The inside of a security center.

We see a four-by-four square of camera feeds… Blue lines across each screen, fizz and fuzz…

On the other screens… We see dozens of men and women, frantically working… Typing at computers… Coding. In a corridor of cubicles…

One briefly reaches over their desk… And shoves over the monitor of another.

The giant block of screen falls into the lap of the programmer. Glass shatters into their legs. His hands lift from his keyboard as his face contorts in horror.

A frenzied attack breaks out between the halves of the workspace. People wield their keyboard over their heads like warhammers… Elbows and punches are thrown between the office drones with reckless abandon… Blood splatter all over the poster reading ‘You Don’t Have To Be Crazy To Work Here… But It Helps!’

…An index finger gently presses a button.

From the ventilation system in the ceiling… a faint purple gas seeps into the room.

The punches slow. The human carnage relaxes… The office warfare slowly comes to a halt…

As the fumes enter their air supply, they are not filled with peace. But numbness. Like human livestock, they mosey lackadaisically back to their cubicles… And the work resumes.

In the top left most camera view… We see a threesome approaching the front door.

“игра начинается…”

***

Flynn looks down the barrel of the CCTV camera suspiciously.

“You sure this is the spot, beatnik?”

Flynn looks back at the United Korean… Whose skin seems to be vibrating like a massage chair. He’s rubbing the walls of the building’s exterior, trying to get as close as possible to whatever’s inside…

“Yessssssssssssss… yessssssssss, riiiiiiiiight theeeeeeeeeere…”

Flynn inhales thoughtfully. Then looks back into the camera suspiciously…

“Mark Flynn!” A distant camo-colored blur comes nearer and nearer, jogging up the path.

Flynn doesn’t look over, still eyeing the eye, like one of those puzzles you have to look through to see the answer…

NK finally reaches the two, breath heaving, doubled over his knees…

He rises and points accusingly!

“I said wait for me, Mark Flynn! I needed to leave Kato with careful instructions to circle non-suspiciously while we left! But when I turned around, you and UK were already halfway here!”

Flynn doesn’t bother looking over…

“Sorry, NK. I thought you’d said North Koreans were naturally twice as fast as Americans.”

…NK is flustered.

“...Of course! I am quick as a puma raised in the hills of Mount Paektu!... But you must recall, I intentionally travel at 1/3rd speed to accommodate your feeble Western gait. Hence how you were SEEMINGLY able to outpace me…”

Flynn rolls his eyes. “How very kind of you.”

NK exhales, oblivious to the sarcasm.

“Well, I will tolerate your insolence as you have extended appreciation for my gesture. Now, shall we proceed?”

“Sure.”

…

…

No one moves.

I mean, UK is fucking feeling himself right now, but Flynn and NK remain in position.

…

“Mark Flynn?”

“Yeah, NK.”

“Are we… locked out of this facility?”

“Dunno. Haven’t tried the front door yet.”

“...Ah.”

…

UK scratches the outside walls like a dog trying to notify its masters to let it in…

Still, no one moves.

…

“May I posit a question?”

“Shoot.”

“Mark Flynn, you may not be aware that I have meticulously studied your approach to problem-solving, both inside and outside of the ring. But I have! And… You are typically very… gung-ho, attack first, American-style. An adept strategist but an aggressor through-and-through.”

“Uh-huh.”

“...I actually must admit, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you… not… either attacking or planning an attack. Or being attacked, I suppose. Even during which, I imagine you are plotting a vicious counter-attack.”

“Sure.”

…

“And the question was?”

“Ah. Yes… So. It appears to the untrained eye, NOT MYSELF OF COURSE… But it may seem that… you are standing in silence outside of the entrance to the building UK has led us.”

“...Yep.”

“...And why is that?”

“Something’s off.”

At the suggestion that something may be amiss, the hairs on the back of NK’s neck quiver. He executes a diagram-perfect backward roll and drops into a combat stance.

“Ah! Of course! An ambush, perhaps? A trap? A snare? A RUUUUUUUUUUUUUSE?!?”

“...Just thinking out loud. Why would Professor Ned Kaye set-up a base of operations here?”

…NK relaxes the tension in his stance. His head tilts, pondering Flynn’s question.

