***

42_HOURS_LATER Tokyo National Bank

Amidst seas of reporters and flashing cameras… A van parks.

“Look!” Says a cheerful deliveryman, dressed in all-white. “It’s a bird! It’s a plane! No, it’s Champagne!” He lifts an oaken wine barrel with a Superman-like* logo (similar, not copyright-infringing).

“I’d heard HEROES could use some sud-”

EXPLOSION!

Debris rains from above! Shattered glass! Gunfire! Commotion! Chaos! Pandemonium!

…

The champagne deliveryman rolls the barrel back into the van.

And U-Turns from whence he came.

***

FLOOR 28

“...Okay… FINE… There’ve been… a COUPLE surprises…”

Flynn shakes his head, facedown on the floor.

His nose wrinkles... On his tongue… Something salty… Bitter.

“Ugh, what th-...Oh. Just my blood.”

He twists right… A suited man swinging a katana at a blue blur!

The blur sidesteps, superkicking the swordsman’s face! He falls limp!

“Mark! Say something! You still with us?”

Oh. Ned.

Flynn rasps about, rubbing his scalp… “Got a… SPLITTING headache…..” Flynn exhaustedly twists left.

Another suit-goon sports a Remington Model 31… But, a walking Guyabera shirt twists the goon's arm backward, empties the gun-chamber aaaaaaaaaaand HEADBUTT!

The gunman drops faster than his bullets…

“Crash! How many left!?” Ned commands, delivering a coup-de-grace stomp to the katana-man’s chest.

“TWO!” Calls Isaiah King, holding two goons in simultaneous headlocks!

King headbutts one… The lackey drops limp…

BUT THE OTHER WRIGGLES OUT OF KING’S GRIP, RUNNING!

“He wants… the shell?”

“...Shell?”

…Flynn paws around his head, feeling something… fabric-like… He grips it…

“...Flynn’s got it! Mark, he’s coming for you…!”

Footsteps quicken!

“Got ‘im.”

“No, I have him.”

“HE’S MINE!” Flynn barks… He tucks his knees into his chin…

…The footsteps right above him!

Flynn springs up...

ALMOST BEHEADING THE LAST GOON! KIP-UP CLOTHESLINE!

Flynn lifts his arms in triumph… His jelly legs nearly collapse under him… Flynn extends his arms to keep his balance.

…He dizzily drops the fabric-webby-thing…

“Flynn! Nice!”

“woooOOOOOO!” Flynn manages a weak fist-pump, above the downed goon. “One for meeeeeeee.” Flynn slurs, exhaustedly. “...AND… He was LAST, so… By hero standards, he counts double, riiiiiiiight? PLUS, I have a headache! Sprinkle some Michael-Jordan-Flu-Game multiplier in there…”

His three compatriots advance.

“I mean, Flynn. If we're counting 'hero points'...” Ned chuckles. “You diving on that grenade…? First-rate hero stuff.”

…

“...Grenade?” Flynn’s eye twitches. “What gren-I MEAN, OF COURSE.” Flynn cackles confidently, as his allies approach. “When you’re a GOOD GUY… it’s INSTINCTUAL… You see a grenade and you think to yourself…”

“OH SHIT!” Crash yells.

…

“No… That’s not what I thought…”

…The trio freezes.

“Oh my G-…Flynn, you... sure you’re okay?”

Flynn squeezes his right shoulder, then his left. “Got my arms…” Glances downward… “Legs still there…”

“Should we take it out?”

“SHHHH!”

…Flynn’s eyes widen. “Take what out?”

Flynn touches his forehead. He rubs his temple, eyebrows, protruding metal blaaaaaaaaa-

“AHHHHHHHHHHH!” Flynn screams, tapping it.



“AH… WHAT?!?!” Flynn grips the… Oh God, shrapnel, EMBEDDED into his forehead.

“Flynn, stop touching it!”

“FUCK YOU! YOU DON’T HAVE A FUCKING TITANIUM UNICORN HORN STICKING OUTTA YOUR SKULL, NED!” Flynn defiantly re-touches it.



“Who’s doing that?!?”

“I’ll remove it.” Isaiah steps forward, rubbing his hands together.

