In life, there are numerous turning points in one's path that can change very little, or almost everything. Miz has gotten good at going along with the changes in his career- singles competition to tag teams, working on Smackdown to ECW, then on to Raw. Tag team to US champion, just to achieve the Money in the Bank win which propelled him into the WWE title. Yet, the personal ones are more complicated to just flow with- from John Morrison's tag partner and best friend to most hated rival, just to end up something in between thanks to the Raw GM.
But of all the changes he's gone through since the beginning of his career, he thinks perhaps this is the hardest one to accept as he stares up at the bright lights overhead, trying to blink awareness back into his battered body. He can't help but to wonder if this is a little how Morrison felt during the 2009 draft, alone and struggling to comprehend what entirely just happened, though it's obvious. He grimaces briefly as he struggles to sit up, his chest and side stinging as welts and bruises already forming from the I Quit match the night before darkens and spreads further. "Dammit," he hisses, pressing a hand to the worst of the discomfort.
"Miz, another match is starting soon, let me help you out of here," an insistent referee continues on, his drone barely reaching Miz.
"No," the stubborn former champion grumbles. "I got it." He slowly scoots to the ring apron and takes a moment, breathing harshly as his body protests the movement. Ignoring it, he grabs the bottom rope and eases himself out of the ring bit by bit until he's on the floor, struggling to maintain a standing position. His chest rises and falls rapidly as he stumbles forward a few steps and clings to the black barricade wall, his vision swimming slightly. When the irritating referee tries once more to aid him, he slaps his hands away and opens his eyes, relieved that things are mostly even once more. "Leave me alone," he grumbles, angrily taking one step and another up the ramp, trying to ignore how the steep incline makes his balance even more tenuous. He pauses at the top briefly and looks around, taking in the crowd's quiet murmurs, the empty space surrounding him. I guess I deserve this...
The walk to the back is the most humbling thing he's been through in awhile, his competitors' gaze following him all the way to the locker room. Alex is nowhere in sight, his things long gone. I wonder where he's gonna stay, he can't help but think before giving himself a rough shake. Not my problem anymore. He kicks vaguely at the duffel bag housing his clothes and other travel necessities before sitting down on a bench, wincing further as he gets a good look at the darkening marks along his side and arms in the bright LED light overhead. He's poking pathetically at one of them when his phone goes off from its place in his bag. He looks up, eyes darkening as he glares over at the duffel. It rings four times, then stops, staying quiet only for a few moments before starting in again, its shrill noise sounding ten times worse in the empty locker room. Leaning over feels like fresh agony but he manages it anyway, slamming his fist into the bag and pulling the small cell phone out. "What?" he barks into the receiver, not even looking at who's calling.
"Nice to talk to you too," John Morrison says dryly, his voice softening when Miz doesn't respond immediately. "Are you ok?"
"Oh yeah, John, I'm perfect," he grumbles. "Couldn't you tell by what you saw on TV?" Settling back against the bench, he knuckles his forehead and swallows thickly.
"That was surprising," his former tag partner murmurs after a few moments. "I didn't think the kid had it in him."
"I did," Mike responds, not even caring about John's reaction as he looks down at the place where his various title belts used to take in his bag, now all gone. All that I've gone through the past year, and I have nothing to show for it, he thinks with a tired muffled little sigh.
"-look, you sound like crap. I'll talk to you later, huh? Hang in there," Miz hears as he forces himself to focus once more on Morrison's voice.
"Of course. Bye," he says dully, hanging up before John can say anything else. How pitiful, he's just had neck surgery and can't even sleep without pain and here he is worrying about me, he thinks with an eye roll. After quickly pulling on a grey t-shirt from his bag, he forces himself up and clutches the straps of his duffel, trudging out of the room. His hotel room sounds really good right now, quiet and dark with a bed just waiting for him. The show is still going on around him but he doesn't really care, halfway to the parking lot before he even consciously thinks about what he's doing.
Before getting in his car, he glances over his shoulder once more and glares up at the arena looming into the evening sky, his lips twisting in an angry grimace. Normally he'd be all for sticking around, seeing the show through to the end, but he's just too tired to even bother.
The drive to the hotel, thankfully, doesn't take long and neither does the elevator trip, his eyes purposely downcast as he counts the beeps made at each floor. After the fifth beep, he pulls himself away from the back wall, his fingers slipping from the polished bar as he drags his duffel bag out into the hallway. He pauses in the doorway, holding his breath as he slides the keycard into the lock, the light flashing green as he's allowed access. Pushing the door open quietly, he peers inside at the dark, lifeless room spread out before him, two empty beds visible immediately in the trailing light from the hallway. His shoulders slumping a bit, he enters and flicks the light switch, unsurprised at how vacant the rest of the hotel room is as well. He casts a suspicious gaze around and lowers his duffel down by the nearest bed, turning his back on the rest of the room as he drops onto the uncomfortable mattress, hissing as his body protests the movement.
It had to happen, he knows, but it doesn't make it any easier.
Wednesday night
An hour after the Dodger game, Miz and A-Ri return to his house, relieved to get out of the unceasing California heat. "So you have the recording?" Mike asks after a few minutes of their absorbing the gentle gusts of his AC.
"Of course," the former NXT rookie smiles, pulling out his cell phone and pressing a few buttons. Within seconds, Cena's voice saying "I Quit" echoes through Mike's living room, the two men smirking at the near perfect quality of the sound byte. "Sounds good."
