[OOC: Formatting, so I posted the finished RP text.]

The scene opens with Ned at his parents house, looking through boxes. He carefully takes things out, looking somberly affectionate for the items within. He sighs, hands moving through a box carefully as the camera pans to reveal his mother behind him.

"It's definitely a lot more stuff to keep track of," she says with a weak chuckle. Her face is clearly worn from the stress of mourning, her stance reflecting the feeling clearly.

"Yeah... Nate and I will get it cleaned out sooner than later. I promise."

"I know, it's still just a fresh wound."

Ned nods, lifting a silver watch from one of the boxes, smiling as he turns to reveal it to his mother.

"Mom, look! It's Dad's old watch! Hell, he probably hadn't worn this thing since I was back in grade school..."

Her attitude brightens somewhat.

"Wow! Why don't you try it on?"

"Huh...?"

Ned looks down at the metal in his hands.

"I don't know about that..."

"Go ahead!"

Reluctantly, Ned places it on his wrist. It's cold to the touch as it hugs his skin. Mrs. Kaye begins to tear up, smiling.

"Oh... he'd love that..."

Ned embraces his mother, patting her back as she weeps.

"I know he would."

-------------

"Thanks again for coming with me on this trip, guys."

The scene cuts to Ned Kaye in the driver's seat of a car, Ethan in the back seat and none other than James Raven sitting shotgun.

"Ehn. I've got free time."

Ned rolls his eyes as he continues driving, taking an exit.

"Uh, man... this isn't our exit."

"Oh, I know, I was just gonna grab us some food first!"

"Sounds good!"

"I could eat, I suppose."

Ned pulls into the drive-thru behind another car.

"Oh. Fast food."

"Yeah, we do have to be there on time."

They all sit for a second, keeping to themselves a bit.

"Hey, Ned.."

"What's up?"

"Do you think they'll recognize you?"

"Through the voice box? Hell no! It's too muffled to recognize anyone through those things!"

They pull forward, Ned rolling his window down.

"Whatcha want, Ethan?"

"I'll.... uh.... a number two, I guess. Medium."

"Hello, welcome to [BEEP], how may I serve you today?"

"Hi, can I get a medium number two and a medium number four? Both with Cokes."

"Alrighty. What else?"

Ned turns to James who leans over him and speaks loudly.

"Can I get a large vanilla shake?"

There's a pause.

"Is that James Raven?"

A sly smile appears on James' face. Ethan bursts out laughing as Ned chuckles, shaking his head.

"Oh, shut up."

---------------

The scene cuts once again, showing the three in a cheap looking performance center, various rings in mild states of disrepair on display as a man, somewhat portly, walks up to Ned, arms extended.

"Ned!"

"Ricky!"

The two shake hands vigorously. The stout man stares at Raven.

"And you brought some damn good company, I see! Never thought I'd see ya back here!"

"Yeah, yeah."

Raven leans forward.

"Where are we exactly?"

"Oh! Disaster Drop Wrestling! This was my biggest indie deal. It brings back a lot of memories..."

"Yeah, we gotta get you caught up! Tour the place! Just something! God, maybe we can get a deal with that pansy in the mullet-"

"Cameras, Ricky."

"O-oh!"

Ricky gulps.

"It's a... good mullet..?"

Ned shoos him off.

"Go ahead, Rick. We'll catch up."

The fat man walks out of frame as Ethan walks to a wall of photographs, scanning his eyes over quickly.

"Hey, look!"

James and Ned walk over to Ethan to investigate.

"What's up, kid?"

Ethan points to one at eye level.

"It's young Ned!"

James chuckles, but Ned pauses, calling out.

"Hey, Rick?"

Rick calls back.

"Yeah?"

"There's a photo of me on here! Can I take it?"

"Go ahead, Superstar!"

"Fond memories," quips James.

"No."

Ned looks down as he grabs the picture.

"I'm drunk in this."

---------------

In a dimly lit room, Ned Kaye sits, staring at the camera. He appears to be tense, face softening only somewhat after a shallow sigh. There is a quick cut to Ned on a treadmill, sweat dripping off him, the aforementioned photo taped in front of him. The scene cuts back to Kaye in the chair.