“THAT’S WHAT KILLED STEVE IRWIN, KING. YOU ASSHOLE. Everyone BACK OFF!” Flynn howls. “And turn off the music!!!”

…

“What music?”

“JAPANESE CITY POP. SHUT IT OFF.”

…

……

Flynn inhales.

“You... don’t hear music?”

…They shake their heads.

Flynn taps his 'Titanium Unicorn Horn'.



…

“That’s… not good.”

“Look.” Ned grabs Flynn’s shoulder. “Mission accomplished. Let’s get you medical attention… It’s done now that we have that... shell thing.”

Flynn shakes his head… (during which, the “horn” wiggles back-and-forth in his skull)... “It’s no shell. It’s soft… like a…” Flynn looks down at his hand.

…

Empty.

“Cocoon.”

The four look down.

The last goon wields the 'cocoon' Flynn dropped.

“...Shit.”

He blows into it.



After blowing, the goon’s head droops, unconscious…

…

The commotion outside… Grows quiet.

…

Then, footsteps in mass… Running. Panicked screams.

Outside… A slow helicopter… Or a tornado brewing miles away…

A distant speck

Coming closer.

The screams outside grow louder.

…

As the distant dot approaches… Its shape takes on definition…

A thick canoe-shaped body.

Massive triangular… wings?

Closer…

Louder…

CLOSER...

LOUDER...

…Flynn coughs blood on the floor, rubbing his eyes.

“Guys, either that skull-shrapnel gave me a concussion.”



“Or that’s Mothra.”

***

23_HOURS_BEFORE_”42_HOURS_LATER” Revolving SushiBar

“Okay. Isaiah, remember to blah-blah-blah…”

Ned's outlining something *he* finds important.

King never takes his eyes from Kaye’s. Perhaps, asserting dominance? Or how a hunter never loses sight of his bounty? Either way, Isaiah stares unblinkingly, as plates pass beside him.

“I’ll start off… Knowing Sid, she’ll blah-blah-blah…”

Crash Rodriguez’s improvised a small model ring out of napkins… Considering it’s built from ONLY two-ply napkins? It’s… *impressively* accurate.

He’s tying little napkin wrestling figures for this demonstration…

“...Then, Flynn… You’ll…”

Ned glances over.

“Flynn, paying attention?”

No.

He’s not.

Instead, Flynn’s watching the television in the restaurant’s corner.

…Seething.

“Stupid kids… Stupid robot… Why do they get CHEERS?!?!”

“What are you on about, Mark?”

“THOSE FUCKING KIDS.” Flynn points accusatorily toward the television. On-screen, three plucky teenagers(?) in pilot outfits accept awards from a Mayor-looking dude.

“Today, we honor the INTEGRI-TEENS! For stopping Mothra from destroying a local children’s sanitarium!”







“RIDICULOUS! How are they HEROES? They had a GIANT ROBOT! They ONLY beat a MOTHRA.”

“...What’s wrong with Mothra?”

“Puh-LEEZ. Easiest fucking kaiju. Wanna beat a moth? Get a big light, flash it somewhere, the moth follows it.”

Isaiah’s vision darts from Ned to Flynn. Maintaining the same intensity. “Do moths and giant moths have the same habits?”

“STUPID QUESTION, KING.” Flynn barks, batting that refutation away. “Mothra's a massive emperor moth. Their predilection to light is imbued into their FUCKING DNA.”

“...Suppose that's true. You’re just leading Mothra with the light. That’s not *beating* him.”

“Do you COMPREHEND how FLAMMABLE moths are? Like roman candles soaked in gasoline! Once he’s following a light?” Flynn pulls a match from his pocket.

“Simple as one.”

Flynn strikes it… Flame burning.

“Two.”

Flynn tosses the match on Crash’s bank model.

“Three.”

FWOOOOSH! The model’s suddenly ablaze!

“Mothra’ll be soot-in-the-wind before his burning carcass hits the ground.”

“NO! MY MASTERPIECE!” Crash cries, as he tries to blow out the flames!

“Flynn, you can’t ju-”

Before Ned can finish admonishing, Flynn stands, cutting for the patio…

“…StupidKidsWhyIOughtaRazzaFrazza...”

