OOC: This roleplay is going to involve some serious subject matters and themes, so just a heads up. Content Warning here:






“I'd like to tell you a story.”

Ned sat under a few overhead lights illuminating him, his gaze fixed away from the camera in front of him. Although looking slightly collected, his thoughts drifted to the tragic and painful events that led him here. It was bittersweet for him; a recollection of blissful minutes and the hours of hardship between them. He didn't frown, but he didn’t need to.

“When I was young and still aspiring to be a professional wrestler so I could join this company, I used to catch a lot of shit from my peers. I wasn't the most athletic or strong kid around and my family wasn't rich or anything, so when you're tossed into the gladiatorial hellscape of a public school like that, others pick at you in ways to prey upon your insecurities. So, I'd constantly hear emotionally vacuous people around me dreaming about being billionaires and movie stars while mocking me for my goals being unrealistic. And they gave me? “People like you don't deserve it.” And when that's what you're told repeatedly, it's easy to internalize it. And one of these nights when my family’s eating dinner together, my mom asks me about school and if I'll try out for wrestling once soccer season finished. And, to their chagrin, I reply no. Because I “don't deserve it.” And I vividly remember the moment dad stopped eating and looked me in the eyes. What he said resonated with me ever since.”

“Deserve don't matter one damn bit.”

Crossing his arms, Ned leaned back in his seat, reflecting on the memory further.

“Dad wasn’t perfect, but he tried. And I guess I'm thinking about him heavily because North Texas is where he grew up. He planned to live his whole life there, but he gave that up for mom, Nate, and I. He should be here, watching me wrestle in his home state for one of the greatest achievements in the XWF. He shouldn't have lost the last few years of his life to illness.”

“He didn't deserve that.”

Ned grew quiet, resting his chin on his hands.

“I miss him every day and still, years later, think about opportunities I should've taken for time that’s gone. So, the question that feels so pertinent is: will Kenzi feel the same way about you when you're gone, Sid? Because at the rate you're going, it's nearly guaranteed that she won't.”

“Thing is, I empathize somewhat with Sidney Grey. Sure, she's a fundamentally sheltered and incurious matriarch right out of the 1950s, trying to relive the glory days of repression, but I understand the emotions that guided her to that persona, maybe more than anyone. They trotted her out because people liked witnessing her breaking points. Through a lifetime, they primed her to be a powder keg to make money selling the explosions. And it reminds me of my time as “The Nefarious One,” when I went through a mental crisis and for months-  MONTHS, and nobody said anything. Cameras were rolling until Drew Archyle and Steve Cooper intervened. The sad fact is that it's easy to ignore someone's problems when those flaws are attention grabbing.”

“And I want to pity you, Sid. But like with almost everything you do, you make that virtually impossible. Because for as much as the world failed you, you did the same to yourself in turn. You got scarred by cruel circumstances, pointed to the flayed flesh, and declared that’s who you truly were. I could list the countless character flaws you possess, but they’re not specifically why you sicken me so utterly. I detest you because I see myself in you. Certainly, I'm not a bigoted, contradictory mess of outdated opinions, but our downfalls parallel one another. You imitate others, the same I did as The Chameleon,all the while using Jay Omega’s bullshit to distract you from your core problems. Looking for some sci-fi scoundrels in a van isn't going to fill the void inside you. You've resigned yourself to being a spectacle instead of a human. You are, in so many ways, the distorted vision of a future where I fail everything: bitter, successful, and alone. Loved by family, but not liked by them. I'm going to pin you in that ring not only for my sake, but for yours, Sidney. Because a world where the sins that wash over us define us isn't one I intend to live in. You yell at the world to change, Sid. I change it.”

“Speaking of seeing yourself in another, now is as good a time as any to discuss one of my potential opponents: Noah Jackson. Now, he and I go way back. He's my oldest rival here. And I could explain thoroughly how the man grandstanding against Jenny Myst for racism says “Get Out Of Me Country” when he enters the arena, but hypocrite is for Noah what the appendix is for the human body: redundant. Hypocrisy is his only real insult to anyone. “Look at them! They said this but did this! Pretty wild?” Add a thousand vulgarities and some Twitter clapbacks that try too hard, and you got a Jackson promo. Hell, he only takes the high road if he thinks there's an overpass to spit on someone from. And I used to think that was it. Noah was just your garden variety internet troll with a half-decent right hook. Then, he got struck by a car driven allegedly by his ex, Vita. I expected somebody to reach out because he'd built up this popular persona. Nobody did. Not his “dad,” not his ex, nobody. Noah’s only real friend is my cat, whom I let him keep.”