“Do you refer to Atlanta? Central Command reports indicate it has a magnificent airport. Not nearly as sizeable as Pyongyang’s, mind you. But a flight hub worthy of a quaint hamlet town.”

“...No, I mean an abandoned looking… factory?”

“...Ah.”

“From what we know, Professor Ned Kaye is a science-technology kinda guy… You’d figure his base would look like… I dunno, something out of Blade Runner. Like a virtual-casino… Or An automated brothel… With robotic hookers and droid pimps… Neon lights and all that.”

“How would that work?”

“What do you mean?”

“Mark Flynn, what role would a droid… procurer… play in a robotic brothel?”

…Flynn, for the first time since arriving here, finally looks at his partner.

“NK, I’m not about to explain the robot birds and the robot bees to you.”

NK blushes and stamps his foot impatiently!

“I am quite familiar with robotic love-making, Mark Flynn!”

Flynn gets a goofy smile on his face, which only makes NK blush harder.

“W-w-w-well, not personally, through any experience…! Central Command has sent a number of… research articles on the subject!”

“Uh huh, suuuuuuure, bud.”

“My question CLEARLY remains unanswered! Why would an automated brothel would have droid procurers.”

Flynn shrugs. “I mean, why wouldn’t they?”

“I shall pursue my argument as follows. Assumption 1: Robotic ladies-of-the-night would presumably operate on Asimov’s three law of robotics.”

“...Okay, Sure. Rules are don’t harm humans, don’t disobey humans, defend yourself from harm, from most important to least important.”

“Assumption 2: A robotic lady-of-the-night would provide human pleasure, adhere to all desires, tolerate forces up to 100 times that that a Western human pervert is capable of exerting…”

“...You can just *say* robot prostitute.”

“Assumption 3: A robotic lady-of-the-night would accept virtually any payment method before… en flagrante delecto…”

“Sure… Though, if she’s a popular sex-robot, I’d want something protective before I slide the ol’ … Visa in her chip reader.”

Flynn playfully jabs NK in the ribs, laughing at his own joke. NK laughs mirroring Flynn’s expression.

“Like a pair of rubber gloves, perhaps?”

Flynn’s smile vanishes.

“No, I… Never mind, what’s your point?”

“If this hypothetical robot sex-worker can handle digital transactions, would be safe from attack-and-or-assault from human customers AND would have the wherewithal to conduct business before the… en flagrante delecto... Then, what would be the purpose of a robotic procurer?”

NK scoffs and waves his hand, dismissing the idea.

“One would merely be a robotic middleman, presumably taking valuable profit and/or power that would limit profit going towards the human madam of the brothel.”

Flynn raise a finger.

…

He lets it droop.

“Hmm. Okay, you got me there. I wasn’t trying to accurately describe the inner machinations of a functioning robot brothel. I’m just saying… I was expecting something a little more… techy.”

Flynn’s gaze returns to the CCTV camera outside the front, covered in dust and cobwebs. He squints suspiciously, running his finger along the side… The grime is real.

If Professor Kaye HAD been setting up shop here… would the outside be in such a state of disrepair.

“It’s just… Something’s off.”

NK scratches his head.

“I comprehend your general sentiment… Counter-point.” NK points his thumb behind himself, towards his inter-dimensional counterpart, still gyrating wildly against the walls.

“Were Professor Ned Kaye NOT in this facility… Presumably, Comrade UK would be…” NK clears his throat. “In greater control of his… mmm… faculties. And, additionally…”

“Heavy.”

…NK turns around toward UK, who is scratching the skin of his arm…

“Pardon, my dear UK?”

“...Gimme…Gimme a… Gimme…. Gimme something heavy…”

…NK scratches his head.

He looks to his left. Then, to his right.

Near the front door, he spots a large, rectangular trashcan with a pebbled exterior.

NK walks over, rubbing his hands together… attempting to shove it…

…

But, it doesn’t budge.

“Poor luck, my dear UK… The irony! This trashcan is heavy, BUT is far too dense and weighted to mo-”

UK slides between NK and the trash can. In one swift motion, UK lifts it over his head.