…Ned sighs, nodding at Isaiah. “I’ll get him focused… Can you…” Ned gestures toward the burning napkin ring and the panicking Rodriguez. “Handle this?”

Isaiah doesn’t twitch.

Ned's patio-bound.

…

In one motion, Isaiah grabs the soy sauce… And pours it onto the fire.

The flame's doused. The previously-blowing Rodriguez snorts.

“Soy in my lungs!” Rodriguez wheezes.

***

Kaye strolls through the patio door…

Immediately surrounded by Tokyo’s hustle-and-bustle.

Flynn grips the patio-gate, sneering.

“Mark, please *don’t* set fire to our teammates’ contributions. If we wanna win…”

“Fuckin’ RIDICULOUS…”

…Surreptitiously, Ned glances down at his phone…

Remembering Theo’s (voicemail’s) words…

”Be patient.”

“What’s ridiculous?”

“What these PISSANTS consider heroic…” Flynn brushes his hand across his face. “I’ve fought my entire life, Neduardo. Every tastemaker made it their PERSONAL MISSION to drive me outta wrestling. And I FOUGHT. I NEVER GAVE UP.”

…Ned shrugs. “Admirable.”

Flynn shoves a finger toward Kaye. “Exactly. ADMIRABLE. Perfect word. *I* should be ADMIRED.”

“...That’s not exactly what I m-”

“But, what do *I* get? Boos. Jeers. Half-full Extra-Large Cokes thrown at me.”

“...I mean, they used to be full, right?” Ned grins. “Progress.”

Flynn sneers, not appreciating the light barb.

“Look. Being good isn’t about cheers or mayor-handshakes. It’s about doing the right thing. Because it’s the right thing to do.”

Flynn spits. “Easy for you to say, Ned. If you or Kido o-”

“Flynn.” Ned rebukes, reminding Flynn he won’t tolerate badmouthing his SAGA-mates…

…Flynn snorts. “If some HYPOTHETICAL FACE…”

Ned nods. “Proceed.”

“...Rule-bends… Or kidney-punches their opponent… They HAD to. To stop evil!”

“BUT! I’ve won clean! THREE SHOWS STRAIGHT. And I’m still getting booed! You SO-CALLED good guys can say ‘It’s not about cheers.’ Because YOU ASSHOLES ARE CONSTANTLY GETTING CHEERED.”

…

“Flynn, it’s great you’re not cheating.”

“I'VE NEVER CHEATED. It’s ‘RULE-BENDING’.”

“But, it's been… what, three shows? Versus the years you openly… ‘rule-bent’!”

“I WASN’T GOOD THEN. I’M A GO-”

“Good guy now. Yep, got that.” Ned scratches his ear, aching from Flynn’s shrill screaming.

Flynn fumes furiously…

…

An arm on his shoulder.

Ned’s.

“Rome wasn’t built overnight, Mark. If you’re sincere? And stick to being good? They’ll come around.”

…

Flynn stares at Ned’s encroaching arm, uncomfortably.

…

Ned slowly peels his hand away.

Flynn de-tenses.

“Anyway. We’ll stop that robbery tomorrow, then dominate WarGames. Two heroic feats in one weekend for ‘Good-Guy’ Flynn.”

…

Flynn grins smugly.

“Agreed, Nedidiah. That’s how I’ve always done it. Just keep shoving my greatness down their throats until I’m fucking UN-DE-NI-AB-LE.”

…Ned exhales.

“Sure, Mark. Now, let's finalize our team’s WarGames plans, eh?”

Flynn claps. “Absolutely. I have MULTIPLE IMPROVEMENTS on your designs. And we will be implementing ALL OF THEM. Fi-”

Flynn’s pocket chirps.

…His 2003 Motorola Razr.

“...Un momento, Cap. Quick… business call.”

Ned nods, rolling back inside.

…

Flynn answers.

“Irwin!”

“AH! You startled me, sir!”

…

“*You* called ME, Irwin. Did you not think I’d… Never mind. WHAT IS IT?!?”

“Our robbery actors are sick! Explosive food poisoning!”

…

“Related: your hotel room needs deep-cleaning.”