“That moment, when I visited his house to pick DT up, is when I met the true Noah Jackson: A scared, sad man who hurls insults at “good guys” that are his own innermost fears. I hear you already: “Duh, cunt! Who wants to be Ned Kaye?” I do. You act so outwardly disgusting due to a belief that you can't count on anyone else and heartbroken that it proved true. From now on, Noah, when I see you I'm only going to see a grown man, tearful at the thought of losing someone precious to him, but more than that, terrified of being honest about it. You might think that only one person wants to be Ned Kaye, but nobody wants to be Noah Jackson.”

“Finally, we transition from someone who denies principles in fear of weakness to Peter Vaughn, who'd sell out any belief if he thought it would make a wincount go up. You can act like it's a Shakespearean tragedy, but it's a choice, the same kind of one you make everyday you refuse to be a better leader, hell, be a leader at all. There's always an excuse: someone to blame for your behavior. Barrows, Page, Miller, the world. Whatever answer it needs to be so that Peter Vaughn can be led instead of leading. You wear a leash tight enough to choke the compassion from you because accepting it means not always having tights to grip onto for an easy solution. You could be the guiding voice of CCPE, yet you never will be. You'd rather go bump heads with Flynn and play Legends of the Hidden Tax Return.”

“Cheating is training wheels for the ego. You don't use them because you think you can't pedal, you’re just mortified of the ground. The impact’s coming, Peter, and it’ll shake you to your foundations. You complain constantly about how nothing’s fair for you and how odds are always stacked against you when the World Championship you hold is in a company your manager owns. Your projection is as meaningless as your claims. Your belt doesn't matter. Your manager doesn't matter. You take the easy way to get “what you’re owed.” And your insistence to steal victory is why you're incapable of earning it.”

“At March Madness, I will break through Sidney's self-important pariah shtick and overcome Peter or Noah regardless of which stands across from me. Because I’m seeking something with this victory beyond a mere crown. I can't yet put it into words, but I know one thing: in a finals surrounded by the most ruthless competitors, I promise those out there, fans and colleagues alike this: I’ll win this tournament and do it fairly. No shortcuts. Because when I talk about being the spirit of the XWF, that means more than shallow gestures. It means doing right by everyone else who has poured themselves into March Madness and not allowing a hollow conclusion to the biggest bracket that's ever graced this tournament. The four-year journey of my career here faces its next threshold as I honor the unspoken claim I staked when I debuted.”

“And under those very lights, I shall claim victory.”

---

---

---

“Cut!” One of the camera operators shouted, checking to the director for approval.

“That's a wrap!” The director clapped her hands as the rest of the filming crew dispersed, hastily beginning to pack equipment, preparing for another filming as soon as they got the signal from the higher ups. Ned sat quietly even though filming had ceased. It was fascinating to him how much “behind the scenes” media existed and how it primarily focused on pieces of footage created before and in-between. Very rarely did people focus on the moments after.

Ned felt like he lived exclusively in the moments after.

Theo Pryce stepped forward, past the departing crew, nodding his head slightly in approval.

“Pretty good,” he said, pulling a key from his pocket and tossing it towards Kaye, “the kind of fire I'm certain everyone's hoping for from Saga's last hope to win the tournament.”

The key landed in Ned's palm, its scratched, golden exterior faintly hiding the steel beneath. It was cool to the touch. Ned looked up, his hand curling around the small piece of metal in his hand before his mouth opened.

“Are you going to lie? Say I was your first choice?”

Theo contemplated his answer briefly, speaking with the closest thing he had to earnestness, “No. You weren't. You're what I have, however, so I'll make due. Speaking of...”

Pryce paused, plainly uncomfortably as he prepared to ask a question uncharacteristic of him.

“...are you okay?”

Ned glanced upwards, standing suddenly while forcing a smile.

“I’m fine,” he spoke, doing the best impression of himself that he could manage. Theo looked on with suspicion, unsure how to proceed.

“Look,” he began, using his forefinger and thumb to massage the bridge of his nose, “I’m not one of these empath-types. I don’t babble on about feelings and I’ve repeatedly stressed how I think that those who do are oversensitive pussies. But I’m a pragmatist. I’ve got Bri and Thad. If you’re… dealing with something, there are ways I can assist in handling it.”

“Jeez, Theo,” Ned responded as he stepped towards a bag filled with things for the stay he’d been planning, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you sound like a human being right now.”

“Don’t push it,” Theo said with a hint of firmness, “I don’t need a bleeding heart to realize that you’ve been off recently. You’ve been more withdrawn since the FBI incident, a situation that my connections got you out of, I’d like to remind you.”

“And I’m thankful for that. But I’m going out there to train alone. It’s what I need. I don’t want you telling anyone where I am. No paparazzi. No cameras. I need time to myself. Promise me that, Theo.”

Pryce put his hands at his sides, a somewhat exasperated exhale escaping him, “I can pay for therapy if that’s what you ne-”

“Promise me,” Ned interrupted, some of the underlying desperation in his plea peering through.

