TAG. YOUR. PARTNERS!”
The camera fades in on a dilapidated stage. Broken statues line the background. Candles flicker. A cracked mirror reflects three chairs… two of them occupied by crude mannequins dressed to resemble Tyr and Orphius. The third is empty—until Drake Nygma dances into frame, dressed in patchwork silk, chalk-white face paint smudged into a wild grin.
________________________________________
Drake Nygma (bowing):
“Ladies and degenerates…
Tonight, I bring you a one-man tragedy:
‘God of War and Ghost of Gender.’
A tale of honor, silence, and eyeliner.”
________________________________________
He plucks a paper-mâché hammer from the ground, holds it aloft with dramatic flair, and deepens his voice into a slow, Nordic bellow.
🪓 [Drake as Tyr]
“Me Tyr. Me mad.
Me crush skull.
Me bathe in shame and blood.
No laugh. No smile. Just furrow brow.
Hammer big. Emotions small.”
He thumps his chest, walks in exaggerated stomps like a caveman, then freezes in place and pretends to read a book titled: “Feelings for Dummies.”
________________________________________
Then he spins, slithers to the other mannequin—draped in dark velvet, silver rings, and brooding posture.

🦋 [Drake as Orphius]
Mimicking a velvety, cold tone:
“I am beyond your binaries.
I am moonlight reflected on antique glass.
I do not blink. I only smolder.”

He fake-pouts, flutters a silk fan, then sharply glares at the crowd as if daring them to misgender him.
Drake (as Orphius):
“Pronouns? Darling, I transcend language.
I use mirrors as doorways.
I sip wine made of metaphor.”
________________________________________
Then he leaps up onto the empty chair and lets the persona drop—all smug glee and giddy madness now.
🎪 Drake (as himself):
“And then there’s me—the Sphinx.
The punchline. The poison. The chaos in your veins.
AWS wants to make us a team?
Let them.
I’ll be the paint that ruins the masterpiece.
The laugh track behind the funeral.
The riddle with no answer.”
________________________________________
He tears the Tyr mask in half. Rips the Orphius cloak to shreds. Grabs the camera lens in both hands and stares into it like a demon licking glass.
Drake (softly, dead serious now):
“They wear masks.
I am mine.”
________________________________________
[Fade to black with the words:]
“We Are Not A Team. We Are a Time Bomb.”

Drake (grinning, eyes wide, whispering):
"Tag teams.
Ahhh, the sacred brotherhood of matching tights and broken trust."
________________________________________
He grabs a pair of worn-out friendship bracelets from his pocket and snaps one in half with his teeth.

Drake:
"You hold the rope, you wait your turn, you pretend you like the idiot next to you.
But deep down, every tag team ends the same way…
One of you tags out, and the other?
Dies inside."
________________________________________
He flips over the chair violently, stands, and starts pacing in tight circles like a trapped animal. His voice rises, sing-songing mockingly.

Drake (mimicking announcers):
“Tag! He’s legal now! Teamwork! Communication! Coooooooperation!”
He gags, mock-vomiting, then slams a toy championship belt onto the ground and stomps on it.
________________________________________
Drake (laughing hysterically):
"You wanna know what I hear when I tag someone in?
A ticking clock.
A countdown.
To betrayal.
To blame.
To blood."
________________________________________
He walks up to the mirror, pressing his forehead against it, whispering like a lover.
Drake:
"I don’t team, darlings.
I tempt.
I tease.
I tear the fabric of togetherness until it looks like laundry in a hurricane."
________________________________________
He twirls around, arms open, eyes wild with joy.
Drake:
"Put me in a match with two strangers?
Wonderful.
Let’s see who bleeds first.
Let’s see who snaps and swings on who.
Let’s see how long the illusion of unity lasts."
________________________________________
He throws glitter into the air—where did he get it? No one knows. It rains like ash.
Drake (suddenly serious):
"They put me with Tyr, the mountain who thinks silence equals strength.
And Orphius, the ghost wrapped in silk who talks in riddles but never listens."
________________________________________
He smiles straight into the camera, cold and pure.
Drake:
"I'm not here to win.
I'm here to watch the myth of the team die.
And then?
I’ll dance on its grave with a flaming baton and two middle fingers."
________________________________________
He licks his teeth. Tilts his head.
Drake (softly):
"Tag me in.
I dare you."
________________________________________
[Cut to static.]

The Taste of Violence

The camera fades in on a vast, silent arena lit only by flickering blue lights. The ring is empty, save for a single microphone hanging upside down from the rafters.

Then—Tyr steps into frame, bare-chested, blood still crusted on his knuckles from his last war. He doesn’t look at the camera yet. He simply breathes, heavy and deliberate.

Tyr (low, guttural):

“Conquer.”

That’s your word, is it?

He turns to face the camera. No rage in his eyes. Just ice.

“You want to conquer—but conquest without resistance is just vanity. You speak of trophies. Of bloodlines. Of cages and belts and... order.But tell me, old warhound… what happens when the battlefield doesn’t follow your rules?”