Before NK can even react, UK starts walking back down the path, away from the building, with the trashcan…

…

…

…

“...Should we… Stop him?”

…

NK’s eyes watch UK’s finely-toned posterior, as UK walks away. A trail of sweat forms at his brow as he longingly gapes at the United Korean’s buttocks.

…

Flynn snaps his fingers in front of NK’s face.

“You do realize you’re basically looking at your own ass, right?”

NK blushes.

“I was looking at nothing! Merely formulating my next point!”

“Well, go on, then.”

“...Ah, yes. As I was saying, Mark Flynn…”

…

“To test your attentive capacities, Mark Flynn! What WAS I saying?”

“If Professor Ned Kaye WAS here…”

NK snaps his fingers.

“Ah yes, that’s right! …I mean, Well done, Mark Flynn! You’ve passed my attention exam!”

“Uh huh.”

“IF! As I was saying, IF, Professor Ned Kaye was here… Perhaps his faculties are similarly reduced in decreasing distance from UK, as UK’s have been in decreasing distance from him. If so, even if a fully capable Professor Ned Kaye would be a challenge, surely, a severely distracted one would be child’s play for we two.”

“Makes sense.”

…

“Mark Flynn, I still feel, despite my logical deductions… Your… FEELING… that something is… OFF. Has not subsided.”

“...Nope.”

Flynn sighs.

“But, you’re right. We’re not getting anywhere sitting here and if it is a trap, I’m not seeing how. I guess our best move is play the ball as it lies.”

NK claps once.

“Haha! Just so!”

Flynn walks forward toward the door. “You ready?”

“Of course, I have your back!” Literally. Just in case, NK creeps behind Flynn’s body, in case it is a trap, so Flynn would absorb all of the poison/spikes/fire/acid/South Korean cuisine.

Flynn extends his grip around the door handle. NK holds his breath…

…

He jiggles it. NK gasps.

…

It doesn’t turn.

“Hmm, guess it IS locked.”

“How nefarious!”

“Well, now, we figure out the best… alternative entrance.”

“Indeed! A route that would keep knowledge of our presence minimal. Discrete. Inconspicuous.”

“Right, something like…”

That moment, a little white blur sprints back over the hill, full-speed. 15 miles an hour like a jaguar.

A pebbled garbage can over his head like an Olympic javelin.

UK runs full-sprint, before… About 10-feet short of the building, he plants his left foot and turns his right shoulder… Heaving the garbage can with the full force of his body.

The can flies through the air.

The building’s exterior window, probably one of the last intact parts of the building… Completely smashes inwards.

Before either Flynn or NK can say a word, UK calmly jogs up to the window and scampers inside.

…

Flynn and NK look around.

…

They look both directions.

No guards.

No alarms.

Just a newly made pile of shattered glass.

NK clicks his tongue.

“...I must admit, Mark Flynn…”

Flynn is already crawling through the new entryway.

“You are correct.”

NK goes to follow.

“Something IS… off…”

***

“Vaughnie. We’ve teamed once before in TPW.”

“Somehow, I never received an invite. I suppose it was lost in your inefficient, American post office.”

“So, I’d hope you’d have learned a thing or two about hitching your horse to the right cart.”

“I mean, let’s face it. Let’s get real fuckin’ honest.”

“You’ve accumulated an incredible list of accomplishments in your still-very-young career, Peter Vaughn. You are undoubtedly talented. However, If you’ve had any shortcomings in your career, Peter Vaughn…”

“It’s the fuckin’ company you chose to keep.”

Flynn and NK sneer with disgust.

“I mean, let’s talk the Denzel Porter Invitational. The Exiles? Lux and Betsy Granger.”

“Peter Vaughn came to the fight of his life… Against Mark Flynn, Captain Corey Smith and Thaddeus Duke…”

“Vaughnie, you came into the biggest cross-promotional wrestling event in RECORDED HISTORY… A Triple Champion.”

“By every conceivable measure and by every measurable concept, the Denzel Porter Invitational should have been your coronation, Peter Vaughn.”

“Your ascent into godhood.”

“Your summit to the mountain of permanent wrestling lore.”

