�This is insane...� Like a raging explosion, focus is granted, tiny fragments of a whole scene bursting into place and resting in a collage with some semblance. The camera, blurred, takes in this new scene, hearing first the sounds; a car door slamming shut, footsteps on soft ground. There is laughter. �Oh, always with the laughter...� The camera acknowledges first the grass, deep, lush green and damp from a long night�s downpour. The grass waves in the breeze, celadon and shamrock, emerald and harlequin gesticulating at the lens, brushing it, bringing it into its caress only to spit it out again, and the view becomes a hut. A timber hut. The hut is old, the hut is rotting, the hut is a hut. It bares no defining features, no uniqueness, no sui generis; it�s a hut. The camera tilts. The building, on its side now and lolling slightly, is made from sturdy, ageless wood, discoloured and tempered. Somewhere, it appears to have had a case of woodworm. There is a single door, and no windows. �Home sweet home.� The door creaks on used hinges, permitting entry to the roaming camera, and two other figures beside it. The footsteps become dull as they pad across hard concrete, two pairs in an unchoreographed beat. The camera pans upwards, finally, getting the first look around the interior of this derelict place, the lifeless panelled walls, the carpet-less floor, seemingly strewn with dozens of unrelated objects. A steel folding chair is wedged awkwardly inside an aluminium trash can, a 2x4 lies lazily against a road sign against one wall, a ladder missing half its rungs sits atop a rack of florescent lights which, by the breaks in their surface, are clearly long out of use. In one corner, a desk complete with wheeled computer chair and filing cabinet sit strangely out of place in this unsterile environment. The two figures walk into this, the renowned Hut of Hardcore, the isolated home of a man recently freed from an unremitting prison. To this man, now bounding around happily in his usual attire of black �NLW� T-shirt and blue tartan longshorts, this undesirable abode is a sight for a pair of sore eyes that have never seen things like most others. The Jackrabbit, his blonde hair dancing over his shoulders, his sunshades bouncing on his nose, is home. �This is madness...� A second figure follows The Jackrabbit into the single-room. He wears his own attire of pale suit, complete with yellow tie, and a slightly off-centre baseball cap on a head of auburn hair. Stevie Sol does not echo his new associate�s jubilation, instead he folds his arms, a bag hanging off one forearm. Despite the importation of his own personal desk and chair, this is not home. This is a dump. THE JACKRABBIT: �Boingy boingy boing, home sweet home sweet home! Bounce with me, Stevieo!� STEVIE SOL: �If I said it once, I�ll say it again... this is absurd, �Rabbit.� THE JACKRABBIT: �It�s not absurd, silly, it�s a hut! It�s my hut! It�s the Hut of Hardcore, don�tchya know? Home away from home without being actually away from home, secret headquarters of everybody�s favourite Friendly Neighborhood Tag Team Champeeeeno!� And to illustrate his not-so-clear point, The Jackrabbit holds aloft the polished gold belt that was around his waist, one of two New Legends of Wrestling Tag Team Championship belts. This one belongs to him, The Unorthodox One, earned in a hard fought victory over Society, and a matching twin to the other held by his one-time rival, long-time friend and now Fusion partner Talon. The Jackrabbit grins from ear to ear, showing a frighteningly perfect set of pearly whites. Stevie Sol rolls his eyes, though not looking entirely unamused. Far from a complete straightman, the new colleague of The Jackrabbit knows how to enjoy himself, but also knows better than many how to focus on a task-at-hand. STEVIE SOL: �Yeah, I got that, man... great... but let�s face it, this is the first place they�re gonna come lookin� for you!� THE JACKRABBIT: �You thinks so? I didn�t think they�d think you�d think that I�d think of comin� here...� STEVIE SOL: �To your home!?� THE JACKRABBIT: �I supposes it�s a teansy bit simple...� STEVIE SOL: �Story of your life, buddy. Listen, we�ll stay here just as long as is completely necessary... I imagine you probably need the rest as much as I-..� Stevie looks across midsentence, cutting off immediately upon noticing The Jackrabbit pulling a trampoline from under a heap of barbed wire. He begins to clamber up on top of the unusual furnishing, but Stevie cuts him off. STEVIE SOL: �You�re kidding, right?� THE JACKRABBIT: �Kidding? No way, Stevieo, you know me, always seriousness! Hahaaaa! You comin� for a bounce?� Stevie Sol groans, and moves briskly to his chair. Seating himself at his desk, he takes a laptop from his bag and is immediately tapping away at the miniature keyboard. The Jackrabbit is entirely uninterested, his title belt discarded to enable unobstructed bouncing. THE JACKRABBIT: �Suits yourself, Mr. Boring. More bouncing for moi!