Alberto travels to Oklahoma after a quiet weekend spent at home, pondering where he wants to go now in the WWE. With the Authority seemingly stuck on this terrible unification match idea, he knows his chance at another shot at the title won't be happening- at least not this month (he can't even think about the fact that, more likely than not, if he does get another shot at it down the road, it won't be the World title anymore), which leaves him with very few, appealing options if he wants a role at TLC. It reminds him too much of the year prior, when he had no direction, no match... but at least then he had Ricardo in his corner, listening patiently to his grievances and worries. Now he's all alone, his negative emotions growing with each passing day until he feels like he could explode.
He sneers at the board listing all of the scheduled matches and segments, staring at his name jotted down with "vs Sin Cara" next to it. He, and no one else, had seen the other Mexican since he had injured himself yet again in their last match weeks back, which was just as well for Del Rio, seeing no upside to keeping the other man around. He can only imagine what Sin Cara will do to himself this night... He smirks slightly as he walks off to get ready, still resigned to staying in the main locker room since Vickie appears to still enjoy making him pay for his actions while trying to keep his title out of Cena's worthless clutches.
Except that Sin Cara has a new fire lit under him, so it would seem, and he leaves Alberto floundering more than his lights alone could ever accomplish. Eventually he flops onto him from the top rope, winding the Mexican aristocrat and... he eats the pin, rolling out of the ring where he slides bonelessly onto the floor. He can't grasp it, or make it make any sort of sense. "Por que," he whispers as he has no choice but to get up and return to the backstage area, get dressed and collect his stuff in the main room, where he fights to ignore the whispers and laughs his presence causes by all of the people who remember his reaction after Sin Cara had broken his finger or something equally as weak the last time they'd fought each other, having the match called off almost immediately. For him to have lost to him now...
He trudges through the halls, exiting the building in a hurry, and shudders against the chill as he heads for his car, alone and weary, angry and sad all at once. Mi amigo, he thinks glumly, remembering all of the times in the past when Ricardo would comfort him or just be a source of silent support after a night like tonight. I miss you, but I suppose it is just as well you are not here. I always treated you the worst whenever you were by my side after humiliating losses like this one... He closes his eyes, shaking his head at the realization that this is just yet another thing he deserves, after everything he had done the last few years to various people, top of the list being Ricardo himself.
He goes home and spends the next few days licking his wounds, allowing Sofia to do her thing, her motherly support moderately helpful. When he returns to Smackdown that Friday, he glowers up at the arena as he storms towards it, blood boiling with white hot anger. He's sad and lonely but he turns it to anger, unable to show just how disgusted he is in himself and his career as he storms towards the locker room, throwing his things into a corner and glowering around at the few people around, silent warning clear to anyone who might be considering touching anything of his.
He has yet another nothing match against Kofi, but his heart isn't in it. He doesn't want a repeat of Monday, either. This mixed in with his anger is enough to send him off the deep end, attacking the man over and over again, not giving him a chance to stand or fight back or do anything, the referee immediately on him as he rebukes him. Del Rio ignores him, however, locking in the armbar and pulling back with all the viciousness within him, imagining that he's holding onto Sin Cara, breaking his arm more and more with each twist backwards, but the referees are on him once more and he grunts, forced to accept the reality of the situation- he had merely beaten down Kofi Kingston, not the man who his anger is truly for.
It's a struggle to walk back to the locker room with his head held high, but he somehow accomplishes it, casting a wary glance around the room to see if anyone's laughing at him, when he spots that masked man that he's seen around a time or two in the past, his head lowered as he fiddles with a phone. Del Rio stares at him for a long moment, perplexed, before walking to the bench where his things are sitting in time to hear the monitor droning on, JBL and Cole going on about Mysterio and who his tag partner may be. He's just sat down when the door opens again and Mysterio enters, all energy and annoyance, his mere presence enough to make Alberto grit his teeth as he purposely looks anywhere at him.