“Just like I told you when we first faced off, Petey. Going into the Denzel Porter Invitational… You had done what all we rejects and outcasts set out to do… You tore open the history books, ready to scrawl your name on every page.”

“You were on the cusp of being PERMANENTLY UNDENIABLE…”

…

“And what happened?”

“Unlike Raion Kido in a title match, YOU didn’t choke on your grand stage, Peter Vaughn.”

“But… the dance partners you brought?”

Flynn chuckles.

“Anarchy midcarder, Xavier Lux? Werewolf murderer, Betsy Granger?”

NK sighs forlornly… As both he and Flynn lift their right fists to the sky in solidarity.

“Rest in peace, Lawrence Talbot.”

“Rest in power, Larry.”

Flynn drops his fist, now pointing into the camera.

“Betsy didn’t JUST kill our werewolf friend. She shit the bed so hard, she killed your chances of logging a win over the longest-reigning Supercontinental Champion of all-time.”

“While we’re being honest, Peter Vaughn… That new belt around your waist is ILLEGITIMATE.”

Flynn claps twice.

“Go off, NK.”

“Corey Smith was so uncontested as Warfare’s champion that he retired undefeated, having never lost that belt in your possession. You never defeated the champion for it.”

“Just like when you got shoved to the front of the line to spring on ol’ soft-headed Jimmy Caedus for that Uni strap… You weren’t the best wrestler, Vaughnie.”

“You were the best for the capitalistic interests of the shareholders.”

“Best for business.”

“But, still… Nearly five months have passed since your loss to Comrade Alias for the XWF Universal Championship belt.”

“Five months is a long time.”

“And we know that because that’s how long we’ve been holding these tag team championship belts.”

Flynn and NK grin and bump fists…

“But, Vaughnie… You had almost half-a-year to lick your wounds. To SEETHE. To fucking swear on whatever the hell you believe… That the mistake you made at DPI.”

“Picking lackluster stablemates.”

“Would NEVER happen again.”

…

“And now? You’re teaming with Calypso.”

“Comrade Calypso.”

“Fuckin’... Ca-LYP-so.”

“Lemme ask Vaughnie. I know you’re a fucking janitor, but… You know better jobs than janitor ask for a resume, right?”

“Or references.”

“Or, fuckin’, work experience?”

“Peter Vaughn, I’m not even certain Calypso’s urine could pass a narcotics test is how ill-prepared your partner is for this opportunity.”

“Have you even checked your boy’s stats yet?”

Flynn tsk-tsks.

“Don’t worry, Vaughnie, ol’ buddy. Your REAL friends, Flynn and NK did the research for you.”

Flynn elbows NK in the ribs. NK doubles over from the unexpected strike.

“NK, read off the stats.”

NK rubs his sensitive rib… But then inhales, seemingly re-inflating back to proper posture. He reaches into his jacket pocket… And retrieves his notebook.

He quickly flips to a middle page with exact precision.

“CALYPSO’S MATCH RECORD IN HIS LAST TEN MATCHES ARE AS FOLLOWS…”

NK clears his throat, turning his notebook sideways, reading it off like a scroll

“Saturday Night Savage! July 3rd - vs - Talia Areano. LOSS.”

“Oof, Areano is as green as a four-leaf clover. Well, maybe it was a fluke.”

“Saturday Night Savage! July 17th Triple-Threat - vs - Talia Areano and Geri Vayden. LOSS.”

“...Guess not. Maybe Cal’s just not a Savage guy?”

“Wednesday Night Warfare! July 21st - vs - Atara Themis. LOSS.”

“...Jeez. Maybe he’d do better in the minor leagues?”

“bWo Anarchy! July 22nd Tornado Tag w/ Jamaican Jimmy - vs - Centrubion, THUGS, BMI & Big Preesh. LOSS.”

“...You know! I bet the problem is he’s overworking himself. He had three matches in one week! That guy needs to take a vacation and come back refreshed and rejuvenated.”

“bWo Anarchy! August 19th - vs - Ruby. LOSS.”

“...Shit. Well, at least it can’t get any worse.”

“Anarchy! September 2nd - vs - T.H.U.G.S. w/ Ruby. LOSS.”

“...Against Wish & Black? Jesus CHRIST.”