“ShhhhhhHIIIIIIIIT!”

“Among other things. Yessir.”

“I can’t stop a robbery WITHOUT robbers! We need criminal-actors for me to stop!”

“I know!”

“FUCK. What do I do?”

“...Well, what happens when a wrestler cancels last-minute? Don’t they usually get local talent?”

“Usually, XWF just begs Dick Powers to fill the slooooooo-OHMYGOD. Irwin! One of us is a genius!”

…

……

“And it’s y-”

“And it’s ME!”

“Yup, fine.”

“It’s obvious! We replace our “crooks” with some local Japanese theatre troupe! We’ll use locals!”

“Didn’t Ned already see the file with our current team’s faces?”

“We’ll just tell him the criminal syndicate planning the robbery learned we were onto them and switched criminals! DUH!”

“...That *should* work!”

“Damn right! We just need… one of those… what’s the word… Ah! Yakuza.”

“...Yakuza, sir?”

“Yeah, y’know? Painted faces. Big expressions.”

“...D'ya mean… Kabuki?”

“WHAT DID I TELL YOU ABOUT QUESTIONING ME, IRWIN?”

“TOMORROW, I WANT YA-KU-ZA.”

“...Yessir!”

“Make contact, forward them the bank’s weakpoints and when security shifts. change”

“Yessir.”

“...And Irwin?”

“Call the radio station.”

“And request… ANYTHING ELSE…”



***

Oil sizzling in a pan.

A hibachi cook in a chef’s hat spreads steak onto a grill…

“WarGames.”

…The chef raises his hat…

It’s Mark Flynn.

Sharpening two blades against each other…

“It’s my time to cook.”

“Am I a HISTORICALLY-SIGNIFICANT Universal champion? Absolutely.”

“Am I the GOD EMPEROR OF X-TREME!?! Of course.”

“Did I carry a WORM who never won gold without me… to a 231-day-tag-title reign? GODDAMN RIGHT.”

“But, before all that? I RULED WarGames. In 2012, I had three teammates no-show. I STILL carried my squad to second place…”

“In 2021, I contributed to the MOST DOMINANT WarGames victory OF ALL-TIME. TWO-competitor victory margin.”

“2022? I coached a squad of jobbers. Hopeless career-losers fighting all-stars… Kido, Angie, Myst… With my guidance, FOUR HAPLESS NOBODIES WON WARGAMES.”

“TWO WarGames rings.”

…

“Two more than Thad will ever have.” Flynn winks.

“So, I know the secret to WarGames success.”

“CHEMISTRY. SYNERGY.”

Swish! Flynn’s blades chop. Like a drummer, he carves beef into squares.

“A REAL team combines into greater than the sum-of-its-parts.”

Slicing green onions like melted butter.

“You can take truly sub-par ingredients… Stripped meat, tasteless vegetables, bitter spices…”

Sprinkles of coriander, sage, paprika…

“Cooked together juuuuuuuust right…”

He covers the pan…

Steam builds… Shrouding the contents…

…

Flynn lifts the cover...

Revealing a mouth-wateringly perfectly-braised steak… Subtle bourbon glaze sizzling on its surface…

“Mwah… Chef’s kiss.”

…

Flynn cackles, as he re-covers the pan…

“OR... you could have Sidney Grey’s team.”

Flynn lifts again…

Nothing but steam.

“Vapor. Flavorless MASH. SLOP that even rats and maggots couldn’t STOMACH.”

“Of course, whaddya expect from “Captain” Sidney Grey? That self-obsessed, egomaniacal MORON. Sid had the whole roster to choose from. And who’d she pick? Three underachieving, perennial nobodies.”

“Centy.”

“Y’know, I get shit for taking a decade to win the Uni. But, look at Cent! TWENTY years to get… what? A two-month Anarchy Title reign? A loss against BOOTS LICHTER?!?”

“Sid didn’t even draft Cent for his ‘talent’. She drafted him JUST to fuck with Ruby.”

“Does Cent have a WarGames ring? Sure. He got carried by me, Alias and Corey. Cent's only REAL career accomplishment.”