[CUT – ORPHIUS SPEAKS IN A BROKEN MONOLOGUE, BACKSTAGE]

Orphius is hunched over a mirror, speaking to his own reflection. Strings of black leather hang from his wrists like ceremonial bindings. Candles flicker behind him.

Orphius (whispering, twitching):

“A legacy of order... how quaint. You stitched it all together with gold and glory. But you forgot the stitches rot.

I don’t speak to ghosts—I drag them screaming back into the ring. You think you built this house?

We are the infestation in your walls. We are the mildew in the championship leather.

We are not rookies.

We are the reckoning.”

He giggles—soft, unflinching laughter echoing like whispers down a chapel hall. Then stillness.

“Oh, and Roger? You can try to take your championship back… but you’ll have to break me open first.”

[CUT – DRAKE NYGMA, FILMED FROM A SECURITY CAMERA IN A DARK ROOM]

The footage is grainy. The lights flicker. Drake Nygma paces like a lion in a cage. Walls covered in hand-scrawled writing. Violent poetry. Inked riddles. Symbols smeared in charcoal.

He stops. Looks up at the camera.

Drake (grinning, feral):

“You talk about teamwork like it’s a holy word. But me? I don’t belong in a team. I am a syndrome. A beautiful disorder. A crack in the myth you built your empire on.”

(He giggles—wild, unpredictable.)

“See, I’ve already conquered something you never will: the art of unhinged violence. Not sport. Not legacy. Just pure, poetic disorder.And that? That can’t be taught in family gyms or Asylums or tag team boot camps. That’s a disease you’re born with. And baby—I’m terminal.”

He walks off-screen. In the distance, a light bulb bursts.

[FINAL SHOT – ALL THREE MEN STAND TOGETHER UNDER THE SPOTLIGHT]

Back in the ring. The lights blaze white now. Tyr, Drake, and Orphius stand shoulder-to-shoulder—but they’re not unified in posture.

Tyr stands stoic, bloodied, like a battle-scarred god.

Orphius leans forward, twitching, whispering nonsense under his breath.

Drake chews a pen cap, eyes darting between them, like he might attack either one.

Tyr speaks.

“You want to remind the world who you are?”

“We are going to make them forget you ever existed.”

Orphius snarls softly.

“We are the ink stain on your final page…”

And Drake—with a whisper-soft smile—

“We’re not a tag team. We’re a shared hallucination.”

All three stare down the lens. Then, as one—

“Destruction doesn’t await. Destruction is already here.”

[Fade to black. Static. Echoing laughter.]

📱 Wrestling X (formerly Twitter)

@UltraviolentAddict69

Roger just listed 19 championships, 4 fight styles, and 3 wars. Bro’s CV longer than a CVS receipt 😭 #Outsiders #Ward

@ChaosTheoryFan

Tyr: “I seek conquest.”

Drake: commits 3 felonies mid-promo

Orphius: “My bones are scripture.”

Roger: “Anyway I’ve got 7 belts and a dream.”

I LOVE THIS BUSINESS.

@RingPsych101

There’s something almost poetic about a man so accomplished feeling the need to prove himself again. But against three fractured forces of chaos? That’s hubris. #OutsidersVsDissonant

@BeneathTheApron

Drake mocking Tyr and Orphius was comedy gold but lowkey? Dude’s unraveling. That therapy montage hit hard. It’s not just a character—it’s a cry for control. #TheSphinxUnhinged

@OrphiusCultist

Outsiders talk about legacy. Orphius IS legacy. He carved his name into the stone of time with rusted iron. Respect the horror. #DissonantAscendancy

@CrimsonJackals

This feels like war. Like two generations of warriors—one clinging to the past, the other trying to burn the future. And in the middle? Drake. Laughing. Dancing. Bleeding. #UltraViolenceIncoming

🎙️ Podcast Excerpt: "Kayfabe Therapy"

HOST 1: “So Roger’s promo was clean. Confident. Honestly, veteran excellence. But... is anyone else getting the vibe that he's underestimating just how dangerous these lunatics are?”

HOST 2: “Exactly. He thinks unity and brotherhood will beat madness. But you can’t prepare for chaos. You can’t gameplan for Drake.”

HOST 1: “And Orphius is a damn ghost. A myth. You don’t fight him—you survive him.”

HOST 2: “That being said... you heard the Outsiders’ final words. They believe in legacy like it’s religion. That gives ‘em power.”

💬 YouTube Comments – AWS Beach Wars Promo Package

@ObsidianEdge91

"The Outsiders came with receipts. Tyr came with thunder. Orphius came with the apocalypse. Drake came with a straight jacket and a matchbook. LET’S GOOOOO 🔥🔥🔥"

@WarRoomAnalyst

“Say what you want about ‘Destruction awaits’—but there’s something terrifying about how calm Roger is. Like he’s already seen the end, and it’s him holding the titles again.”

@DrakeIsTheSphinx

“He conquered tag wrestling? Cute. Drake conquered himself. And then he set fire to the throne. Madness wins. Madness always wins.”

