Kropotkin is sitting on the couch of Mark's trailer, flipping though a copy of the Economist. Mark is sitting next to him watching television, trying to find something to distract them. "Hey, Kropotkin, we should head over to my dad's house. I need to grab something for us. But I need to tell you something, first." Kropotkin turns to look at Mark and stares on for a second, as if beckoning an answer. "I'm a class traitor. I picked up Marx in high school, and studied it, then I moved to Lenin, and found Emma Goldman, Mahkno, and Bakunin. By this point I was in college, and then dropped out. I moved away and got a job and began trying to spread the word. But, the thing is, my parents are bourgeoisie as fuck. Like, my dad is big wig at his company, and they've given him so much money. I figured I'd tell you before we go, so you're not too surprised." Kropotkin gives a look as if he's saying that he understands, and won't judge. The pair get up and head out of the trailer.

The car ride is mostly quiet, without much going on. They passed along a series of farms and a small town, where Kroporkin noticed an old man sitting on the side of the road, they gestured for Mark to pull over, and he did. Kropotkin stepped out, and walked towards the old man before sitting next to him on the road. The masked face turns to the old man, and their eyes meet for a moment. "Halloween's not come yet, you're a little early, son." Kropotkin just stares at him, and pulls out a sandwich, and hands it to the old man. "Thank you, but you're still early for Halloween." Kropotkin just shrugs, gets up, and makes his way back to the car. The pair finish their drive in silence, with the radio even turned off.

Upon arrival at their destination, Mark pulls his rusted and battered car into the driveway, where he parks next to a luxury sedan, and a sensible SUV. Parked off to the side is a large recreational vehicle. Mark gets out of his junk car and walks over to the RV, Kropotkin follows him, and they both look at it together, before Kropotkin turns to Mark, and gives him a pat on the shoulder. "Yes, this is why I came here. We need to travel across the US for the job, and what better way than doing so in the comfort of this vehicle? I know, it's large and bougie as fuck, but we can also give rough sleepers a place to sleep when we stop, this will at least be some benefit to the world." Kropotkin steps forward and jiggles the door handle. The door opens and they step into the vehicle, and begin to look around. "I don't have keys, so I'll have to talk to my dad about this, which should be fun." Mark's voice echoes throughout the vehicle, while both look around and notice the new unused veneer of the kitchen area, and how the living section's couch still has a covering on it.

"What are you doing in here?" A voice rings out behind the pair, and they both turn around in unison, almost as if it was synchronised. Standing in front of them is a man in his sixties, with slight greying of the hair, and a pair of designer eyeglasses, and a scowl. Mark looks slightly uncomfortable.

"Hey, dad. I know we haven't spoken in a while." Mark gets out, while his father looks on in disdain.

"I know, you ran out on your mother and I. She'll be happy to see you. Come on." He turns, with Mark following behind him. "Bring the costume." Kropotkin follows the paternal parade out of the RV and into the yard, Mark's father is careful to step only on the stepping stone path, while Mark plods through it all, stepping on a few flowers as he does. Kropotkin mimes Mark, but is slightly more careful to not step onto flowers, but only marginally so. The door to the house is a polished steel, made to look chrome and strong, surrounding a nicely stained glass piece with the family name etched at the top. "Kennedy" is etched in the frame, as if the home were a castle of old, or a stately manor, as opposed to the McMansion it is, stuck in middle America, being run by an aging low level Oligarch. It's opened for the trio by a middle aged man who looks as if his forced smiled has been stuck, and in his eyes all one sees is a broken spirit. "Go tell Elizabeth we have company, and that she should join us in the study." Mark's father commands this man as if he were a dog, with a tone to match, but the broken man does as he's told, and bows quietly before departing.

"Oh, you've stopped referring to her as the Lady of the House? I guess your delusions of nobility died." As Mark finishes the words a hand is brought to his face in a slapping motion, stopping just before contact is made.

"Son, this game you've been playing for the last three years is wearing thin, perhaps you can drop the air of offense and just be civil with us for once," The voice tries to feign strength, but wounded pride is all that's left. None the lass, the father turns from his son, and walks through a doorway. He pauses while Mark and Kropotkin follow suit, with Kropotkin eyeing everything they pass. They can feel their stomach knotting up as they step.

"Dad, this isn't some game. I've given up my inheritance, and my claim to the family's name. I don't want this life, it's for you and mom. Not for me."

"I realise that, son. I just want what's best for you, and that's why I've decided that we're starting a soup kitchen, and homeless shelter. We want you to oversee them, and make sure they're being properly used. We'll pay you a salary, and you'll have free reign to run it how you see fit, barring state regulations." The sincerity in his voice can't be faked, nor can the look in his eyes. They're screaming out that all he wants is his son back. Mark pauses dead in his tracks, and stares at his father for a solid 45 seconds before speaking.

"Dad, that means the world to me, but I can't run them. I have a job, a good job, that doesn't require me being anyone's boss, and my boss won't be taking advantage of me. It's more of a co-op, which is why we're here."

"What is it, this time?" A woman's voice cuts through the study. Mark and his father don't look up at its source, but Kropotkin does. The voice, high and tired, came from Mark's mother, Elizabeth, a stately woman of late fifties, but you wouldn't guess it based on her looks. She has died hair, and enough botox in her face for one to mistake her for Mark's older sister.

