Alberto Del Rio glares darkly down the ramp, into the ring. His long-hated rival, Rey Mysterio, leers back at him, freshly returned from the injury he himself had caused nearly a year ago. "Why is this perro back?!" he snaps. "Can he not take a hint? He is not welcome in my ring!" He is so angry that it takes a moment for him to realize that the usual chattering from his ring announcer is oddly absent, the only noise around him being the amped up crowd who, for whatever reason, seem to be thrilled to see Mysterio.
He turns slowly and frowns at the empty ramp behind him. "Ricardo?" His anger only grows as he realizes that, yes, his ring announcer has disappeared on him. "Where did you go?" he barks into thin air, stomping the rest of the way up the ramp to look for him, all thoughts of Rey Mysterio gone from his mind.
He stops as soon as he's past the curtain, suspicious gaze darting here and there; the hallways, as always, are full of people... but there is no Ricardo to be seen. Mumbling angrily to himself, he storms off to his personal locker room and pauses in the doorway, shaking his head. It too is empty, quiet. "Where are you?"
His vision is blurry. Something cold is pressed against his cheek but he can't move to brush it away. He feels weak and almost nauseous- concussion, he thinks. But how? His memories are scattered- Zack Ryder, and that chihuahua interfering and... Then everything goes dark! He tries to sit up with a gasp but something tugs on his arm, holds him down roughly. "Wait, let- let me go," he groans, still unable to see very clearly.
"In time," a distorted voice tells him grimly. "Stop squirmin', this'll go faster." His ears are ringing so loudly he can barely hear the words, and they only make him struggle harder anyway.
"El Patron!" he chokes out, before exclaiming in pain when a large fist slams into his face, sending him back against a wall, his whole head throbbing as he sinks down it tiredly, coming to rest against the floor. "Ay..."
"See what you made me do? Now fella, if you had just left things to Del Rio and I, you wouldn't have been involved at all. I didn't wanna have to do anything like this, but, well... when ya kept getting involved, and then masterminded the whole car hood thing, I knew somethin' had to give, yeah?"
It's obvious by the fella who exactly this is after all and he cringes, staring up at his captor. "Sheamus," he pants out, wanting so badly to struggle again, try to free himself... but, even through his muddled thoughts, he knows that, not only would it be pointless, more shenanigans from him will only anger the Irishman further, worsen his injuries. "El Patron... El Patron will find me," he finally settles on saying despite his own uncertainty. "You'll see. He will not... let this happen to me."
Sheamus tsks at him, finally releasing his wrist. "Ya know, I've never understood ya. Your blind devotion to this Mexican fool. Is it the money? It must be some damn good green, to make ya endure all that he's made ya endure over the last few years. I would've had it on day one, to be honest with ya. But I guess the loyalty's commendable, even if it is short sighted of ya. Do you honestly think he'd ever be as loyal to you? I doubt it, so here we are."
Ricardo pants as his headache ratchets up in intensity, the young man unable to think very heavily on what exactly Sheamus is talking about. "What do you mean?"
"What do I mean," Sheamus repeats, almost mockingly. "Well, fella, see, my thoughts are pretty simple: Del Rio won't know what's happened to ya, and he'll maybe look for a little bit but he's got no patience for anything really serious 'n' he'll just think you ran out on him. Few days'll pass of neither hide nor hair of ya and he'll be done with it; soon as he releases ya from your duties, I'll place a quick little call and you'll be outta here. In one fell swoop, Del Rio will be without his best asset and I'll have one less thorn in my side when it comes to 'im."
Ricardo shakes his head, fearful and a little disgusted with how he can almost see this happening; curse his imagination! "No," he chokes out, trying to blanket his doubts with bravado. "El Patron would not believe such things of me, he knows better- he knows I would never-"
"Keep telling yourself that, fella." Sheamus pats him on the head, his touch on fire with loathing derision. "Don't worry too much, I won't let ya die down here. We're travelin' on to the next place but I paid off a nice lass who'll be by every so often with some water 'n' food for ya. Soon as Friday rolls around and Del Rio's fired ya, I'll let her know to free ya." He leans over to tug on Ricardo's wrist, finally bringing the younger man's attention to the handcuffs connecting him to a pipe branching off from the boiler. He begins to sweat, realizing that Sheamus is serious, he really can't get out of here. "I'd say it's been nice knowin' ya, but that'd be a lie, so..."
He loses it as Sheamus leaves, whistling merrily. "NO! No! You cannot leave me here, stop! El Patron! El Patron! You Irish brute, unlock these right now! I can't stay here! Someone, please!" His desperate words are interrupted by the rough, grating sound of the basement door being slammed shut. "No, no, no," he whines, trying to throw himself back with enough force to snap the cuffs, not even caring as his wrist begins to throb more and more with each strained movement. "Oh please, oh please..." His yells, his struggles, they do nothing but cause the rough metal to slice into his flesh, his throat to dry and his voice to fail him in ways that it hadn't in a very long time because of his vocal practice from doing Alberto's entrances for years.
