Deep within The Notorious Gym, a television gently buzzed. Being an older CRT, its soft glow carried a warmth that modern designs had abandoned for superior performance and picture quality. However, the curved, mildly fuzzy picture brought its own appeals. For Ned, it was the look of wrestling that he had witnessed growing up, watching the XWF with his father. Perhaps it was merely nostalgia or comfort that compelled him to transfer most of his matches to VHS for review, but it felt distinctly different.

Wrestling presented this way almost provided the feeling of having his father near. That wasn't to imply he didn't keep blu-rays of his matches, they were superior. He simply preferred to view them in this outdated, personal manner. Ned had been writing notes when he last watched this specific match, but it felt like everything he had to add had been thoroughly documented. At this point, he was staring at the screen, watching intently.

Watching the victory he struggled to grab from Page slip past his fingertips.

He’d been training to an unhealthy degree. As nice as it was to now, finally, be in a committed relationship after everything, March Madness loomed over him. Chris had the audacity to say that the Television Championship was the only thing providing Kaye relevance. Ned knew that wasn't true, but he needed to prove it. However, before he could address that sensation hovering over him, another force began looming above.

Darcy rested her chin on top of Ned's head, using a remote to shut off the television before the recording showed Page kicking Ned in the groin.

“So, are you just gonna mope up here after making it to round two of that tournament?” She asked as she made herself more comfortable, nestling her chin into Ned's abundant hair.

“I wouldn't call it moping,” Ned responded, “more preparing.”

“Uh-huh,” she said dismissively, “well, it looks like you're preparing to keep watching that stupid match on loop and getting frustrated over it. I.E. moping.”

She wasn't wrong, but they both knew Ned wasn't about to openly admit how much merit her point held.

“Why don't you head out and do something other than just toil away for wrestling? You practice enough to where it's not gonna be a big deal.”

“Maybe,” Ned mulled the thought over before rejecting it, “but we're trying to go on a date tonight and I don't want to get caught up in something else and mess that up.”

“Psh,” Darcy rolled her eyes, which Ned only caught a glimpse of from the reflection of the empty TV screen, but could sense just by her tone, “Ned, you are probably the only person I consider incapable of that level of thoughtlessness.”

He appreciated the compliment, but something about it struck strangely.

“What about yourself?”

“Oh, I've stood people up on dinners I was gonna cook. I'm more than capable, thank you very much.”

They shared a chuckle as Ned drifted into thought some more.

“I heard there's some kinda Saga bake sale for charity. Why not give it a shot?”

Ned shrugged. He was compelled to stay, but she was right. It was, at the very least, something to do.

---

When Ned arrived at the location, it was outside of a grade school for some reason or another. Upon hearing “Saga bake sale,” Ned was under the impression that all of the members would be there. Instead, it was just him and Jason Cashe, two grown ass men standing in front of an elementary school with a small, white folding table and the infinite awkwardness that this situation had granted them. There had been a few customers outside of staff and kids, but for the most part, business was slow. The current box of oatmeal cookies was largely untouched.

Jason was... difficult for Ned to pin down entirely. He seemed primarily like a goofball, but the man had a dark streak to him. He was willing to act in more questionable ways with a confidence that Ned wasn't quite used to seeing.

“Slow day, huh?” Cashe asked, attempting to make some small talk.

“Yeah,” Ned said bluntly.

“So, does this only seem weird to me or-”

“It's weird.”

Jason nodded, feeling validated by the agreement, “Okay, cool.”

With a snort, he reached into the box, pulling out one of the cookies and biting down, munching away at it as Ned stared on in disbelief.

“These aren't for us, you know that, right? We're raising money for charity, not for your munchie fund.”

Cashe exaggeratedly pulled a dollar out of his wallet, placing it in the jar they were keeping the money in before adding, “You should have one, too!”

“I'm not hungry.”

“C'monnnn,” Jason taunted, “it's for a good cause!”

Sighing, Ned tossed several bucks in himself before eating a couple cookies. After enjoying them, he noticed a handful of kids on the playground hazily bumping into one another. He thought nothing of it at the time, but a few hours later, sprawled across the park bench, blazed out of his mind, it seemed more relevant.

“I'm kicking your ass later,” Ned forced out on the verge of laughter.

“Why?” Jason asked, his feet propped up on the folding table as he devoured another cookie.

“You literally just gave me and a buncha ten year olds weed cookies. It's fair play.”

“Nahhh, you got a stick up your ass all the time. You should unclench them cheeks for a while!"

Ned shook his head, chuckling, “I don’t! I hold myself to a higher standard!”

“Well, we made it a little higher. No problem there,” Jason retorted.

“Not what I meant! You go out there and get all aggressive and- and smack the shit outta people. I don't.”

