That Last Flight

There he lay.

He really should have known better.

When the match against Hoxton was over and done with, Hoxton couldn’t be satisfied with JUST a victory. No. He had to make an example out of the masked man, triply so after Suraci was able to pull a fast one over Hoxton in both their recent tag and single encounters. Even after Suraci fooled himself into believing his emotional segment would ease the tension and clean the slate, allowing him to grind his way to the top without any drama.

He really should have known better.

Hoxton’s stomps, delivered with enough force to potentially crack a few ribs could be considered punishment for thinking too highly of the men who walk the halls of this company. Each ache in his torso, the stabbing pains that would cripple him every breath he forces into his lungs, a reminder of why he was afraid to return--the cruelty, selfishness and viciousness of those who aren’t content with keeping the action between the bells.

There he lay.

Alone in the ring, head fuzzy, eyesight a little blurry--it takes him a second to remember where he is. The crowd watches on helplessly, some trying to start up a chant desperately hoping their words can heal him. Before they really get going, their breath collectively hitches as they register what they’re seeing.

Smokes starts filling the ringside area, an effective wall that blocks off the path of the medical personnel trying to get to Suraci. This traps a referee in the ring, who had helped Suraci get back to his feet. Without hesitation, Suraci removes his mask then puts it on the referee, and before the ref can protest, Suraci tosses him out of the ring. Several tense seconds later, the referee emerges on the other side of the smoke coughing violently, and is immediately tended to by the trapped medical team.

Suraci tries to follow him out only to collapse to the mat from the sharp pain that shoots through his torso. A gloved hand reaches from outside the ring, and fingers curl around Suraci’s ankle. A telltale tip of a beak just ever so slightly peaks through the smoke on the other side of the ring, watching as more hands, at least a dozen, grab Suraci and drag him out of the ring.

When the smoke clears, there’s no sign of him.

Suraci really thought that things would be different this time around, that the wolves have been placated and wouldn’t endlessly be on the hunt for those deemed too weak to defend themselves.

He really should have known better.

And now he’ll pay for his ignorance.

Jason Spade tosses aside the elbow pad he'd been pulling from his arm as he watches the monitor in the locker room; Hoxton had beaten Suraci, but that had not satisfied him. Spade would not stand by and watch this.

By the time Spade reaches the arena, the hands have already taken Suraci and the smoke has mostly cleared. Spade sprints down the ramp, shoving past the medical personnel and sliding into the ring, looking around for any sign of his old rival, confusion and anger on his face. Something horrible had happened... He had been too slow to stop it.

Spade kneels in the ring, placing a hand on the canvas as though it were the top of a closed casket. Though nobody can hear him, he speaks.

I'm... I'm sorry.