KNIGHTmare

FIRE & ICE

The Chameleon stumbled onto the top rope after the impact, prone upon it as Omega seized the opportunity and hit a neckbreaker onto them. They could still remember the impact of the steel beam dubbed a "rope" against their throat, the impact catapulting them off of the side of the apron and out of the ring. But instead of just hitting the floor, The Chameleon fell stories downward, the audience and Jay Omega far above as they sunk lower and lower an-

NOW

"Are you feeling alright? Are you with me?"

The Chameleon sits up, looking Doctor Cormack in the face. They sit in a small therapist's office that he is quite familiar with. Chameleon shakes his head a bit, brushing off the daze of the memory from the recent PPV.

"Yes, Doc. I'm here. I just... cloudy. Concentrating is a straight bitch right now."

"Take your time. This is a place of healing and I'm never going to rush you to vocalize your thoughts."

"Yeah, yeah. I GET it."

Chameleon lifts a small paper cup to his lips and takes a swig of water to ease his nerves.

"You said you had another episode?"

Chameleon's ears perked, noticing a tiny change in his therapist's voice.

"What was that?"

"I asked if you had another episode."

Must've been nothing.

"Yeah... yeah, I did."

"Even after all of this behavioral therapy you have been undergoing?"

"Mhm. I try to keep everything straight upstairs, but it just feels like there's always a shelf getting overturned, Doc. Can't fucking THINK..!"

"You need to calm down. These episodes are not indicative of who you are as a person, Michael."

Chameleon nodded, sliding a hand up to rub his temples.

"I know, I know. There is no Chameleon. It's just Michael Graves."

"And I presume you've been taking the doses I've been..."

The doctor's speech continued, but The Chameleon's focus shifted to the side where a small radio began to play, a woman's voice repeating numbers.

"13, 1, 18, 3, 8, 0, 13..."

"Do you hear that?!"

"Hear what, Michael?"

"The radio! The radio is fucking haywire!"

"1, 4, 14, 5, 19, 19..."

"I don't hear any numbers, Michael. You need to calm down."

"I-I'm not crazy! I HEARD IT! THAT BITCH WAS SAYING SOMETHING TO ME!"

Doctor Cormack walked to the radio, pulling the table forward to show that the radio was and remained unplugged despite what The Chameleon had heard.

"I'm very concerned about your mental state recently. You say you have this memory of wrestling Jay Omega, although you only had a match with Charlie Nickles. Do you think you're trying to block out the trauma related to that with this false memory involving Jay? You're retreating into this Chameleon persona again and it's very unhealthy. You need to come to terms with the fact that you are not The Chameleon. There is no such thing."

"Then who wrestled Omega, smart guy?!"

"Corey Smith."

The Chameleon's cockiness in his snide response dwindled as he placed his head in his hands, nearly curling into a ball as he sat, coming to terms with the truth staring him in the face. It was just another vision of his mind. Another symptom of illness.

"Please stay here, Michael. I'd like to prescribe you more potent medication given these recent events. If you need some water, the bathroom's behind you."

The Chameleon nodded as the doctor left the room, trying to focus on the breathing techniques he'd been taught to handle a crisis like this. It was all tricks of the mind. Ugly reflections from a troubled past. Nothing more.

THE WORLD OUTSIDE OF THE CHAMELEON'S SIMULATION

The Custodian stepped out of the simulation chamber, seeing Darcy Ellis, the simulation overseer, and Douglas Donohue, the lead emulated reality concept designer, sitting underneath the monitor. Douglas continued to stare upward, watching The Chameleon closely, but Darcy's eyes rested solely on him. Wordlessly, she walked up to him and slapped him across the face, a furious yet calm glare in her eyes. The Custodian's face did not move an inch before nor after her palm struck him.

"Every time I think you've sunk low, you find some new way to disgust me."

"Ms. Ellis. Is this how you intend to file your complaints from this point forward?"