“Fine,” Theo relented, clearly not enthused, “but I’m counting on you to not do anything stupid.”

“Yeah,” Ned nodded, lifting his bag, the contents clanking against one another as he made his way towards the door.

“Me too.”

---

It must’ve taken an hour through the hills to locate the cabin Theo rented to him. It was only a few hours from Arlington, but the surroundings, piles of arid wasteland, starkly contrasted the concrete labyrinths reminiscent of home. He recalled hearing his father recount his time in Texas, describing the pockets of plantlife swallowed by orange landscapes. Here, Ned was finally away from the prying eyes of the world. He placed the key into the door, shimmying it slightly before it turned, allowing him entrance to the rather plain log cabin. It held a single room, including a small futon, currently in its couch arrangement across from a tiny television. A pathetic looking electric stove sat plugged into one of the few outlets, accompanied by a selection of ancient cookware. This place carried a strange aroma, like the scent of worn leather. Ned carefully placed the bag beside him on the futon, sitting down.

The cabin’s oxygen held the consistency of sludge, a single inhale requiring intense effort as the feelings Ned shoved down crept to the surface. The tournament was an excellent distractor from everything encompassing him, but out here, his focus waned, the protective obsession fading with it.

And like that, it all overwhelmed him.

Tears filled Ned’s eyes as his pain overflowed. Darcy lying to his face. Thias in the hospital. His last memories of Caedus and Archyle being destructive and violent. Marina attempting to manipulate him. Steven Cooper in the ground. He’d found something to occupy his attention, to force his feelings into hiding. Until now. All he had was this cabin.

All he had was himself.

He gripped onto his hair roughly, his arms covering his face. Ned screamed out as loudly and viciously as possible, trying to expel the venom within him. But he could only sustain it for so long before it devolved into a teary, shaky string of breaths. He wasn’t supposed to feel this way. He was the hope of countless people… so why did he feel empty? He should’ve been stronger. His right fist smashed against the side of his head, attempting to beat these constant reminders of loneliness from his skull. Yet they lingered in place, taunting him as ghosts often do.

He unzipped the bag at his side, lifting up the VCR from within, a few tapes alongside it. Most were just a selection of clips of the March Madness finalists, but the final one was different. It was the tape Steven Cooper had left Ned. A final message from the man who saved Ned from drinking himself to death. He stared at the black, matte plastic of the VHS, its weight slightly lopsided towards the left. Regardless of the months that had passed, it hadn’t been played once. To view its contents was to play the final note in Cooper’s ballad. A string Ned was unprepared to pluck. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever be. Placing the tape to the side, he glanced up at the reflective, black screen, peering through it.

To his dismay, his reflection peered back before climbing through.

“Talk about an overdue reunion,” The Nefarious One said, dusting itself off slightly as it picked itself up off the ground.

“I’m not in the mood,” Ned spoke defiantly, recognizing the dazed figment of his psyche for what it was, “you’re not real. We’re not having this conversation.”

“I think we’re long past that,” the vision admitted as it walked past Kaye, reaching into the bag and pulling out an object wrapped in one of the shirts he’d packed, “you already know we’re one and the same. You’ve taken responsibility for all of your behavior “under my influence.” I’m here to help! I mean…”

The Nefarious One unfurled the item from the clothing, presenting the bottle of scotch it hid.

“That’s why you brought me here, right?” inquired the vision, a wicked smirk scrawled across its lips.

Ned stayed silent as it perused his belongings, finding the various liquors Ned had brought.

“Vodka, tequila, bourbon! Oh boy, Ned, you had quite the bender planned out didn’t you?” It grabbed a glass, taking the bottle of scotch and prying it open, slowly pouring the amber liquid in the cup, looking directly at Ned’s eyes even as Kaye attempted to focus elsewhere. Quietly, it began to speak once more, licking its lips prior.

“I know the secret that really scares you, Ned. That thing you can’t admit to anyone, not even that lying bitch: you want this. You like it. Every sip makes it easier to take the next and harder to deny the previous ones. That’s why you isolate yourself. You just don’t want anybody stopping you from numbing these slicing bits of your psyche.”

Choking on his tears, Kaye shook his head, denying it silently, trying to convince himself that the words lacked truth. Needing to believe they did.

“Then why are you still pouring?”

Ned blinked. The Nefarious One was gone, his own hand pouring the scotch. It overfilled the cup and began spilling onto the ground as Ned’s hand recoiled. Scotch spilt onto his hand as he shook. Trying to find a reason not to relapse. Hoping for a miracle. Watching his prayers go unanswered. He placed the glass to his lips and began to swallow, the liquor softly burning his throat as it traveled downward, inebriation still far from sight, but a gentle numbness growing. Then he took another drink, another, and another until he’d lost count, confidence, and consciousness.

And Ned was alone.

To be continued

"You can't run from yourself."