3/12 - Specimen attempts to emulate average behaviors. Has an intense desire for normality over embracing individual talents. They are an inescapable burden for them.

Mitchell’s blonde hair, short and exposed, danced with the cool, evening gusts blowing by. Dust from the sand below was kicked up as the wind scraped across the desert floor. He hated being on followup duty, yet this venture proved more profitable than most. The only light in the Mojave he could see for miles was his cigarette's faint glow, supplying his lungs with comforting warmth in the chilled desert eve. This would've been tolerable if he wasn’t on strict orders to make the final stretch of the journey on foot, preserving the deal's privacy for the client. The superstitions of those who dealt in the criminal element baffled Mitchell. People were pathetic things, yanked around by self-preservation and a desperate desire for power. Most of them animals, feeding on instinct, choking on the results. He was a man in a world of beasts, one of many reasons he empathized with his employer, Jeremiah.

He knew he was close when four lights joined his cigarette's, red as they flickered far-off, obscured by the desert’s sheer scope. He took a swig from a bottle holstered at his side, guzzling the last few drops it offered. He unzipped his backpack, tossing it inside and retrieving another to holster. His eyes had long adjusted to the night, but he could hardly discern anyone near the torches from the swelling darkness of the Mojave. The sand, crunching underneath, began to sound and feel different as Mitchell approached the structure described in correspondence. Smoother, if sand could be. The crunching became plasticy, but his eyes were set on the small tent ahead. A figure donning a cloak stepped towards him, lowering their dark crimson hood, revealing pale skin, glasses draped to the bridge of his nose.

“Thank you for agreeing to such an inconvenient method of delivery,” the cloaked man smiled, presenting his phone, showing the pending transfer of funds, “I believe this is the agreed amount?”

Six figures.

Mitchell’s jaw nearly dropped as he forced an answer, “Uh- yeah. That’s the price. I need you to confirm payment before-”

"Ahead of you,” the man tapped his device, leaving Mitchell awaiting a small buzz on his upper thigh. A tense delay, especially given how sparse the signal was out here, but he finally sensed the vibration and read the confirmation from Jeremiah. Nodding, he dug through his backpack for a box carrying a tiny object within, softly rattling around inside. He noticed the face of the cloaked man cringe slightly with each rattle until it was in his secure grasp. The cloaked man opened the box, his delicate fingers removing a single object.

A flash drive.

“Excellent,” he said quietly, “you wouldn’t believe the difficulty in acquiring this data.”

“Hey, you couldn’t have gotten it without yours truly,” Mitchell bragged, shrugging, “I identified that a… former associate of mine had connections to your man and pressured her into grabbing it.”

“Then we have you to thank for this? Could we get your name in that case?” The cloaked man inquired, his lips smiling as his expresion remained frosty. Must’ve been the air, Mitchell thought.

“Mitch,” he answered smugly. They were fucking weirdos, but abundant in cash and flattery. The man used a small converter to plug the drive into his phone, confirming the contents with a satisfied glow.

“Mitch, my friends and I will be sure to credit you and inform your boss that we'll take care of the expenses.”

Mitchell brow bent in confusion, a half-hearted chuckle escaping him.

“What expenses?” He asked.

It was the second to last thing that passed through his head. His cigarette fell from his mouth. The hole that reached from the center of his forehead to the back of his skull was filled with the cool desert air. His limp body collapsed, the bullet that had ended him lodged somewhere in the sand, waiting to be forgotten as the gusts buried it.

---

A gush of water splashed against the side of the kayak Ned and Darcy paddled in, droplets of water from the rapids of the Colorado raining upon them as they both laughed nervously. The thrill was nice, but so was “not drowning,” as Darcy liked to put it.

“I never knew you learned how to kayak until today,” Ned loudly proclaimed, his face scrunching as he paddled more rigorously to shift them slightly left.

“Well, you never asked,” Darcy responded, twisting her head to give him a playful glare that brought some annoyance with it, “before Mom passed, she was big into girl scout-adjacent activities. I hated it because I’d rather stare at a screen, but it lets me surprise people sometimes!”

She was clearly exhausted, not sharing Ned’s athletic endurance, but thankfully, they approached a calmer part of the river, enjoying the canyon view surrounding them.

“I’m sorry,” Ned said, the ashy maroon rock glittering in the sun, staring at him with tiny, shining eyes, “for not asking more. I’ve just been through a lot lately-”

“Ned, you’re always going through a lot,” she turned her body to face him, a disappointed gaze, mixed with guilt as their eyes locked, “it’s always Mark or Amy or Jason, or Isaiah. Always somebody that you have to help at this exact moment. It… doesn’t make me feel like a priority, that’s for damn sure.”

“You know that isn’t true,” Ned responded defensively, his hands clutching around the oar a little tighter.