"Just this one. You know I didn't sign off on putting them back in there after the self-recursion incident! Not only did you go over my head to shove them in there as soon as possible, but now you're taking the fragile mental state of their opponent and using it to affect their ability to even recognize themselves! That's not just unethical, Dante! That violates every oath I can think of, let alone the Hippocratic one!"

"I take it you have an issue at our attempt at de-patterning TC-01? Our donors were quite impressed at The Chameleon's debut performance. I am merely appeasing their interests."

"De-patterning?! You can't just write away parts of someone's personality! That's conspiracy theorist delusion!"

"If you have been paying attention to TC-01's latest target, then you would be aware that delusion is quite the influence on the mind."

"Is that all view this as? Some way to use tools to get some... outcome? Well, I'm done contributing to... whatever the hell this is!"

Darcy picked up a few of her things, huffing as she began to storm towards the door, stopping only as she heard The Custodian's words brush her ears.

"How is your sister, Ms. Ellis?"

"I... I never told you about my sister..."

"And I do not recall sharing my name with you, yet we find our ways into certain information. You think I am lacking in morals, Ms. Ellis? Perhaps, but it was you who referred to TC-01 as "it" for weeks on end until it became uncomfortable to your sensibilities. You are not above separating yourself from the realities of this project, so do not patronize me with such an outburst. You and I are both aware you aren't going to leave this project because no other position available to you can secure her future like this one. I suggest you take a break and return to your position afterwards. Consider calling your sister in the free moment this provides you."

Her cheeks puffed as she stepped back towards her station, looking capable of throwing her belongings at him despite knowing the truth in his words. Douglas spoke up to interrupt their tense conversation, pointing towards a light on the monitor.

"Not to ruin this wonderful argument you two are having, but I think something is wrong if this light is on."

The pair checked the console, noticing the Recursive Self-Awareness light blinking. Darcy gave another glare to The Custodian, who paused before saying a few words.

"Leave The Chameleon in the simulation. I will be stepping in to assist them."

INSIDE OF THE CHAMELEON'S SIMULATION

The Chameleon stood up shortly after Dr. Cormack had left, twisting his body to head towards the bathroom and splash some water on his face. He walked up to the sink, bending over and bringing his head to the rushing stream, trying to get this... other identity out of his head. He raised his head up to look into the mirror.

No. NO. NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!


"AUGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!"

He gripped his head and screamed after reaching out to touch the mirror, the moment of manic hallucination causing him to smash his head into the mirror, each strike breaking the mask covering his face more than the glass on the wall. When the mask finally shattered, The Chameleon fell into an icy wasteland, a snowstorm sweeping by on the limitless frozen lands in front of him.


He had been here before. At the pay-per-view? Or earlier than that? The Chameleon wasn't certain. But this place was familiar. He stepped deeper into the wastes, trying to find some path out. After minutes of searching, he found an open grave, the name on the headstone worn off as he inspected it. As he stepped towards the hole in the ground, he peeked in to see a figure leap out at him, disfigured and bloodied on its face! A gash oozed blood out as The Chameleon stepped back in horror, the face, as gory as it may be, easily recognizable to The Chameleon.

You don't just forget the face of your best friend, after all.

"Youuuu did this to me."

"No- no! I didn't...!"

"You left me in this state, scarred and dying, so you could go live out your dreams of glory."

"That's not true... that wasn't me. I wouldn't have done that ever. That's not like me. I'm not like that."

"Your hands did this. You remember, dooon't youuuu?"

"NO, I-"

"Chameleon."

Doctor Cormack appeared from behind, a shovel in his grasp that he handed to The Chameleon.

"Doctor, how did you... where are we? I'm losing grasp of what's real and what isn't again and I need help.... please help me."

"You know who you need to be. You need to be Michael Graves, but you can't be that as long as you hang onto The Chameleon's memories. Their trauma. Their baggage. Put it to rest. Right here. Right now."

"I... I can't hurt him. I can't hurt E-"

"He's nothing to you, Michael. Sever the tie. You don't need it anymore."