“Saturday Night Savage! December 11th - vs - Michael Graves. LOSS.”

“Man, Gravy does a lot better in the ring than he does in the courtroom.”

…

“Or so I’ve heard.”

Flynn winks into the camera.

“Saturday Night Savage! January 15th - vs - Xavier Lux. LOSS.”

“Wait! So, this guy couldn’t even beat Vaughnie’s *GOOD* partner?!?”

NK briefly closes his notebook to look up at Flynn.

“Calypso also lost to Peter Vaughn’s weaker partner. He lost to Betsy Granger on the March 11th Saturday Night Savage.”

“...Holy fuck, Vaughnie. I can’t imagine this list getting any sadder.”

“The final two matches take place on Madness.”

“...I stand corrected.”

“Monday Night Madness! March 28th - vs - Big Preesh w/ Jamaican Jimmy. LOSS.”

“...Fuck.”

“And finally. Monday Night Madness! May 2nd - vs - Big Preesh and BMI w/ Jamaican Jimmy. LOSS.”

“...Calypso can’t even win on the C SHOW…”

…

Flynn clasps his hands below his nose, taking all this in.

After having a moment to gather himself, he points his hands at NK.

“Lemme get this straight, NK. Petey Vaughn? Former Uni champ? Wants to run at us with a guy that’s lost his LAST TEN MATCHES.”

“His last *twelve* actually, Mark Flynn.” NK retorts as he finally clasps the notebook shut and returns it to his pocket. “The last match Calypso won was against Ruckus… in March of 2021.”

“FIFTEEN MONTHS?!?”

“Indeed, Calypso’s last victory was well over half-a-pandemic ago.”

…

…Flynn exhales. Shaking his head despondently.

“Vaughnie. If you brought a REAL partner with you? An exile? Or hell, if the CCPE megapowers exploded and you brought another guy Page reps.”

“We’d still run you out of the ring.”

Flynn and NK high-five, before returning to form focusing on the camera.

“BUT INSTEAD. YOU BROUGHT FUCKIN’ CALYPSO.”

“Comrade Blue Tango.”

“The Marty Jannetty to Jamaican Jimmy’s Shawn Michaels.”

…

“Vaughn. You’re a smart guy.”

“You’ve made many prudent moves in the past, Peter Vaughn.”

“This one? Seems as dumb as dumb gets. But, hell, maybe you think if you bring a scrub, it’ll throw us off our game and you’ll be able to sneak a win over us while we pummel your wrestling scarecrow until there’s nothing fucking left to punch out.”

“If that is your plan, Peter Vaughn. Let us refer you to other competitors that tried that strategy against us.”

“Bobby Bourbon and Barney Green?”

“Didn’t work.”

“Dolly Waters and LSM?”

“Didn’t work.”

“Any wacky combination of Bastards?”

“Didn’t work.”

“Robert Main, the number 2 in the XWF Top 50 and his brother Oliver Main, who is number 2 in the list of all wrestlers named ‘Oliver Main’?”

“Didn’t.”

“FUCKING.”

“Work.”

“And here we are, standing at the precipice of most match wins while holding the tag-team championships.”

“The Bastards had six wins during their reign. This will be number six for us.”

“And the final challenge that lay before us as we seek to immortalize our reign permanently…”

“Is a fucking cakewalk.”

“It is so disappointing when truly great champions have no legitimate challengers to glorify their victories.”

“Now, I know how Corey’s Supercontinental reign felt.”

“Now you know how North Korea feels as the greatest country in the world.”

…

Flynn looks at the side of NK’s head with disdain…

…Before shaking his head and sighing.

In a flash, both men point into the camera.

“Vaughnie.”

“Comrade Calypso.”

“You’re set to face…”

“THE GREATEST.”

“THE FIGHTINGEST.”

“THE MOST DOMINANT.”

“XWF TAG-TEAM CHAMPIONS.”

“OF.”

“ALL.”

“TIME.”

…

“And you haven’t even earned getting pounded by us.”

“Although, again, Peter Vaughn…”

“It’s not the first time around here in the XWF…”

“You’ve been given something you haven’t earned.”

Flynn and NK grin nefariously.

As the scene fades to black.