"Help," he whines, the fight finally leaving him as he slumps down the wall, eyes fluttering. He has no idea how much time has passed, for all he knows everyone may be gone already, onto the next town for the Smackdown taping later in the week. "El- El Patron... don't leave me here..."
"Ricardo!" Alberto yells, truly losing his patience now. It is not like his ring announcer to hide from him, not even when he's at his angriest. Even taking slaps from him now and again when his temper is exceptionally bad and staying by his side like it's nothing, so he cannot understand why, really, now, he would be gone. This does not feel right, he thinks grimly, looking left to right along the hallway. The arena is slowly emptying, Raw long over and done with, people moving on for the next event. It is almost creepy quiet in the building but he remains, something telling him that he's missing... some clue. Some hint where Ricardo is at. They both have enough enemies that it almost wouldn't surprise him if something had befallen his misfortunate ring announcer, and so he remains.
"Have you seen Ricardo Rodriguez?" he snaps out at a passing tech hand, who recoils from his angry tone.
"N-no, sir," he says, not catching Alberto's eye as he tries to slip away.
"Get back here!" the angry Mexican aristocrat rumbles, grabbing him by the shirt and dragging him over until they're face to face. "What do you know?" He shakes him, staring him down. "What have you seen?!"
The young man's lips are moving but no sounds are coming out, his whole form shaking due to the pure intimidation of being stared at like this by Del Rio. "Please, Sir," he whispers, trying to loosen the grip on his shirt. "I don't know anything."
"Liar!" he roars into his face, shaking him harder. "Talk right now, or I swear...!"
He groans, finally giving in to the pressure. "Fine," he pants, "fine. Please, let me down and I'll show you. Please."
"If you run, I will find you," Alberto warns him. When he nods uncertainly, Alberto lowers him back to the ground and follows him closely to one of the few remaining production trucks outside. He cues up something and fiddles with the controls, telling it to play. It is of his interrupted ring time by Rey Mysterio, filmed from behind him on the ramp, however, and Ricardo is clearly in the shot, gesturing wildly with his hands (Ricardo is the most hyperactive hand talker Del Rio has ever seen) at the masked Mexican in the ring. The view of the camera is suddenly blocked by something dark and when the spot is cleared, Ricardo is gone. "Play that slower," he orders, thinking he'd seen a flash of something.
The tech nods, nervously pressing a few buttons before letting it play out frame by frame just before Ricardo disappears. It's a little blurry and not great, but it's enough as Alberto takes in the pale arm that's just visible in the frame. "That Irish perro," he snaps. Without another look at the tech, he storms out of the truck and back into the arena. "What has he done with you, then, Ricardo?" The building is all but empty now, only cleaning crew and staff still lurking around, handling post-event duties. They give him strange looks, only backing away when they realize just how angry he truly is.
He wanders the halls for awhile, trying to think of where exactly Sheamus would hide the ring announcer, when something tall and red blocks his path. He blinks, finally realizing that it's Kane that had melted out of the shadows in front of him, a creepy sneer on his face as they examine each other. Turning around, not in the mood to deal with the demented monster of a man, he's almost out of sight when Kane calls out to him, "You know, the boiler room is delightfully uncomfortable this time of night!" Maddened laughter follows this, growing quieter the further away Del Rio walks.
He scoffs at this, looking from room to room. "I've checked all of these," he mumbles, slowly starting to lose hope. "What if I do not find him? What if Sheamus took him elsewhere... but you would think someone would have seen that. Although I am generally surrounded by idiotas, so perhaps not." He is about to give up, get on the road and go to the next town, find Sheamus and beat the truth out of him, but something stops him. Kane's words echo back to him, something about them disturbing him in a way different than what the warped man probably was intending. "Wait. The boiler... the boiler room," he realizes, jaw dropping. "I have not checked the basement!"
Turning back from the exit, dropping his bags thoughtlessly, he takes off at a run to the doors he'd just passed a few minutes ago with the Staff Only signs plastered all over it and wrenches it open, relieved that this portion of the hallway appears to be empty of annoying members of said staff who would only try stopping him. Or so he thinks-
A throat is cleared behind him and he turns to find one of the managers staring at him strangely. He glowers over his shoulder at her before turning to face her. "Sir, what exactly do you think you're doing? The basement is offlimits to non-staff members. I'm sorry but I'm going to have to ask you to leave-"
He almost wants to laugh, as if anything has ever been off-limits to him, but instead he just fixes his dark gaze on her as he pulls out his wallet. "Listen here, under your very nose my ring announcer has been kidnapped and held in this very basement, so I do not wish to hear about how it is off-limits. As long as he is down there, that is where I'm headed. You cannot and will not stop me. Now take this, and go." He stuffs a large roll of bills into her hands, not even sure how much is in there, before he steps into the darkness.