The Chameleon stared down at the dark reflection of his memory and raised the shovel up high. The face of the figure seemed to relish The Chameleon's actions. It only took three strikes before it stopped moving. Two smacks to its head and one stab into its tender neck, the blood mixing with the snow and turning a deep black. The Chameleon turned to look at Doctor Cormack, only to find blank space where he once stood. He looked to read the tombstone once more, seeing the name more clearly now:

MICHAEL GRAVES

Of course. Of course. It all began to make sense again.

The Chameleon tossed the limp form that imitated a figure from their past into the grave, picking up a bit of the dirt and sprinkling it atop the corpse.

"You ever wonder why an executioner wears a mask, Michael? Why the Grim Reaper shed his skin long ago?"

The Chameleon shakes his head, wiping the dirt from his hands as he sits upon the headstone.

"Of course you fucking don't! You're one brain split among three faces and no balls! You don't even know when your last good shit was. Hell, I don't think most folk remember the last time you won a match against an opponent worth a damn, but that isn't their fault. Maybe after this match against myself, you'll have a fourth face of Graves arrive so you can disappoint yet another person."

"Now, I'm sure I know what you're thinking. "Isn't that a little rich coming from the copycat?" But please, Graves, we are on two different levels of seperation from identity and the only time I'm gonna stoop down to yours is when I bury you six feet under. Nickles thought he could finish the job. Cent thought he could. Hell, it seems every other week there's some plucky shithead thinking they can be the final chapter of the Dark Warrior. But they keep forgetting the big picture, Mike! You're already dead where you stand! You live in a world of endings, it's no big deal to you except when the hands building your tomb are your own."

"I'm not searching for honor from you, Michael, I'm not even searching for a good match because God knows those are long behind you. All those years of being the most shocking, disgusting, vile human being possible caught up to you and not in the fun, eight car pileup blaze of glory variety. Unlike other veterans, you can't really find a new wheel, so instead you just do whatever you can to put another face on, another costume for the same murdering psychopath underneath. The only one who never seemed to notice was you! You think you're still on the cutting edge when you're really on the edge of being cut. After all these years, you can wear a skull or put some tits on or hang out in BOB or BBB or BOB 2000 OR whatever tired trash Miss Fury's band of rejects dug up for a little extra backup and you'll still just be Michael Graves."

"At least I take different forms, Michael! Actual different forms! I'm a guy who likes to mix it up a little, but despite all the hype, you're really just one face of Graves with three different eyeliners and the occasional boob job. I think it's long past time to put you to bed, Graves, and what a slumber I have prepared for you. Hell, God knows I'll probably have to stuff a few more bodies into this casket because you never seem to find yourself alone. There's always some other wrestler who has to come in to remind you to not completely lose you're fucking mind. Hell, maybe I was wrong about your fourth face considering Vita Valenteen is content to shove her head in whatever nonsense you're up to this week."

"I'm not surprised, though. You are the man who made whole new forms just to not feel alone, makes sense that you would latch onto whoever will spare you the time of day. You know what really disappointed me, though, Mike? You didn't just lose your edge and have to start relying on all forms of backup loose change could provide, you also lost your edge. What happened to the fist Dark Warrior who made the XWF fans piss themselves with a mere mention? You didn't grow up, Graves, you grew complacent. The status quo of being a laughingstock was just fine enough for you. You sold all of your mystique and interest to be a one note punchline that better wrestlers use as an example of what not to do."

"You know, like Chris Chaos!"

"But at least Chris Chaos read the damn room! You've stuck around and just been complacent to play by the rules of others. Like a dog with all the spirit of the wild beat from him. You got out extremed by Charlie Nickles. If that isn't a sign of how tame you've gotten, then I don't know what is. Nobody here will remember you as being the Dark Warrior, they'll just remember you as a softer, inoffensive version of your former self. Like a light beer alternative to what you once were. Speaking of remember, though..."

"You remember what I asked you earlier, Mike? Why no skin on the Reaper? Why does the executioner put on the hood?"

The Chameleon closes the casket, pressing a single finger against it to let it fall shut.

"Because Death..."

"HAS"

"NO"

"FACE."