“I’d like to be more certain about that. I warned you about Amy and… you barely heard me out. I love you, Ned, but that can’t be at the cost of me feeling respected and appreciated.”

Ned gazed off into the river, watching the foaming water below as he contemplated what to say.

“I should’ve taken your word on it… I let myself get wrapped up in trying to do something right for someone and you got caught in all that. It was unfair. I keep replaying that day in my head, wondering if there’s anything I could say to her. Wondering what I did wrong.”

Darcy gave a slight frown, “look, you didn’t handle it well, but she’s responsible for her actions. You don’t get to choose the consequences of a decision. “

Ned stared down at the ripples of the kayak further, his gaze tracing over the river until his eyes widened. He was speechless for a moment. Finally, he found his words.

“Darcy, I need you to stay looking at me,” he told her.

“What? Ned, I don’t know that making me look at you is gonna make me happier about the situation, but I appreciate the thought I guess?” She responded, chuckling to try and ease the mood of his intense stare. It was unchanging.

“What is it?” Darcy asked, curiosity, brimming to the surface.

“You don’t need to look. Just find the nearest hikers and tell them to call the police.”

“Ned,” she asked once more, increasing her firmness, “what is it?”

No answer. His gaze just turned to hers, begging her not to look wordlessly. In a better world, her eyes remained glued to his. In a better world, Ned noticed nothing and their day continued to a lovely dinner later on.

Darcy knew better than to believe she lived in a better world.

Turning, the first thing that struck out to her was the paleness of the skin, drained of blood as it floated, stuck near the shore by a tarp, covering all but the gaping hole in its head. It’s blonde hair danced in the water as the air in Darcy’s lungs began to feel as stagnant as the air in the dead man.

It was the first dead body she’d ever seen up close.

---

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---

“What comprises evil?”

“Ask a million people and you’ll receive as many answers. Hell, you might even get more. But evil is at some level, at its deepest crevice, satisfaction or dismissal for the despair of others. And certainly, we all engage in that to some degree, but it’s in excess where it rears its head. Why do I mention this?”

“Because Bobby Bourbon isn’t evil.”

“He just desperately wants to appear so, don’t you, Bobby? I’ve seen evil- I’ve even seen it in the XWF with the likes of some who are so reviled their names are only uttered for cheap heat by cheapskates. But you’re not that, Bob. And that just tears you up inside. It’s why every other week, Bobby is trying to build the world’s largest pair of pants or poison the water supply or snort coke upside down. And while he’s wasting his time mostly just seeing how many times he can feel like Deadpool in real life, he feels this need to kick a puppy a few yards to keep up the idea that he isn’t just some pathetic asshole desperate to get noticed. Sure, Bobby won Leap of Faith, fair and square. But you’re fooling yourself if you don’t think that briefcase isn’t going to be embedded with blood diamonds so Bourbon can act like he’s some reprehensible monster.”

“He thinks he has to be a mad scientist to be vile after recruiting a man who can shine so much brighter than him and turning him into little more than a mascot, touting the brand on his back while living his career and life in a pile on the floor. Bobby is a cosplayer of evil. He puts on the clothes, he does the impression, but all of it is wrapped up in the Bastard brand. If a company account trying to be relatable was given form, that form would still make TK look slightly less competent than Bobby Bourbon. I hate TK, but he is honestly evil, you’re just Madison Dyson with a bigger chest. In it for the money. In it for yourself. I’d say Knuckles carried you, but that implies you were even along for most of that ride. You had to stand on the shoulders of a man with no history of wrestling outside of finishers to have a legacy of your own and now your content seeing whose futures he can squander. Isaiah and I lost a match against the Just Us League, but King has an opportunity to learn. To become better. You needed four other people present and a tower to open the right briefcase fast enough. And your “protege’s” big accomplishment so far is a 2023 more barren in accomplishments than yours, culminating in one of the most eye-rolling main events of this year. The only path Bobby Bourbon offers is the one where you wonder “what if?” You bring more reckoning to your allies than your enemies.”

“So put on the clothes and do the voice and tell me how big and bad you are like you always fucking do. Because you’re not protected by people shooting fireworks at you or the chance at the right briefcase. You are in my area of expertise: honest, violent, wrestling. And even once you’re reminded that The Ace has your hand beat and your only chance to even touch the Universal Championship is on a thin piece of paper, you might go on to cash-in and hold it again. When you do, you’ll lock it up tight and put barrier after barrier in the way of those comin at it, not for the random challengers you may get, but because the man who beat you twice in one year is on the warpath to that title. The man who Corey Smith didn’t dare name until he saw proof he even could lose this year. And when BOB is back into the ashes that birthed its disgusting existence, I may smile. I may even look down at “big, bad Bobby” in the remains of his cardboard empire.”

“But I’ll take no pleasure in it.”

"You can't run from yourself."