� The Jackrabbit goes up. STEVIE SOL: �You know you have a...� The Jackrabbit comes down. STEVIE SOL: �...match with OWF this Sunday...� The Jackrabbit goes up. STEVIE SOL: �...for the Tag Titles...� The Jackrabbit comes down. STEVIE SOL: �Jackrabbit!� The Unorthodox One looks across at his new colleague, and simply smiles at him, adjusting his sunshades as he does, the trampoline still moving him up and down on the spot. THE JACKRABBIT: �Did you say summink�, Stevieo?� STEVIE SOL: �...Outsiders Wrestling Federation.� THE JACKRABBIT: �Oh, you mean that match with that other company that isn�t En-El-Dub but thinks it could be but knows it isn�t, but wants to go to war but wants to friends that wants our wrestlers on their show in matches but doesn�t want our wrestlers showing up but sends their wrestlers to our show?� STEVIE SOL: �Or �OWF� to some...� THE JACKRABBIT: �I�m not sweating it, Stevieo.� STEVIE SOL: �Why am I not surprised, �Rabbit?� THE JACKRABBIT: ��Cos you gots a keen personal interest in perspirations?� STEVIE SOL: �Uh...� Shaking his head, the man in the yellow tie turns back to his laptop monitor, and immediately begins tapping away again. The Jackrabbit, for his part, goes up. THE JACKRABBIT: �See, Stevieo... me and Talon, we�re quite fond of En-El-Dub.... and we�re very fond of our En-El-Dub belts...� The Jackrabbit comes down. THE JACKRABBIT: �I had a big winning streak going on... I winned and winned and never losed, but then Dracey came along and took it from me...� The Jackrabbit goes up. THE JACKRABBIT: �At first this maked me sad... and I cried a little, but then I laughed of course, then cried a likkle bit more...� The Jackrabbit comes down. THE JACKRABBIT: �But then I realised... Jackrabbit, ol� buddy ol� pal, there�s no reason to be miserabubble... instead, you can hop along to that Oh-Dub-Ef place, find the nearestest tag team bums... and drop them on their head...� STEVIE SOL: �That�s your �master� plan?� THE JACKRABBIT: �I like dropping people on their heads.� STEVIE SOL: �Ugh, �Rabbit logic. Listen, I�m nearly into the mainframe back at the lab... they musta expected I�d try this, though, changed a whole bunch of IPs within the firewall and re-routed me through different ports...� THE JACKRABBIT: �You�m speaks funny...� STEVIE SOL: �Hah, don�t worry about that... just grab up any things you need from this place, and keep an eye out of the...� He looks up. �Riiight, no windows. Well keep an ear open...� The Jackrabbit seems to be attempting to separate his earlobe from the side of his head. THE JACKRABBIT: �Sometimes I thinks you make less sense than Tal, Stevieo. Then I remember Tal better. He may speak in all long words with some crazy fullsoffies about things, but Tal does have skills of his own, y�know? He swings a mean lead pipe! Haaaaahahah! Vermin Sunhoser, Prince Porky... I�m talking to you now, El Prada... I�m going to start by saying how trulutterentireabsocompletely sorry we are. We�re sorry, El Prada, about Chilly Black Day. We�re sorry that you�re part of the fed that�s on the losing side... that�s the side that�s not winning, folks!... of this war. We�re sorry that our boss, if you can really call Sully that... decided to pick you kiddies as the peeps that Fusion are beating down to make En-El-Dub look good again. But most importantly, we�re one-hundred-and-forty-eighteen percent sorry about the headaches you screwballs are going to have on Wednesday morning. Wednesday comes after Sunday, right?� STEVIE SOL: �Still with the dropping on the head...� THE JACKRABBIT: �It rings a bell...� STEVIE SOL: �Riiiiight...� THE JACKRABBIT: �Speaking of bells.... DING DING DING! Is it a bird, is it a plane, no! It�s Fusion are STILL your En-El-Dub Tag Team Champeeeeenos of the Wooooorld! El Prada, cute name by the way, I like it... to yous, these shiny gold belts mean nothing. To us they mean... ooooooh, they are very shiny! Stevieo, did you ever notice how shiny these belts really are?� Stevie seems suddenly very interested in something blinking on his screen, and just barely acknowledges The Jackrabbit�s comment as the wrestler begins spit-shining his championship belt. STEVIE SOL: �Can�t say I did, �Rabbit.� THE JACKRABBIT: �We like our belts too much to be giving them away to a bunch of Australasians from Oh-Dub-Ef, y�know? After we smacked whacked and cracked El Prada so hard that they think En-El-Dub is a brand of cereal... and boy would I try some of that!... then we can go back to the real task at hand of sending them South-Western Comfortables that ambushed us on Uprisening back to whatever hillybilly crocodile hunter ranch they comed from. Stupid hillybillies. You ever heard them West-Southerners speak, Stevieo? And they say �The Jackrabbit can�t speak proper�! Pffscht!