And so his eyes are on the side of the mysterious El Local's face when he looks up, watching Rey with what Del Rio can only imagine to be hope as he watches his fellow masked competitor. Alberto sneers as Rey walks right past him without a glance, though his humor fades when Rey approaches Big Show and begins talking to him seriously, the meaning of this clicking with El Local as a sort of melancholy air takes him over, his head tilting back towards the phone. "Consider yourself lucky," Alberto finally speaks up, surprising the scattered superstars around the locker room, as he normally says little and when he does, it's insulting or angry. He ignores them all, eyes locked on El Local until he hesitantly looks up, lips twisted in discomfort as he stares back at the Mexican aristocrat. Or at least he imagines that he is, as his eyes are still completely covered by mesh. "No one should have to team up with that chihuahua."
For a moment El Local's lips twitch up into something nearing a smile but he seems to catch himself and quickly collects his things, leaving the locker room just like that. Alberto blinks and mutters in Spanish about the rude Cholos that this business insists on hiring. "Hmph..." The arena holds no interest for him now and he leaves as soon as he's in street clothes and everything else is stuffed into his bag, relieved to return to his hotel room. Except that the anger is still there, creeping around under the surface and he's still so disgusted. Being alone in the large, empty room only makes it worse as he realizes that he'd accidentally booked another room with two Kings, gritting his teeth. Not at wasting money, no... he never had a problem with that, having plenty to spare, but it is just that, the more time passes, the harder it is to look at the empty, second bed, where Ricardo used to sit, playing games on his phone or watching TV, talking softly with him to all hours until Alberto would relax enough so both of them could get some sleep after an event, and now...
He's so alone. And Ricardo is... barely making it on TV a minute here and there, for some stupid Thanksgiving party, no less. He had been glad to see him doing commentary at the last PPV, although that too had left him aching- his only relief being that the Spanish team hadn't seemed as cruel to him as Miz had back all of those months ago on Main Event... His plan had fallen apart at the seams, partly thanks to RVD, partly thanks to his own actions. Ricardo had only been tortured cruelly physically and emotionally by it all, hadn't been assisted in any way, shape or form, and his own career had freefallen since then so badly that he's not sure if either of them will be able to dig themselves out of the holes they find themselves in, holes that Alberto had begun to dig all of those months ago without thinking of the consequences. Tears fill his eyes anew as he stares at the opposing bed, breaths heavy and loud in the quiet room. "Ay," he mutters, rocking backwards and forward as he digs his fingers into his eyes. "It wasn't... wasn't to be this way..."
Surging to his feet, he tries walking it off, pacing back and forth anxiously, but all that does is make him feel even more jittery, his foot suddenly impacting solidly with the mattress, sending it a few inches off of the bedframe. Another kick and a third and it crashes to the floor on the other side, pressing against the wall. He breathes in deeply and shakes his head, feeling only a little better as he stares at the separated bed. It's not enough... nothing is ever enough... Spinning around, he slams the lamp clear off of the table, listening with some satisfaction as it too cracks into the wall, a shattering sound preceding the room being cast into partial darkness. He laughs darkly before pushing the bedside table over, the things inside rattling around as he turns his attention to the dresser where the TV is casting a soft glow across the carpet, as if daring him to come. Kill the last bit of light from the room, as it had been from his career, his life.
And so he does, ignoring the sound of glass crunching beneath his shoes as he once more storms around the room, looking for something else to destroy, to ruin beyond repair. But there's nothing that entices him, his energy slowly draining from him, and he sinks to the floor, hands pressing against the glass-sprinkled carpet. "I am so foolish," he breathes, staring disinterestedly at the small drips of blood now sprinkled among the shards, the pain blossoming from his palm. "Why did I ever imagine that such a stupid, thoughtless, despicable plan would do either of us any good?" He's just slowly begun painfully recollecting himself when he hears a knock at the door to his room, nodding slowly. He had expected it, grabbing his wallet on his way to the door.
A hurried apology and a sizable 'tip' to the wary looking security who have accompanied the hotel staff who'd come to tell him about noise complaints, hurriedly falling silent when light washes into the trashed room, allowing them to see what had become of their furniture and everything else. Alberto winces when he finally takes in what he himself had done, adding another $2000 to the total for their trouble. "Lo siento," he mutters, grabbing his things and leaving quickly before they can think to call the police or anyone else. He suspects he should worry about what WWE management would think, but they had already taken his title, what more could they honestly do to him that could make any of this worse?
