The pain amplified has he lifted Nathan Paradine in the air, and the stinging sensation affected his ability to concentrate, and the moment of exhaustion gave his opponent the ability to strike. He was able to recover relatively quickly, but by then it was too late.
He had lost.
His lead in the Grand Prix completely dissipated.
The Australian crowd reacted predictably, because regardless of what side of the moral spectrum you lie, the people will ultimately cheer the home boy. He was happy that some people did greet him favourably, but he wasn’t going to exit with local reverence.
Silver lining at least, the fans in Sydney don’t hate him now.
He staggered throughout the closed off section of the concourse as he gripped his ribs in pure agony. The gritted teeth nearly broke several of them, or at least it felt like they would for how hard Silas was pushing them together. It was dizzying, the journey, but he finally found his way to his dressing room, immediately making a beeline for the sink.
Taps on. Silas immediately soaks his face.
PASSENGER: You’re walking a very thin line now.
SILAS ARTORIA: Don’t think I know already?
He drowns his face in the refreshing cold water, taking time to rub the sweat off his skin. One by one the substance was wiped off. Cheeks, chin, nose, forehead, and eye. The bandages around his eye became soaked; will need them replaced by the time he returns to his hotel suite.
PASSENGER: You’re faltering fast.
SILAS ARTORIA: Ribs.
PASSENGER: You could’ve allowed me to surface and you’d automatically be in the final.
Silas turns the taps off.
SILAS ARTORIA: But where’s the fun in that?
PASSENGER: Excuse me.
SILAS ARTORIA: Nathan’s a good kid, talented as hell. He doesn’t deserve to experience your capabilities. I wanted to defeat him, but I didn’t want him killed.
He grabs nearby table cloths and wipes his face and hair, slowly drying them to acceptable levels. He wipes his neck for good measure, before letting out a light giggle to continue the conversation.
SILAS ARTORIA: Plus, there’s someone much more deserving to be given a sample of your...temperament.
PASSENGER: A mere sample?
SILAS ARTORIA: Contingency. I don’t want you out of commission if the possibility of greater things come to pass.
Titles. Always prepare for the title matches, and the Passenger was aware of this. Their first appearance was a warning to the locker room, and the entity had only barely surfaced themselves in a cage match against Ataxia, before completely revealing themselves once again in a match to find MJ Flair’s next opponent.
PASSENGER: ...if you say so, but the blame will be on you if it backfires.
Silas lets out another chuckle as he puts he synonymous coat on. Time to rest and prepare for his next opponent; the one that’s been a constant plague since the start of the year.
SILAS ARTORIA: That’ll be my weight to bear.
He leaves his dressing room, and travels down towards the exit. His breathing was more controlled, but his current predicament was bothering him. There was a somber feeling in the air, and despite having slowly gotten the crowd to lean towards him, it wasn't feeling whole.
He saw Nathan nearby, and simply smiled at the victorious man, before disappearing out of the venue, lightly humming a song he had in the back of his mind.
The hotel room is clean and chique, arguably one of the more expensive rooms available. The skyline of Sydney is lit up within the night-time, and opposite the window lyes Silas Artoria; under the covers of a king-sized bed with a weighted blanket on top for good measure. He is sat up, merely observing the skyline with a faint but relaxed expression.
He soaks in the atmosphere, keeping his eyes on the skyline as he takes a deep breath.
SILAS ARTORA: Well...I guess I was right in some way.
He looks towards the frame, with his expression changing to reflect a more apprehensive man.
SILAS ARTORIA: I promised the world that my match against the hometown hero would not be the first match where I would tap to a submission...but I forgot to mention that I wouldn’t walk out defeated. Should probably mention that when making prophesied statements.
A long pause, but a smile escapes him.
SILAS ARTORIA: Still, I have to congratulate him for using his cunningness and awareness to find an opportunity to pin my shoulders, and that now makes him the running favourite in the tournament.
He chuckles, but is interrupted by a sigh from his own feelings. He looks away from the frame and drowns in his own thought. The melancholy is undeniable.
SILAS ARTORIA: Shame really. I was hoping to end the Paramount Grand Prix with three straight tournament main events, but this loss has reduced my final match into the curtain jerker with a multitude of possible outcomes. If I win and you win, then you head to the PPV as the veteran’s champion. If we finish the tournament with the same amount of points, you’d be going through to face the champion, since your victory would eliminate the tie breaker.
He sighs heavily, and glances back to the frame. Expression doesn’t change.
SILAS ARTORIA: And it is for that reason that, while I have a lot of respect for you Nathan, that I will be rooting for Jimmy Allen come your match. If he and I finish at four points, then I walk into the finals with the title just inches away from my fingers.
His breathing slowly increases as his eyebrows narrow at the same rate. His voice increases in volume, as the harshness of his address emerged. His seen eye doesn’t blink, and he starts to lean closer and closer to the frame.