"I try to hold my tongue about a great deal."

"I don't overreact or let my emotions get the better of my judgment. And try as I might to focus entirely on the prize of this match, the illustrious Hart Championship, I can't. It's not because the title is lacking in respect, far from it. As far as modern history goes the Hart title changes hands less frequently than the Universal Championship, in no small part to the efforts of Robert Main, Maverick, and Tony Santos himself. It's not because I think Tony Santos is an unworthy champion. It's not even because I have a bone to pick with him about his comments before the Five Stages of Hell in a Cell match. It's because there's something that I feel overshadows the entirety of Tony's reign."

Ned sighs, think of his next words very carefully.

"Something is seriously fucked up in this business."

"It has been disturbing for years, but nobody seems to bring it up for very long. We discuss when it becomes an issue, but if it's not immediately affecting something we care about, we just kind of shut up and let it happen. It's not just a fan issue, it's an issue in the locker room, too. And Tony is a perfect example of this. Of our inability to discuss substance abuse in this sport. I wanna make something crystal clear before I continue: I am not using my time in this seat to chastise Tony for his problems; his mistakes. I've had alchohol problems and I'm not ignorant to the fact that Tony, whether I think he's a great guy or not, is trying to get better. That's not why this bothers me so much."

Ned pauses, looking visibly frustrated.

"See, I remember being in that hole. I can recall some days I'd wake up passed out in some building I barely recognized, stench of whisky on my breath. I remember-"

Ned chokes up a little, his voice straining.

"I remember walking in my house, my father looking at me covered in dirt and sweat, knowing... knowing I fucked up again."

Ned collects himself.

"The fact is, as much as I'd like to sit here and act like I got sober purely through force of will, that's simply untrue. I had support systems, family, and friends and even then it was a steep hill to climb. But you know who didn't bat an eye? The management at Disaster Drop Wrestling. It didn't matter that I was killing myself or endangering people in the ring to a far more deadly degree. I could work in their eyes, so they didn't consider it important to give me the help I needed. The same way TNA shrugged its shoulders at Jeff Hardy. The same way the WWF looked the other way when Shawn Michaels was doped up on God knows what every Monday night. As much as I love this company- and I do love the XWF- it has followed suit with this consistent inaction. Tony is destroying hotel rooms, relapsing on a monthly basis, and in a clear state of clinical depression and what does the XWF do? Not a damn thing. They don't take the belt off him, they don't try to find a solution or publicly denounce his behavior, they just sit back while a talented man burns his life away."

Another clip plays of Ned lifting weights, taking sharp breaths.

"Let me tell you something: I respect the hell out of Tony, but he shouldn't be struggling against Hanari Carnes and Noah Jackson. Tony is a man who should be capable of taking down Robert Main, but he's not at his best. Tony should be unbreakable, but he lost at War Games. And he's trying to improve, trying desperately to get better, but what incentive does he have?"

Ned stands up from his seat, face flushed in anger.

"Here is a man who is being shown that this behavior can continue; that ge can destroy himself again and again and he will still be your XWF Hart Champion! He gets blasted and can barely get through a month sober, but Centurion and Vincent Lane will praise every match he's in! Why should Tony change when the world enables him like this, reinforces his self-destructive behavior?"

Ned gazes into the camera, nearly shaking from anger.

"Well, I'm sick of holding my tongue. I'm sick of sitting by while someone goes through everything I've been through at a more vulnerable moment of their life. So, I am going to go out there and beat Tony, not for the belt. Not for any accolades. But for his own good. This is your moment of clarity, Santos. A wake-up call. You can hide behind that belt, you can talk and talk, you can try to run away from it, but I am coming as certain as a storm on the horizon."

Ned calms his demeanor, turning away from the camera before twisting his head back.

"You said that modesty doesn't make champions. I agree. Modesty makes the man. What kind of man do you wanna be? A champion with no values or a contender with a code?"

Ned walks away from the camera, head held high.

"You can't run from yourself."