👥 Live Crowd Reactions (In Arena Signs & Chants)

🪧 Signs

“OUTSIDERS BUILT THE HOUSE”

“ORPHIUS IS MY SLEEP PARALYSIS DEMON”

“DRAKE: CONQUER THIS 🔥🩸🃏”

“TYR SAID 3 WORDS I ASCENDED”

🎤Chants

“CON-QUER DRAKE! clap clap clapclapclap”

“YOU NEED THER-A-PY!”

“OUT-SI-DERS!” (dueling with) “DIS-SO-NANT!”

🎭 Drake Nygma — “The Sphinx”

Track Title: "Uninvited" 

🎙️Verse 1:

My name is thunder, and lightning—

My name is something very frightening.

My name is adrenaline, exciting.

You don’t believe?

I’ll be showing up uninvited.

🎙️Hook:

My name is adrenaline, exciting.

I make my own future—don’t leave it to fate.

I’ll rise so high, I’ll be the Empire State.

Learn from my scars. Burn from my mistakes.

🎙️Outro (whispered into a scream):

Call me madness. Call me fate.

I AM the future you can’t escape.

⚔️ Tyr — “The Conqueror”

Track Title: "Lion’s Den" 

🎙️Chorus:

I’m the one, I’m the one shaking the ground up,

Like an earthquake—I’ll break what surrounds us.

Keep talking your game—I’m not getting wound up,

I block out the noise. Now I’m turning the sound up.

🎙️Bridge (chant-style):

Step, step, step…

Into the lion’s den.

Step, step, step…

You won’t step out again.

🎙️Final Line (deep growl):

I’m the hammer. You’re the stone.

Your kingdom falls—when I claim the throne.

🕯️ Orphius — “The Obsidian Prophet”

Track Title: "The Storm" 

🎙️Verse 1 (spoken, echoing):

It must be moving in the silence…

So we won’t see.

I’ll be waiting for ya.

In shadow. In memory.

🎙️Chorus (crescendo):

Come on, come on, come on—

Give me your best shot.

Come on, come on, come on—

I’ll show you what I’ve got.

🎙️Bridge (chanting layered with thunder):

I feel a storm coming.

I feel a storm coming.

I’m sending out a warning.

🎙️Final Cry (distorted roar):

I AM THE FUCKING STORM!

Setting: A dead plain under a black sky. Cracked earth, distant storm clouds. A massive wooden effigy of a longhorn skull—painted in Lone Star Outlaws colors—stands tall, lashed to iron spikes. The Outlaws' sigil burns on its chest.

[CAMERA: Low angle shot, panning up Drake Nygma’s boots, tattered pants, and bare chest marked in sharpie symbols and half-healed cuts. His grin is pure rapture as he holds a rusted lighter.]

DRAKE NYGMA (THE SPHINX):

laughing softly, then wildly

“Ohh, it’s a shame, really.

All that southern pride, all that cowboy swagger—

Reduced to kindling.”

He flicks the lighter. The flame catches. The effigy roars to life, flames crawling like veins. Shadows dance across Drake’s wide eyes.

DRAKE:

“Lone star, no star... same fate. You’re just wood and lies, baby. And I? I’m the match no one dared light.”

He licks his thumb and presses it to the flame, hissing with pleasure as smoke curls upward.

[CAMERA CUT: A sudden, thunderous war cry echoes. The ground shudders.]

TYR:

Emerging from the shadows, bare-chested, smeared in ash and runes, with a war axe slung across his back. 

“Óvinir brennast í heilagra vöggu!Blóð þeirra mun blessa jörðina!(The enemies shall burn in the cradle of the sacred. Their blood will bless the earth.)”

Tyr drives his fist into the dirt, and from the cracked earth, old fire-worn symbols glow—runes of conquest, vengeance, obliteration.

[CAMERA SHIFT: The air bends, distorts. The world hushes. A soft chanting fills the soundscape as ORPHIUS steps into frame, gliding rather than walking.]

He is cloaked in tattered ceremonial robes. Feathers drip from his crown like ink. His eyes gleam with unnatural stillness.

ORPHIUS (softly, in a long-dead tongue):“K’tu’al naq sha’dhar… …rā nu vatra lun.(The tide comes for the nameless. And the storm will make them holy.)”

He places a single, skeletal hand on the burning effigy. The flames twist—unnatural and violet. Screams echo from within, though no one is burning.

ORPHIUS (to the camera):

“You play at brotherhood. We devour ours. You wear matching vests. We are the covenant beneath the skin.”

[FINAL SHOT: All three men stand before the burning wreckage. The fire reflects in their eyes. No unity—only mutual purpose: destruction.]

DRAKE:

“You wanted a fight? You’re getting a funeral pyre.”

TYR:

“Prepare the pyres. Call your gods.”

ORPHIUS (smiling eerily):

“And let them see what ascended madness truly looks like.”

The fire explodes behind them—sending ash into the storm as the screen cuts to black.