� STEVIE SOL: �Oh shit...� THE JACKRABBIT: �You mean shoot?� STEVIE SOL: �No, I mean shit. They�ve got us.� THE JACKRABBIT: �Ooooh, you�re playing Pac-Man on there?� STEVIE SOL: �No, damnit man! They routed me through a tracker... I didn�t even realise...� The scene reopens, an earlier time, in a distant area somewhere on the road. The camera is hazy at first, the humming reverberating around it like an endless drone of eternal machinery. A voice is heard over the din, an aged voice, a foreign voice, but an educated one, and one well versed in the language he uses with such biting authority. The camera finally finds a refocus in the shape of a cell phone, not new technology at all but sufficient for its purpose, pressed firmly to a human ear. Attached to this human ear, is a person. This person is Libor Radnik, muttering his low, calm tone down the receiver. Around him, the camera sees, are the seats of a car, the driver a non-descript man fixed only on his task, Libor�s white overcoat thrown lazily between the seats. DR. RADNIK: �Has he tried for access yet? ... Good, I expected that. ... Yes, as planned ... � The doctor sits forward in his passenger seat, focused intently on his conversation and the results of a carefully laid system. Today would be his day, too much had gone awry this past month, and all because of the dissention of Steve Sol. Libor growls under his breath as he recalls how the apex of his work, his study of the mentally-subdued Jackrabbit, was undermined by the interference of his now former-associate. Libor Radnik was a man of determination, though. He had given up too much, lost too much for him not to be. DR. RADNIK: �Excellent! And you�re sure that�s the one... yes, I know... send me through the exact location. Yes, yes... I�ll be on my way there now, I�m tired of chasing rabbits...� The camera refocuses, in the tangled web of wood and concrete and hardcore weapons of years past. The jovial atmosphere of earlier has entirely dissipated, and the light-suited baseball-capped Stevie Sol is no longer stoic at his desk. Instead he is a yellow-tied whirlwind, trying desperately to organise himself and the less-panicked Jackrabbit into an escape from the hut that he is now certain will be under siege. STEVIE SOL: �Okay, lappie�s packed up, you�ve got your stuff for the match on Sunday... food, water, fuel... money, where did I put my wallet?... Okay, �Rabbit, you got what you need?� THE JACKRABBIT: �Stevieo, why are we rushing about like mad hatters?� STEVIE SOL: �He�ll be here soon, �Rabbit... Radnik, his men tracked me when I got into their mainframe. I got in, and deleted as much of the information as I could before they stopped me... I don�t know if they�ve backed it up, but... okay, this isn�t important right now, we just need to get to the car. As much as I�m loathe to suggest it, we should head for Talon... he�ll likely be at his tower now, it�s probably the safest place for you for the-...� THE JACKRABBIT: �-...ese belts are too important to us, El Prada... we worked muchly hard, we beat muchly difficult competition like them Sauces City people... and we beat the World Champeeno and the former World Champeeno in a single match... do you even compare to that, Vermin and Porky? This here Jackrabbit doesn�t think so, and methinks the �Rabbit Fans worldwide and elsewhere doesn�t think so neither...� STEVIE SOL: ��Rabbit, are you even listening to me!?� THE JACKRABBIT: �Nope.� STEVIE SOL: �Right, grab this bag, we�re... do you hear that?� Both men go quiet, The Jackrabbit making exaggerated Hogan-esque listening gestures with his hand, and this confirms Stevie�s suspicions... there is the sound of a car engine coming up the grassy knoll towards the Hut of Hardcore. Stevie freezes for a moment, then suddenly springs into action, grabbing his bag and throwing The Jackrabbit�s across to him. The Jackrabbit catches the bag, juggles it momentarily, then skips merrily after Sol as he rushes for the creaking door. The door slams behind them, but The Jackrabbit�s voice carries through. THE JACKRABBIT: �Wait wait wait, I forgot something...� Just The Jackrabbit�s head, blonde hair and sunshades and all, poke around the doorframe, looking straight into the camera. The Jackrabbit grins like a madman. �Oh-Dub-Ef... The Jackrabbit will get The Last Laugh! Aaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhahahahahahahahahahaaaaa!� And the sound of echoing, maniacal laughter whistles around the old hut as The Jackrabbit makes a beeline for the car that Stevie Sol has already revved up. The Cinquecento rockets past the hut just as another car approaches, Radnik clearly visible in the passenger seat with a phone still pressed to his ear. Stevie skilfully dodges around Radnik�s vehicle on his way down the knoll, the car threading a path for the Enigma�s dark tower.