Hours earlier

There must’ve been a dozen laptops recovered by the extraction team turned over to Darcy and the tech team on standby. Despite their efforts, they'd hit a roadblock. The only data retrievable was a number: 515. Darcy stared at the screen, narrowly containing her growing concerns. She found solace in knowing that they’d gotten the data out of most hands. Still, the frustration in the vehicle was palpable. A quiet buzz filled the stagnant air, the overseeing agent retrieving his phone.

“It's come to that, huh?” The agent spoke, seemingly resigned. Darcy peered up, the anxious tightening in her chest transforming into a vice grip on her heart.

“Keep us updated. Thanks for convincing him to talk to our source. Bye,” he pocketed his phone as Darcy stared at him, forcing out the question trapped in her chest.

“What's going on?” She asked, her hands gripping her jeans, nails nearly digging into her palms through the fabric.

“Well, seeing as we're stuck, we took a gamble,” he answered, sensing her unease with the non-explanation, “we have someone in custody who tipped us off to this. He has more info, but he'll only speak with Ned.”

“Who?”

He held his tongue. They shared an uncomfortable silence as she began grabbing her phone desperately, fumbling with it as she attempted to contact Ned, the call failing instantly. The anxiety turned into steady panic as her suspicions arose, pointing to one source. She looked up, her face pale, but her voice commanding.

“I need you to take me to Ned right now.”

---

Now

The prisoner placed a domino on the reflective floor, its surface reflecting his visage when he'd placed the domino at the end of its line. He focused slightly on the makeshift mirror, trying to recognize himself behind the unkempt facial hair and grim countenance. It didn't look like him, merely someone he was now condemned to be. In many ways, this cell reminded him of The Facility, minus his former status. He’d been given the opportunities afforded to a God amongst men, but here he was nothing. Now, all he held were dominoes. They were at least something he could control. With a soft breath, he flicked his finger, each tiny monolith tumbling forward, a chain of cause and effect. Curiously, the final domino remained upright. He tilted his head as the door on the other side of the protective glass opened.

“Douglas Donohue,” Marina said authoritatively, “Here he is.”

She pointed at Ned. Kaye's hands curled. The last time they encountered, Doug threatened to kill Darcy. That alone was unforgivable. Deep within Ned, he wished to take a sick schadenfreude in Donohue's condition, but he knew it was wrong. Doug smirked, an empty expression. Stoically, Ned ignored the vacant smile and sat on the chair opposite Donohue, peering through the glass.

“Welcome to my slice of paradise that you graciously provided,” Doug began, gesturing in a mocking reveal of his dire living quarters. Ned took note, but he found it difficult to exert much pity.

“You look like shit,” he responded.

“Oh, Ned,” Doug chuckled as he spoke, appearing to appreciate Kaye's company in a twisted fashion, “You had a hand in this, don't forget that. Besides, I've spent God knows how many hours in this hellhole chatting about me. I’m over that. I wanna talk about you.”

“Unless you’re giving us the code, I'm not interested in hearing anything you have to say.”

“You should be,” Doug spoke ominously, “This does involve you. 90% of those programs are fine-tuned to your brain patterns, insecurities, dirty secrets, et cetera.”

“You’re getting your conversation,” Marina interrupted, trying to pressure Donohue into finishing this, “uphold your end. Give up the code.”

Doug outstretched his arms, taking immense joy in siphoning the sand of their proverbial hourglasses.

“You'll have your control code in due time.”

Ned's ears perked as he turned to Marina, a betrayed glint in his glare, “Control code? You said a kill code.”

Douglas erupted in laughter, “Please don't tell me you thought the minds behind MK Ultra were being altruistic! They're not upset that the technology could manipulate people against their will, they just don't want to be left out!”

Ned was immediately reminded of why he left in the first place. He disappointedly stated, “Sorry, Marina, I can't do this. Not even for you.”

“...You don’t have that choice,” she said regretfully, stepping back through the door and locking it behind her. Despite rushing for the door, Ned was trapped in.

“See? Ain’t it nicer to talk privately?” Doug taunted. Ned said nothing, merely facing the door.

“Honestly, I do have the kill code, kinda, but you gotta talk with me, Ned.”

Kaye kept his eyes on the door, ignoring each word.

“You see, I've been keeping an eye on you and I began to realize that I had an answer to a question you've been asking quietly for a while,” he licked his lips as he said what he'd been anticipating, “How did Darcy know you got the medicine for her sister's treatment?”

Ned turned around, shocked initially, but quickly stepping back towards the glass.

“Talk.”

“It's not much of a puzzle if you rethink the events clearly,” Donohue explained, “to know that you got it, she had to A. know it existed and B. have to know why you had to get it. Now, why would she suspect that you grabbed it if my group stole it? She had to be tipped off. To be aware of where it was in the first place: with us.”

Ned started to piece it all together. The amount of data that they had on him in such a short period. Why Darcy kept in contact even though she regretted The Chameleon project. “No,” he whispered.

