The match felt like a flash. Painful, uncomfortable, every conceivable word and description for the mixture of discomfort he was feeling at this moment. His eye felt more and more swollen, and his ribs felt like it was ripping his internal organs apart. He knew he was doing alright, but an attack by arguably his main tournament rival ended the first round. More stomps, more convulsing, and then in a near instant the source of the pain died.
Odd, the pattern was destined to go on for at least another several minutes, or at least until security arrives to take someone away, but there wasn’t any more commotion. No storming of the guard or anything dramatic. The attacks simply...stopped.
Silas rolled over, and KC3 had vanished beyond the curtain.
PASSENGER: Stupid boy.
Silas gritted his teeth, and on pure adrenaline he quickly rise in the ring; pain be damned! His apology to Jimmy Allen would have to wait, as the scorching Australian heat circles the Canadian while he ran towards the curtain. The concourse gave little relief as the heat takes its toll on Silas and many others, just an obstacle to get to his destination. He was sweating more than usual, to the point that it looked more worrying than anything. He didn’t care. He finally wanted a fair match and it was robbed from him. People, from stadium workers to CWF staff, looked at him, wondering what he was up to.
They found out as he kicked the door of KC3’s dressing room down, only to find that the rich boy had already scarpered, bags and all. Only the signs of finished drinks from local convenience stores remained. Whatever they were, Silas didn’t care, because KC3 wasn’t here.
Silas quickly turned around to see a lightly frightened worker, whose expression almost immediately calmed him down. He was getting too worked up. He would have his chance, albeit now owed a small amount of money. That was apparent when Silas looked at the door hinges and saw that not only did his kick knock them off the frame, but took a good chunk of the frame with it.
STADIUM WORKER: Are you ok?
There was a pause, as Silas diverted his attention to the worker and the broken door frame. There and back, there and back.
SILAS ARTORIA: Just a little frustrated.
He started walking down the concourse again, this time towards his personal locker room.
PASSENGER: I see what you mean when you said I should wait.
A wicked smile escaped the host.
SILAS ARTORIA: His time will come...very soon.
The Canadian entered the spa and immediately slid into the pre prepared ice-bath, contrasting starkly against the scorching temperatures of late-summer Australia. Rib still covered in bandages, he was careful leaning his back against the tub structure, so not to accidentally tear the material apart.
He clenches his teeth from the chill, before relaxing.
SILAS ARTORIA: I have a couple of people coming in this room in a few moments to check up on me. Understandable. They don’t want me to suddenly drown because my body decides to shut down because of this method I am using.
He turns to the camera, his one-eyed stare haunting enough to nearly crack the lens.
SILAS ARTORIA: There’s two reasons why I’ve decided to opt for this ice bath. One of them is because, as a Canadian, I’m not used to the seething hot climates that the lovely country of Australia has to offer. I sweat more often, which means loss of water, which means that I’m unlikely to be hydrated come match time. So in a strange, almost stereotypical way, this bath makes my body remind itself of home, since I don’t see the practicality of returning to Canada and immediately coming back to Australia multiple times.
He crosses his arms and leans against the tub’s edge, resting his head on the comfortable flesh.
SILAS ARTORIA: The second is because the controversial method is useful after going through high-activity sports or workout regimes, since it lessens the impact of the inevitable soreness human muscles will exhert.
He points to the bandaged ribs.
SILAS ARTORIA: My ribs being what they are at the the moment means that they are more susceptible to soreness. Especially when they are exacerbated by activity.
His hand moves to his chin, creating a wondering expression to match his speech.
SILAS ARTORIA: Like...oh I don’t know...getting repeatedly targeted by both your current opponent and scheduled opponent?
SILAS ARTORIA: Yeah, likely that. And on that note…
He returns to his original position; leaned back comfortable and looking outward in the distance.
SILAS ARTORIA: I would like to make a public apology to Jimmy Allen. Not only did I not arrive at the show in less than ideal conditions, but the conclusion of our match was a complete and total farce. It shouldn’t have happened, and I take little joy in knowing that the two first points achieved in the Grand Prix are tainted by the pure idiocy. He’s your opponent for tonight, and I won’t come down ringside to assist you. You deserve better than another interference laden match, and I am sure you will want to dissect the boy bit by bit by yourself.
Quick glance at the lens.
SILAS ARTORIA: If I was you, go for his fingers.
Light wink, return to his distant look.
SILAS ARTORIA: The KC3 situation has, in this case, given me an advantage thanks to his lack of foresight, but it also means the match against Nathan Paradine will be a crucial one. If I win, then it puts me at a very good position, but KC3 has every opportunity to come in and wreck the whole thing. If that’s the case, then I think the two of us can knock out the little rat. It would be satisfying, after all.
Little chuckle escapes him.
SILAS ARTORIA: But that’s if he trots down to the ring. Until, and if then, it’ll just be the two of us, and unfortunately I’m going to be in worse condition than before, thanks to careful attacks of Jimmy Allen. In comparison, the hometown boy is better prepared, more spritely, more refreshed, and isn’t harbouring any major injuries.
He looks down on a slight angle.
SILAS ARTORIA: It’s a tricky position to be in. I’ve gone one on one with several people claiming to be ‘submission machines’ and yet each and every single one of them has failed to do the one thing submissions lead to. Go back through my back catalogue and look at each match. Have I tapped out a single time?
He looks back at the camera, wicked smile.
SILAS ARTORIA: No. Not once, ever. And for someone whose deadliest weapon is an, admittingly sublime, submission hold, it’s not a good sign.
He points to his ribs.
SILAS ARTORIA: Then again, these ribs might be enough to change the tide of that fact. Who knows? We’ll see soon enough.
His hand drifts into the water, and vanishes from the camera.
SILAS ARTORIA: I am more than happy to meet you in the ring and give you the same courtesies that I offered Mr Allen, but if you think you’re going to put me into the Mark of Judas for the victory…
Pause. A darkly chuckle escapes him.
SILAS ARTORIA: ...then you haven’t done your research.
He leans back into the same comfortable position.
SILAS ARTORIA: Au voire, Mr Paradine, and prepare your face for when you come crashing down on the mat. I wouldn’t want the Fall of Man to disfigure someone, would I?
Another chuckle, as the camera slowly fades out into complete blackness.