Cashe shrugged, “why not?”

“What?”

“Why not smack some bastards to let some steam out?”

“Because it isn't right. I don't do that.”

“Maybe you should,” Jason cut Ned off, “mayhaps you wouldn't get so pissed at yourself if you got a little rough around the edges. Or just keep being moody, you do you.”

Ned considered it, running his hand through his hair.

“Darce wouldn’t appreciate that too much.”

His mind shifted to her until a realization overcame him.

“Dude... I think you just ruined my first date with my girlfriend.”

“Not my first time hearing that, heh.”

---

---

---

“The self is fascinating.”

“It's easy to view it as something concrete. Unchanging. But the simple fact is that we grow and shift in manners we don't typically notice. Perhaps I became more appreciative of that fact upon walking through many different people's shoes. My time as The Chameleon was informative, even if I stumbled slightly due to my identity, including losing to you, Ms. Vaughn. However, recently, the shoe has been on the other foot.”

“What I mean is that when you debuted, Angie, you did so with a bright smile and desire to forge an identity of your own and I’ve had the displeasure of watching you, in real time, fade into the background of your own career, your sister has becoming more and more the primary player in your personal and professional life. Frankly, I'm not too surprised because anyone with a pair of eyes and a dash of wisdom knows that CTN is the honorary tenth circle of Hell: a spiraling purgatory where everything is consumed by the gravity of one ego and the reason why is exceedingly simple. Unless you share Lacklan's blood or spit, she couldn't give more than half a fuck about you. And that's not to say that she particularly cares about you as your own independent human being. That isn't the case. She views you as an extension of herself. That's why she wanted to go to the finals with you. Sarah hasn’t changed in the slightest since waltzing into this company. At the end of the day, she longed for a finals consisting of herself and a reflection. Even her laughable predictions of the tournament placed the people she mildly cared about in the semis before discarding them in lieu of having herself twice. Sure, Angie, you two aren’t the same, but as she views it, you basically are and her behaviors and attitude are something she wants you to adopt.”

“And what infuriates me so much is that it's working.”

“Look at how I have to speak about you, prefacing everything with Sarah Lacklan. I don't particularly want to, but just look at your entrance. Even stepping to the ring, you're preceded by her. In the macrocosm of your career, she comes before you in every way imaginable. And you're completely content with that fact. Your whole motivator for getting anywhere in this tournament was to face her, a hope already dashed. You’re more concerned with watching your cats goof around than taking this tournament seriously. This is the most packed, prestigious rendition of March Madness in company history and you don't care. I don't mean that in a confident way, I mean you legitimately aren’t concerned with this tournament at all. There are currently fifteen other competitors who are putting their all into this competition:”

“Show us one iota of respect and stop treating it like the playground for nepotism that your little big sis wished it to be.”

“This is what I meant by her influence on you working. Sure, you're outwardly nice, Angie. You've got an enthusiastic vibe. I don't blame people for being caught unawares, but the collective amnesia that fuels the narrative of you improving Sarah as a person has been grating on me for a minute or two. There's little love lost between people around here and John Madison Jr, but everyone was really quick to ignore you ghosting your teammate before a title defense so that you could return to challenge for them with your sister. That's not a #CoolKids moment, it's just a shitty way to treat an ally. You're not changing Sar, but she’s changing you. All you've done is morph into the brand manager for someone who's number one issue with sweatshops is that they're associated with poor people. You've rehabilitated the image of the most morally bankrupt person around and, like always, the conversation has shifted to suit her narrative. I’ve been mulling over why that happens for nearly four years now and the answer dawned upon me recently: the default mode of you CoolTube types is talking. Accuracy or earnestness be damned, you need to constantly talk, influencing others’ speech in turn. But that's not me. I listen, Angie. When you downplay the importance of this tournament that’s been looming over me since day one, I listen. When Chris Page runs his mouth and tries to delegitimize myself and my friends, I listen. I’ve heard countless people tell me that I'm not there yet. Just watching them decide where my limits are and every time they’re proven wrong. Angie, after your queen rolls out the red carpet for you before rolling her eyes at the mere sight of me, I want you to do something you don't do often: listen. At first, you'll be serenaded by the “Obvs” chant you're used to, but then listen to how they react when I walk down that ramp. Hear their hearts and mine beating as one with a connection you cannot comprehend, a closeness you can't compare to, and an intimacy impossible to imitate. They enjoy you, Angie. But they believe in me. Because I don't substitute my humanity with a flat optimism. My self, as flawed and messy as it is, hums with a resonance all its own and when I think I've lost my direction, I can always close my eyes and listen to it pulling me further on this road. At Warfare, Vaughn...”

“You're going to hear it.”

"You can't run from yourself."