“Oh, but yes,” Donohue continued, “imagine it this way: You’re out of options and your sister is dying. You know if you sell your work, you might save her. Why stand up for some wrestler when family is at stake? So you sell him out and you agree to trade information for medicine.”

“LIAR!” Ned screamed, smashing his fist into the glass, barely cracking it.

“Ned, I'm the first person to be honest with you in ages,” he pointed to a laptop near the seat where Ned had sat, a password screen showing a hint: 515.

“If I'm telling the truth, then you know the answer. 515. S-I-S. That's the kill code,” Doug smiled as Ned's glare turned downward, a mix of rage and hurt combining into a regretful concoction.

“Why? ...Why tell me?” Ned asked.

“You took everything away from me. My life, future, and work. I'm just returning the favor.”

The door behind Ned opened as someone rushed into the room. Much to Ned's surprise and heartache, it wasn't Marina, but Darcy, looking exhausted and worried.

“Ned, we need to talk. Now,” she pleaded.

“Did you really do it?” He asked, “Did you try to sell me out?”

“Not try,” Donohue chimed in, “she did.”

“Shut up!” Darcy yelled venomously, tears beginning to well in her eyes as her worst fears began to crumble in overhead.

“Did you?” Ned asked again desperately.

“Just... let me explain, please..!” She exclaimed as Ned's head fell into his hands.

“...god...” He looked to the screen and entered the name he dreaded would be correct. The name that confirmed the origin of the code.

Abigail.

…


…


The code deletion sequence began.

He stared at her, speechless.

“I... I can explain... I wanted to tell you, I-,” tears began to fall from Ellis's eyes, her glasses fogging, “I knew it would ruin everything…. Ned, I'm so sorry… I love you.”

He trembled softly before walking past her, one thing leaving his lips before he departed.

“I don't even know who you are.”

Ned walked out, avoiding eye contact as he continued forward. Darcy thought she saw him look back, but she couldn't tell through the tears flowing from her eyes.

And Darcy was alone.

---

---

---

“Two weeks.”

Ned's voice is shaky, nearly erratic. He is brimming with many uncomfortable emotions he is attempting to swallow.

“That is roughly the time between Weekend Warfare and the final two rounds of this tournament. Two weeks.”

“That's what I now understand I'm fighting for.”

“Y’know, Albert, you wear a costume resembling Greek heroes when you come to the ring, but you don't walk its path. You live a comfortable life with the mildest inconveniences to interrupt your opulence. You don't have any real problems, nor the courtesy to even pretend that you do, and comfort was not awarded to the heroes of Greek myth. Odysseus doesn’t return home to Ithaca with fanfare. His home is changed and he’s forced into hiding for decades. Theseus doesn’t die peacefully but instead plummets to his demise. To strive to do the right thing is to sacrifice - to be tortured. This is the path I walk and its tragic, unceasing strife seems to be all I know. The woman I thought I could trust sells out my most precious secrets and lies to my face for months. Those I love are dead, dying, or have left me behind. My allies are either potentially disruptive to my mental health or they’re potential opponents should I continue to the next round. All I have is the tournament. All I have is this.”

“Two weeks. Fourteen days of purpose, structure, and meaning in a world where I’ve nothing else. That's what I'm fighting for, Dion. You seek victory to prove some masturbatory point. I have to win this because this is survival for me. When I said March Madness was everything against Angie, I didn't know how true that was. And if you think for a passing fucking second that I'm going to let you rip it out of my hands, your arrogance is greater than even you realize.”

“Twisted pride is all you have. The kind of logic that lets you attempt to downplay how you roped your identity into the myths of a namesake you could never have imbued meaning in yourself. You walk into this company thinking it's beneath you. You believe you're going to step in here and put its heroes in the places you wish. But myth is neither here nor there. Myth is simply an avenue to describe our troubles with a magnitude equivalent to their feeling. I don't know what myth you're looking towards as evidence that your ass isn't being kissed adequately, but that's my whole point. Your “struggles” are little more than selfish desires. Proving your existence matters in spite of others, not for them. If this tournament was an eating contest, you would treat it in the same way. Because for you, the mountain is not redemption nor meaning, it’s glory. It is platinum to adorn your world of pyrite.”

“The XWF has never been a place for empty glory. It’s a place of growth. Of the ever-enduring human desire to move onward. To fight in a world that will always find you dead eventually. You view yourself above it, playing a game others are inherently outmatched in. You call yourself a lord of vines because it's cute and marketable. I don't brand myself as the spirit of the XWF. I simply am. No one argues with that fact because there’s no ambiguity present. In a world of gray, of continued absconding of responsibility, I hold it in my hands and keep climbing. I have to. I carry the flame up the mountain while you merely watch. Olympian is more than just a title for those who sit and bask in the glory of past deeds. It’s for those who discover limits to break them. I've survived heartache you’ll never conceive of, pain that seems endless, despair from all sides. I survived the climb while you sat, unburdened by troubles.”

“And now I’m going to be a real problem for you.”

"You can't run from yourself."