You step foot in the Davis Arena, and feel a chill run down your legs. You're stuck firm.

It's not so much an "Arena" as a glorified gym, but nevertheless, you can feel yourself already wanting to leave this place.

There is not a sign of life in the building, with the tattered OVW signs only a scant reminder of past human activity.

"Why did they keep away from this place?" you wonder, knowing the answer to some superficial extent; but not enough to satisfy your curiosity.

Without you realizing it, your legs have already propelled you forward. You brush a hand along the nostalgic posters - all living legends OVW is proud to remind you walked through their hallowed concession stands. Randy Orton. Brock Lesnar. CM Punk. And...

You stop. "The Prototype." Even with the dyed-blonde Eminem-wannabe haircut, you'd recognize that sexy, chiseled jawline anywhere. You could sharpen a knife on that shit.

You move to brush your hand against the face of young John Cena, but something stops you. Or rather, nothing stops you. Your hand pushes past the upper half of the poster, leaving you stumbling for balance like a post-chop Ric Flair.

The poster, as you soon find, covered a neatly-carved hole in the wall; starting 2 feet from the ground, and extending 8 feet further.

Of course you step in. How could you not?

It's a corridor. Brick walls. Stone floor. It goes up. It goes down. It turns. Brick walls covered ceiling-to-floor with intertwined, many-colored rope. Mats cover the floor. The corridor continues. It goes down further. And further. And begins to turn. And turn. And turn. And turn.

You'd think you were lost if it weren't for the lack of branching paths. And yet, you can't help but question... "is this... is this right? Does this direction even make sense? Was I already here?"

At last, you see something. The mats stop, the stone floor continues. And on it lies a chain. The extent of it wraps around a corner. The chain held together with intermittent steel balls and cuffs. The cuffs have "chaingang" etched into the them. The worn balls are harder to make out, but they too, have etchings - in the form of "Property of the Commander".

You shake your head. You're not seeing things, are you?

You turn the corner, and are shocked into stillness.

After a short stretch of corridor lies a more-open room with flags standing proudly in the middle.

Each flag is its own garish color, and each has "Cenation" boldly imprinted upon it. They look almost new.

Another stretch of corridor. Another turn, and an even larger room. The room is covered in mats. There's a selection of doors on the other side.

However, the moment you step into the room, you hear a metallic thud. You already know. You've been locked in. You turn to check, and sure enough - a large, iron gate has fallen, with "Uso Penitentiary" hastily scrawled on it.

You hear something else. You turn. The side doors have been opened. Two pitbulls have emerged, from seemingly dead-end chambers. They're each bedecked with lurid green shirts and orange bands around their front legs. They seem incensed.

You look forward. The center door is still closed, with the banner "Rise Above Hate" firmly hung above it. It's your only chance.

One dog lunges. You decide not to wait for it to be friendly. You punch it in the snout to establish dominance. You push away the other canine.

You perform a flawless baseball slide between the approaching hounds, fling open the door, and slam it shut behind you. Howls. But no attempts to chase you. You're safe, for now.

Another corridor. It's a long one. A very, very long one.

A very, very, very, very long one.

You're still.

Walking down.

The corridor.

...

It doesn't look any closer. You look behind you. The door behind you is so far away, you can barely see it. Something's not right. Something's very not right.

Before you're hurled into a primeval panic, something catches your eye. A door. A door you're positive wasn't there before. A door with another banner identical to the last one, except for a new phrase: "Never give up."

You throw yourself through the door. It's another corridor. Thankfully, a few steps forward leads you moving through space in the expected way. You breathe a sigh of relief.

You hear a beeping. You don't see anything. Is it a camera? Who knows. You ignore it.

Turning another corner, you stumble into your first intersection. Following the usual rules of mazes, you hug the leftmost wall as you travel. As luck would have it, the first two pathways you try lead to only locked doors, leading to the final hallway as your last gasp at salvation.

The hallway gradually widens until it ends at a pair of double doors. A worn-down sign on it boldly proclaims "Do not interrupt The Champ until he is ready to see you!"

You shove open the double doors. A throne. A mirror. A screen. A rug. A ring. A man.

The man turns to face you. His jorts shine in a light seemingly all their own. Your breath gets caught in your throat.

"J-J-J-John Cena?"

His face contorts. For the briefest of moments, his hand bounces up and down in front of his face, fingers splayed. And then, nothing. He has vanished.

But you can hear him, his voice bouncing off the walls.

"Welcome, kid."

"I-Is it really you, Mr. Cena? A-am I going crazy?"

"Nah. You can't see me, but I'm still here. Trust me. The champ is here."

"I-it's an honor, Mr. Cena."

"Is it? Is it really an honor?"

Your breath stops. Your heart stops.

"Wh-what?"

"I've been looking for someone to take my place as the leader of the Cenation. Someone to take my place both at the throne in front of the public eye, and in the throne... of this realm."

You have too many questions. But... you feel as though he's about to offer you something.

"That someone... is not you."

Your questions screech to a halt, vaporizing in your stream of thought.

"Wh-what?"

"Three tenements: Hustle, Loyalty, and Respect. Never give up, rise above hate, and respect the champ. I've been keeping an eye on you, son. I've been watching you through your entire trip down here, and even in this tiny span of time, you've already failed."

"W-wait, why are... why are you down here? Why is... why is nobody else-"

"You don't deserve answers, kid. You failed the core of hustle when you gave up. You failed the core of loyalty when you resorted to unnecessary violence. You failed the core of respect when you burst in here against The Champ's orders."

You're starting to grasp his location in the room.

"It seems you don't know how to act towards the leader of the Cenation. I can help with that. I can... adjust your attitude."

He's behind you. You turn, only to be met with a meaty whack of his flying shoulder tackle.

You hit the ground, landing on the mats. You try to scramble to your feet, but his beefy arms are too much for you to escape, and you find yourself being dropped to the floor before you can even comprehend what's happening.

It wasn't on mats this time. You hit the cold, unforgiving stone floor. And then...

Only the sound of shuffling. Away from you. Towards you. Away from you...

You open your eyes. John Cena stands above you, brushing something from his shoulder. His falling fist connects with your face, and your vision is reduced to searing, painful splotches of color.

You can't resist being brought onto his shoulders. You can feel the two of you moving... moving... moving a great distance. He stops. You stare down helplessly into... a strange... vivid... green and black void... The edge of the world. The edge of existence.

"When you get there. Tell them... Their time is up. My time is now."

You can feel Cena's sturdy, potent, firm arms guide you... you're now facing the ceiling, and falling... falling...

falling...

falling...