"Yeah. It should do, if I need it." Miz looks thoughtfully at the opposite wall, deep in thought about his looming title match. Alex watches, taking in his dark gaze, the slight grimace of his lips as he works out different scenarios in his head about how Sunday could possibly go. He feels horrible about doing this now, but...
"Mike? Can we talk?"
The response is immediate, his gaze snapping to Alex's almost fretful face, unnerved by how solemn he sounds and looks. "Sure, what's up?"
Alex shifts anxiously on the couch, tilting his head as he gazes over at the chair Mike is settled in, examining the rich brown threads. "I... It's about, uh, after Over the Limit."
Mike frowns. "Ok." When Alex doesn't rush to say anything else, Miz's eyebrows raise almost to his hairline. "Uh, A-Ri, you're kinda worrying me here." The former WWE champion laughs awkwardly. "Spit it out." He grows solemn, a horrible thought coming to him. "You're not injured, are you?" It happens, sometimes in a blink of an eye- like with Morrison, who had been fine one minute and off for neck surgery the next only a couple of weeks ago. But I would've noticed, right? he thinks, trying to remember any time over the past week or two that Alex may have shown some sort of problem-
"No, Mike, nothing like that!" Alex interrupts his mental run down of recent matches, segments, the last few days spent at his place. "Sorry. I'm just... trying to think about how to put it." He sits forward, folding his hands between his knees as he stares at the shiny wooden floor. "I'm not- I'm not, ah crap..." He runs a shaky hand through his hair, glancing up at Mike. "I'm not abandoning you, Mike. Really, I'm not. I just... I've learned so much the last few months from you, and I think- I think it's time for me to try to make my own mark on the business, you know?"
Mike's face darkens slightly as he peers over at his protege, taking in his words, the stressed look on his face. "What are you saying?" He thinks he already knows but the kid needs to just come out and say it already, or they're not going to get anywhere fast.
"After Over the Limit, I want to take my chances in singles' competition... over at Smackdown." Silence so thorough that the outside buzz of cars, birds and insects fading into nothingness falls over the house like a smothering blanket after this announcement, Mike staring down at his hands as Alex tries to breathe evenly, almost unable to believe the words have slipped from his lips at all.
Despite knowing it had to come someday, it still leaves Mike feeling empty as he takes in the prospects. With Alex at Smackdown, Morrison injured, Cena the champion, and the Raw GM being... himself, he would be in a vulnerable position he hasn't been in for quite awhile. Completely, utterly alone, with little to no sway or political power to protect him from whatever the Raw GM could throw his way. He shakes his head, trying to force these morose thoughts from his mind. It's fine, I'll win the title this Sunday and Alex can do whatever he wants... He looks up at Alex and forces a thin smile. "After this Sunday, eh?"
"Of course. I won't leave you in the lurch," A-Ri quickly answers. "I'll be there if you need me."
Nodding, Miz takes a deep breath, unable to believe this is happening so quickly. "Alright. I'll let you out of the contract after Sunday, if it's still what you want."
Alex's grin is wide and all-encompassing. "Thanks, Mike. I knew you'd understand."
Yeah, he understands alright. It doesn't make it much easier though.
After Over the Limit, Alex screwing up yet again another attempt of Miz's regaining the title, dropping the phone so the referee can see it easily, the wheels start turning in Mike's head. "We need to do something," he tells Alex breathlessly after the I Quit match, his body still sensitive from each lash of the whip provided by Cena, leaning against the younger man as he tries to remind his legs how to work after the STF that led to him quitting. "The delightful Email GM might go after you or pull some stupid crap if I just release you from the contract, we need to cut all ties publicly."
"What are you suggesting?" Alex wonders, frowning as Mike takes a couple tentative steps into the locker room.
He leans against the doorframe and looks up at his protege. "I'll call the GM out, demand a rematch... more likely than not, he'll refuse me, and I'll blame you and fire you right then and there." He pauses, biting his lip as he gazes up at Alex, not sure how the next part of his idea will go over.
Sensing there's more, Alex spreads his arms out, shrugging curiously. "Then what?"
"You beat me down," Mike says bluntly, watching as Alex's jaw drops.
"No! Hell no, Mike. I won't do that," he mumbles, scratching at his cheek awkwardly as his mentor looks at him piercingly.
"Listen to me, it's the only way the GM will believe we're really through. And it's a good way for you to be taken seriously from here on out." He almost wants to compare it to him taking Morrison out at the 2009 draft but the situations are vastly different, not to mention uncomfortable, so he keeps his mouth shut. He softens slightly at the look of shocked denial on Alex's face and slaps him on the arm, distracting him. "It'll be fine, trust me."
The silence is just as horrible as it was at Miz's house but finally Alex nods, his eyes downcast. "Fine. I'll do it."
Not even twenty four hours later, Mike and Alex stand in front of the gorilla position for the last time together, both looking solemn as they listen for their cue. As Mike's theme starts to play, he turns to look over at Alex. "Make it look good." Alex nods wearily before they make their way to the ring.
He does, in spades.
Mike breathes, slowly, evenly, his eyelashes beginning to flutter slightly as he dozes off. His cell phone, now mercifully muted, lights up, a text message flashing across the screen.
I think I forgot to say this before- thank you for everything.