"Elizabeth, it doesn't matter what his job is, he's here." Mark's father counters.

"Yes, and I'm glad he is. I just want to know what he's asking us to invest in." She makes her way into the room, brushing past Kropotkin, who was standing by a bust of George Washington, and wraps her arms around Mark.

"I don't want you to invest in anything, I want the RV. You guys bought it for me when you thought I was going to become an accountant and work for the company. I need it now." Mark speaks softly as if to avoid deafening his mother with his words.

"Take it, but tell us what you're doing." His father chimes in, almost proud that his son is taking a gift from him. Elizabeth pulls away and looks at Kropotkin confused, almost as if she had just seen him for the first time.

"That's Kropotkin, mom. They're a professional wrestler, and I'm their cameraman. We're going to travel the country, so they can wrestle, while I film them. We've also been helping people on our journey. They're mute, so I also have to work as the mouth piece in interviews and the like." Mark is proud of his work, and points to Kropotkin with enthusiasm and dignity ill-befitting a man who just told his family he video tapes a person that runs around in a costume all day. His father's reaction was less enthused. He reached into a drawer and pulled something out, before moving close and shoving the object into Mark's hands.

"Take them and get out. I won't have you making a mockery of our name in this house. We are not some second class camera man." Mark is entirely stunned, and unsure of what to say. Kropotkin walks over and stands behind Mark, their frame lumbering well above the family.

"Are you serious?" Mark manages to voice through his shock. His father and mother both turn to each other and burst into laughter.

"God no, son. Why would we be offended at that choice? Or why would we seek to undermine your career choice? We've raised you to know what's the best decision for you, and to be as equipped for this world as we can make you. Your path has always been different than the family name, and you'll always have a home here. Even your friend can stay if they like." Elizabeth manages to get this out while her husband looks on in laughter. She turns slowly to Kropotkin, and looks up to meet their mask. "You get my baby hurt, and I'll hurt you. I swear on it, there's no place you can hide." Both parties nod at each other, and then Kropotkin takes several steps back.

Mark embraces his father, and then his mother. "I would love to stay, but we need to get to California tomorrow. If we leave now, we'll just barely make it in time." The family pauses to share the hug before they separate, allowing Mark and Kropotkin to leave. The unlikely duo get in the RV, and Kropotkin starts it up, and begins to drive forward. "Yo, K. I'ma pop in the back and say something to the fans and your opponents for you. Okay?" Kropotkin nods, and Mark sits on the couch. He places the camera on the table, facing him. Pausing and sitting in silence find his words.

He finally speaks, slowly and to the point. "James Raven, this is Mark, nice to meet you. I'm not Kropotkin, in case you're unable to guess. I'm his camera man, and mouth piece. It was me who had no idea who you were, but I double checked and neither did Kropotkin, so I guess that's something. Like I said before, we don't really care to know much about you. You're obviously not the greatest, or even the most well revered champion. Scanning the XWF website for information on you, we find very little to tell us that you're worth caring about. Watching your video, all we see is a whiny man who can't accept that his father isn't perfect, and doesn't know how to behave himself without looking like he's constantly going through the terrible twos. No, I get it. We've all seen the movies, usually staring a pretty leading actor, and his slightly more attracted leading lady, where he's a belligerent and insufferable douche to someone, for what we're told is a valid reason, and it's supposed to show angst and emotion. It doesn't, it only shows people that don't know respect or manners.

Yes, your father was apparently a bad father, and yet he's actively trying to make amends for that, but you'd rather puff out your chest, say something vaguely emasculating to him, and call yourself the hero. We get it, you're not as secure in your masculinity as others are. This is fragile masculinity, and it's tied in with the toxic macho man image that haunts all across the world, and it makes me sad. Sad that you were raised on bad films and not enough love. Sad that you still think riding a bike and having a kid is rebelling against your dad. At almost thirty, you probably should be over that phase. Hell, you should be over it at 21, but I realise it must be difficult for you to grow. And that temper tantrum you threw about mystery opponents, and not being recognised in the XWF? That sure showed me how tough you are. It didn't make you look like a spoiled child on Christmas. Nope, not at all.

And the double fit you had when I said we didn't care about you? That just showed me that I have even less reason to care about you. Don't worry, honey, your special big boy belt is gonna stay right where you leave it. No one will be taking it this week. Because you're not worth being put in a title match, it seems. You're crying about wanting a real fight, but clearly aren't ready for one. So, it'll be nice and quick when Kropotkin blows through you. You'll barely mess up your hair taking that L. All the while, they'll move on to take on other opponents, who are about as impressive as you are. Which is to say, not at all.

We get that Ben Gazzi is supposed to be Daesh and tough, but much like the actual Daesh forces, he's not much more than a kid's game. And Marlow Raxis is probably best left mentioned as little as possible. But the mystery opponent could be cool, maybe someone worth a damn. But not likely, seeing as how this week's match is brought to the viewers at home by the sweet sweet sounds of James Raven crying into his pillow. You stay classy, XWF." Mark shuts off the camera and relaxes his head on the back of the couch, just as it starts pouring rain.