It is cool, and it is loud, various engines thrumming around him to keep the arena operating at prime efficiency and he hates it already. He can't even imagine poor, anxious Ricardo, trapped down here for who knows how long. "Ricardo!" he calls out, almost stumbling on the bottom step. "Ricardo, it is Alberto. Where are you, mi amigo?!" He ends up feeling along the wall, trying to find a light switch- anything... "Por favor, say something!" Finally his fingers fumble against a switch and he hesitates, hoping that it is for the lights and nothing else. Holding his breath, he flips it and winces away as a bright light fills the basement, blinding him. "Ay carumba," he grouses, shielding his eyes with his hands until his vision adjusts.
Squinting around, he takes in various boxes and things scattered around, wandering further into the depths of the basement. "Ricardo!" He huffs, only able to hear the grinding noise of the air conditioner and other equipment surrounding him. "Hmph, how am I supposed to hear anything down here...?" He's made his way to the opposing wall, about to give up and walk back upstairs when he turns around, something bright and untarnished reflecting light right in his eyes. "What is that?" he mumbles, rolling his eyes. "This place, ugh." He feels gritty and dirty just from the short period of time he'd spent in this dusty, grimy area, but still he wanders over to the furnace, frowning at it. There are numerous pipes crisscrossing here and there, but none of them look new enough to reflect light off. His curious, annoyed gaze continues running along the bronze until finally he finds it- something silver and circular wrapped around one of the bands of pipe, a... a...
He pales, realizing what exactly it is. Handcuffs? His heart thrumming loudly in his ears, he lunges around it and peers down. Through the gloom and shadows, only just touched by the light on the other side of the furnace unit, he can see his ring announcer sprawled out on the ground, handcuffed roughly to the piping just within reach. "Ricardo," he chokes out, dropping to his knees next to him. "Ay. Sheamus," he mouths, almost too angry to vocalize anything. He reaches out and touches the younger man, patting his face. "Ricardo! Open your eyes." There is no response and he frowns, annoyed that he cannot see very well back here.
Moving his hands, he runs them along Ricardo's skull, finding what he had been afraid of- a deep laceration along the back of his head, still oozing blood. He pulls back and stares at his red streaked hand, trying to remind himself that head wounds tend to bleed heavily and that it's not neccessarily anything to worry about right this moment, before repositioning Ricardo so there's less strain on his arm: the young man had obviously been struggling harshly, his wrist held at an uncomfortable angle, the cuffs biting into his arm. Alberto's eyes lower back to his friend's pale face as he takes in how drenched in blood his dress shirt's sleeve is. "Ay, Ricardo... I will be back in a moment, I must get help." He can't break the cuffs on his own, so it is a neccessary evil.
Each minute that it takes him to find the last of the WWE staff hanging around feels like individual lifetimes, his grip shaking but strong as he immediately grabs the trainer, rejoicing his luck that of all of them, he was one of the ones lingering. "Ricardo," he snaps. "Sheamus kidnapped him. He's hurt." The group of WWE staff hanging around the exit hesitate, looking at each other. "Move!" he snaps, pushing the trainer towards the basement. "He is by the furnace." As the short man stumbles off, not questioning the tense commands any further, Alberto turns back to the others. "Any of you have a handcuff key?"
He leads the way, a number of the staff following him down, relieved to find the trainer assessing Ricardo's condition as he slips back in with him. "How is he?"
"Not well," the trainer mumbles. "I believe he fractured his wrist while struggling to free himself. Along with the head injury, and bleeding... we need to move him. Now."
Alberto stares at him, derision dripping from his very pores, before slipping around him and stabbing the lock with a key- many of the staff keeps master copies, since so many people had been handcuffed to ring ropes and turnbuckles over the years-, breathing a little easier as it clicks open and Ricardo, now freed, slumps fully against him, his breath hot and stilted against his neck. "There you are, Ricardo," he says soothingly, stroking the younger man's neck. "You're safe." He doesn't move, keeping a close eye on his ring announcer as the trainer begins his work, a stretcher making its way down to the basement within moments.
Ricardo's wrist is wrapped up to keep it from jostling or bleeding worse and a haphazardly placed gauze to the back of his head is already turning pink by the time he is being carried up the steps, Alberto's worry only growing as he realizes that he has yet to even open his eyes. "Fight, Ricardo," he mumbles before following them, his hands clenched tightly. "That pale idiota will not get away with this..."
He is allowed to travel with them in the ambulance to the ER and it's to his great relief that he can watch first hand as Ricardo finally begins to stir, his head rolling against the pillow as he whimpers. "Help," he breathes out, eyes shut tightly. "Please... El Patron. I can't..."