“But, now? Without three all-time great teammates? Cent’s body is withered, his mind’s spent…”

“And based on recent workrate? He’ll work harder time tweeting how hard it is to run the ropes… Than actually running the ropes.”

“Omega?”

“Jay’s profile's said ‘I ain’t done shit yet’ for two years now. And it REMAINS TRUE.”

“What the fuck has Omega *accomplished*?”

”Barely beat Bobby Bourbon?”

“Most #1 contender’s matches won WITHOUT winning a belt?”

“The reason ALEX RICHARDS has steady employment?”

“Omega? CONSTANT underachiever. He shines in opening matches, gets main event chances, withers under the spotlight, then wilts back to the bottom.”

“Wash, rinse, repeat.”

“And at WarGames? Omega’ll explode at launch like a Tesla Rocket.”

“Vagabond?”

Flynn wheezes.

“Vagabond’s the only guy you could put beside Clyde Rover so Clyde looks like an ATHLETE.”

“Vagabond got tossed IN SECONDS at the MayDay Captain’s match. A performance so awful… In XWF history, he’s the first WarGames captain to get MUTINIED.”

“Could he overcome this humiliating WarGames build? Given how many THUMPINGS he’s taken from lackluster competition? I SINCERELY doubt it.”

“And Sid PICKED these three.”

“HOW?!? Sidney skipped KIDO and BOURBON… And wound up with VAGABOND.”

“What POSSIBLE REASONING could’ve built this team??”

...

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Sid CRAVES attention. She REQUIRES cameras on her.”

“So, she chose Cent, Omega, and Vagg.”

“To avoid any chance her co-stars could outshine her. To be the ONLY star on her team.”

“Can Sidney Grey CARRY three wrestlers who couldn’t grapple their way out of a paper bag to victory?”

…

“No.”

“She can’t.”

“Yes, Sid won the Uni in record time.”

“YES, Grey won Lady-King-of-the-XWF.”

“INDEED, Sid-needy IS an… above-average competitor.”

…

“In singles competition.”

“But, ol’ Sid? Untested in teams-based wrestling.”

“Out-of-her-FUCKING-depth at WarGames.”

“She’s picked a hodgepodge of sub-par talents, with more weaknesses than strengths.”

“And even worse! She’s INCAPABLE of complementing her team. Enhancing their strengths. Covering their weaknesses.”

“Pro-Tip: A good teammate? Realistically assesses their allies.”

“Ned's grown significantly this last year. He’s on the upper-card’s doorstep.”

“But, he’s naive. He’ll shake your hand and miss the knife you’re plunging into his back. I mean, he trusted a post-match handshake from CHRIS PAGE.”

“He needs someone with guile. Someone thinking three steps ahead, out-planning any ambush.”

“He needs Mark Flynn.”

“Isaiah King? Already, a two-time TV champ. Pure hunter. Laser-focused. Willing to do anything to ELIMINATE his TARGET.”

“But, that single-mindedness means he can be surprised. Flanked. Outgunned by sheer numbers.”

“He needs a guy on his six. An opportunist. Someone to watch his back, so he can ISOLATE and DOMINATE.”

“He needs Mark Flynn.”

“Crash Rodriguez? A truly-gifted tag-wrestling GENIUS. A valuable addition to the already-STACKED Brotherhood of Bastards.”

“He just needs someone to create opportunities for EXPLOSIVE tandem-offense.”

“He needs Mark Flynn.”

…

“And what do I need, Sid?”

“I need to win.”

“I fought two matches last Warfare. Two matches off my briefcase requirements.”

“WHEN I win WarGames? That’s TWO PPV matches done.”

“Flynn, the MIRACLE WORKER…”

“Will be just TWO defenses… From the FASTEST BRIEFCASE EARNED IN XWF HISTORY.”

…

“And if winning means supporting my teammates?”

“Or playing the hero?”

“I’ll do it, Sidalicious. Whatever it takes”

“I am…”

“THE GREATEST WARGAMER OF ALL-TIME.”

…Into the pan.

“And you, Sid?”

Flynn drops a gristle bit…

“After WarGames… you’ll go down in history…”

SPARK OF FLAME!

…

And gone.

“As a flash-in-the-pan.”