SILAS ARTORIA: I’ve been in this company for a long time, and I have yet to hold a CWF Championship despite being a cornerstone of this company for a while. From elevating careers, to my opening match at WrestleFest stealing the whole show, to the hour long match with MJ Flair largely being considered the greatest and most spectacular match in company history!
He shoots back, hands in the air. One sharp breath, and a smiles returns to him.
SILAS ARTORIA: Forgive me. Getting carried away there.
SILAS ARTORIA: Mr Allen, please don’t look at the lights by the end of the night. Please?
He adjusts himself on the bed, before one of his hands slips under one of the bed pillows.
SILAS ARTORIA: So...onto my opponent. The final obstacle.
He hand returns, gripping a shining but dangerous looking knife. Silas carefully examines the sharp tool, inspecting every little detail in its craft. The handle, strong. The sharp end itself, firmly attached and as narrow as a razor. He pokes the tip of the knife into his finger, not eliciting even a wince.
Blood lightly trickles down his finger, and Silas quickly tidies the small smell. He licks the wound and keeps his eye on the small opening. It’s stopped bleeding quickly.
A light chuckle.
He throws the knife with noticeable force, narrowly missing the frame and hitting a surface behind it.
Silas had propped up some papers containing several athletes in the CWF. Some had a sticky note with a lingering question, but the most notable feature was where the knife landed.
The face of his next opponent.
SILAS ARTORIA: The son of Ken Davidson. K...C...3. The “Next Generation God”.
A breath of light contempt escapes him.
SILAS ARTORIA: The athlete I am about to face is the only one in the Grand Prix guaranteed to not enter the final after his loss to Jimmy Allen, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t some kind of threat.
He finally turns back to the frame, but the unapologetic expression did not change, although there was less of a hatred and more akin to a parent warning a child. Suitable.
SILAS ARTORIA: This might surprise you but this is not the first time I’ve been in a round robin style tournament. About eighteen or so months ago I took part in the JWA’s Crescendo tournament. There were two tables, each containing eleven athletes with ten matches to trudge through. I didn’t know any of them; I was contacted because one of their athletes got into an accident and needed to fill a space.
He looks down in sadness; reliving the failures.
SILAS ARTORIA: My inexperience showed. Match by match, I fell flat on the mat and was pinned. No matter what I faced and no matter what I learned before, nine athletes would completely crush me.
Long pause, but a quick chuckle and a wicked smile changes his tone. He glances at the camera; his face almost mischievous.
SILAS ARTORIA: But then there was my final match against JWA Champion Hidetaka Ito. I was going against the man who needed two more points to head to the final, and by a complete miracle, I successfully flash-pinned him. I rolled him up and scored a victory.
SILAS ARTORIA: And that victory denied Ito the spot in the final.
Long pause, but the memory of pinning the champion was one he lingers on. He wants the people to soak in the effect. One small victory changed the entire tournament.
SILAS ARTORIA: We call victories like that “spoilers”, and the only one in the tournament in the position to deliver one is Mr KC3.
He folds his arms, only wincing at a brief sharp pain from his ribs. Deep breath, back on track.
SILAS ARTORIA: I’m sure most of you are aware that despite my reformation, there’s still the question of the oddity that lives within my head.
SILAS ARTORIA: To be truthful, they haven’t changed one bit. They get tired after an explosive outburst and thus will need to take a breather. But it’s never quiet.
The smile starts to fade away as his arms relax onto his knees. His voice once again increasing in tone, but this time in an almost concerning presentation, as he leans towards the frame.
SILAS ARTORIA: It continuously talks to me, begging for an opportunity to prey upon those unfortunate to cross it’s path, and will continuously scream in my ears every minute of every hour until it’s bloodlust is satisfied!
He points to his head in sharp fashion.
SILAS ARTORIA: Do you know what it’s like being a prisoner of your own mind, KC3? Are you ignorant enough to disregard the dangers it surfaces?
Long pause, before his arm lowers.
SILAS ARTORIA: Ask Autumn. One little twitch, one small sign of it surfacing sends shivers of terror down her spine, and Shadow and the former Loki will attest of the dangers you can face.
He stares at the frame for what seems like an eternity, before finally, if slowly, returning to the position the frame first saw him at. Back to the bed frame, nice and comfortable, but the eye contact remained.
SILAS ARTORIA: It calls for blood, KC3.
His teeth show, and his head tilts slightly to the side. His voice, monotone.
SILAS ARTORIA: So maybe I might allow them to take a sample of you.
SILAS ARTORIA: Do yourself a favour, and have an ambulance on standby.
He finally lays down proper in the bed and gets himself comfortable, before reaching out towards the light switch. He nearly flicks it, but quickly looks at the camera again.
SILAS ARTORIA: Goodnight KC3, see you in Canberra.
He flicks the light switch, and the hotel room immediately descends into darkness, beckoning the next day.
Arrival. Desk. Smile. Ticket. Inspection. Smile.
???: Welcome aboard, please enjoy your flight.