Leaning forward around an EMT monitoring Ricardo's vitals, he rests his hand on Ricardo's shoulder and squeezes. "I'm here, Ricardo. You are safe now. Sheamus will not touch you again." This appears to calm the ring announcer, his face smoothing slightly as he dozes back off, fingers twitching against the cot.
To his great displeasure, he isn't allowed in the room when they arrive at the ER, told to wait in the waiting room down the hall while they evaluate Ricardo. Nothing he says or offers seems to sway the nurses' minds, and so it's with an aggravated grimace that he goes to sit down, as far away from other people slumped down in chairs, waiting for news on their own, as he can get.
It feels like hours have passed- but has really only been fifteen minutes- when the same nurse who had insisted on kicking him out allows him back in, a small smile on her lips. "Someone's pretty desperate to see you," she says quietly, pulling the curtain back to reveal Ricardo sitting up in bed, his eyes squinted open. He still looks like he's in a great amount of pain, his wrist now held in a more sturdy brace against his chest, but he's awake. Alberto grins at him, quickly moving to sit next to him.
"El Patron," he chokes out before Alberto can even think of what to say. "It wasn't me, I would never- I couldn't possibly-"
"Shhhh," Alberto chides, patting his arm once more. "I know, I know, Ricardo. It was that maniac, Sheamus. He obviously knows that together we are unbeatable so he was trying to weaken me before our next World title match. Do not worry about it."
Ricardo nods, wincing when his bandaged skull rubs against the pillow. "You found me," he whispers, eyes already flickering shut once more. "Thank you."
"You do not need to thank me," the Mexican aristocrat tells him. "But yes, you best get some sleep. I will need your help in getting revenge." He strokes some of the longer strands of hair out of Ricardo's eyes, smiling as the younger man leans into his touch, his breathing already evening out as he sinks further into rest.
By that Friday, Ricardo has been released from the hospital and has convinced Alberto to let him appear at Smackdown, despite his own worries and fear of being caught by Sheamus once more. "Do not leave the locker room unless I am with you," Alberto warns him. "And you leave it locked at all times. I will not leave you vulnerable to a repeat of Monday."
"Yes, El Patron." The younger man nods, following him down a hallway. They're about to turn to the right when Alberto stops him, Sheamus' loud, boisterious voice echoing down the walls towards them, his tall, pale form quickly passing by without even noticing them in the shadows to his right.
"Wait here," he snaps, inching forward.
"El Patron-" Ricardo hisses, stopping as Alberto holds an arm up in warning to him. He watches on anxiously as Alberto slips behind Sheamus, poised to strike. All he can do is hold his breath and wait, hope for the best, as Sheamus hears something behind him and turns just to get a face full of Alberto's knees, his legs crashing painfully into the tile floors.
Sheamus writhes and struggles but Alberto is like a pitbull when he wants to be, clinging tightly to Sheamus' arm and grinding the heel of his shoe into his face to stop him from fighting back. "AGH!" the Irishman cries out, trapped between two walls and numerous piles of boxes and trunks that WWE always brings with to these events, just in case. No where to go, no other recourse, all he can do is yell and struggle pointlessly as Alberto twists his arm back in a horrible angle, tangling his legs around it to hold it in place.
Ignoring the vicious cursewords pouring from his lips, Del Rio continues snapping his arm back again, and again, and again. "Ricardo!" he yells, lunging back some more as Sheamus snarls, the fight fading from him as his whole arm throbs with agony. "Come here!"
The ring announcer hesitantly inches out, holding his still braced wrist close to his chest. "Si, El Patron?"
"Anything you want to say or do to this cobarde?" he wonders, wrenching back harder on his arm as Sheamus lunges, trying and failing to take a swing at Ricardo.
He stares down at the pale man, trying to figure out where exactly he would like to start. Finally he just leans down and stares him in the eye, his dark gaze clashing with the other man's green. "You should not underestimate loyalty," he tells him. "We cannot be stopped, no matter what you- or anyone else- try."
"He won't be trying anything for awhile," Alberto rumbles, forcing his wrist back once more just so, a loud snap echoing through the hallway as Sheamus shouts, thrashing around while the Mexican quickly disengages himself, grabbing Ricardo by the arm. "Move, move!" he urges, pushing the man ahead of him. They leave as quickly as Ricardo can manage with his head injury, finally slowing a few hallways away, Alberto looping an arm around his shoulders and leading him back towards his personal locker room. "Are you alright?"
"Si, El Patron." Ricardo's wrist is starting to throb in time with his skull again and he badly needs to sit down but, knowing that Sheamus will probably be out of their hair for awhile, he feels better than he has in a long, long time. "Thank you." For finding me, for defending me... for everything. He smiles as Alberto opens his locker room and ushers him in, glancing quickly back and forth before joining him, locking the door. Just in case. Loyalty indeed.