Sitting in the back of a cab, his arm out of the slightly open window with his hand on the roof of the car, Smoke Man bobs his head from left to right and back again to the beat of the song he's listening to on his iPod. He's glad to be in the back of a car that doesn't belong to the San Diego Police Department for a change. Although this time around he's actually paying for his journeys.

With the yin comes the yang he supposes.

Following the result of a draw at the end of his first round match in the Lethal Lottery, Smoke Man is in a sort of loop when regarding his feelings toward it. For one, and most important, he was glad he'd managed to slip into the next round of the tournament - even against the seemingly impossible odds that were placed against him from the reveal of the card. But he could've actually won that match, ridding the tournament of names like Hunter Payne, Juan Madison, and Dean Moxley McGovern while he was at it. He'd hit the Chokeslam and the Big Elbow Drop, and managed to get the three count, but if it was because Shawn walked out and confused the ref. Now, while him and his team are through, so is everyone else from that match.

Except for Shawn Steele. Because fuck Shawn Steele.

But that doesn't matter now. What's the past is the past, and the past isn't really affecting his future. Not right now, at least.

Earlier, Smoke had checked on the XWF website to see what his opponent would be for the second round - as well as, of course, his teammate. Turns out it'll be him and John Austin vs. NAZI and Kimmy-K. A match he was sort of on the fence for.

For one, while the match seems equal on paper, all Smoke could think about was how he'd be stepping in the ring with the guy he last saw drunk at Hunter's Halloween Costume Party, a super-racist 'man' who pleasures in the pain of others, and one of his partners in the last round of the tournament; Kimmy-K, only this time he'd be fighting her instead of working with her. But Smoke must realise that first round was nothing but something to help both people to get into the next round. There should be no love there that could be lost - because there should be no love at all. He understands this, but can't quite seem to comprehend it for some reason.

Maybe he's just too kind? Yeah, we'll go with that.

As the taxi drives on, Smoke tightens his grip on the handle of his wheeled suitcase, as he recognizes the familiar surroundings, indicating the closeness of his destination.

As the cab round the corner, Smoke moves his hand from out the window to the door handle, while the taxi drives up to Smoke's apartment block. The driver sees the Lamborghini outside and tuts. Smoke doesn't quite exit the vehicle as he does. The driver speaks in a Hispanic accent.

If choo have Lamborghini outside, why didin' choo just take dat?

Smoke shrugs, the two of them looking at each other through the rear-view mirror.

And what makes you think it's mine?

The driver retaliates immediately.

'Cause choo didin' say 'It ain't mine'.

Smoke shakes his head and sighs a defeated sigh.

Alright, smartass, I'll be out in a bit, just grabbing a few things before we go.

A'ight, mang. I'll be here, don' be too long.

And with that, Smoke swings the door open, heavily pushing it shut when outside, making it whump.

Aye mang watch de paint, dat comes outta my pay.



Smoke shakes his head as he enters the building, leaving his bag in the cab to avoid lugging it up the stairs. His iPod had gone onto the next song as he exited the taxi, and Smoke doesn't skip it. While climbing, he places his hands over his trouser pockets, to check if he has his phone on him. Nope, not there. Must have left it in the apartment without realising it. Oh well, he can find it now.

He takes the key out of his pocket and unlocks his door, leaving the key in the lock and the door wide open while he scurries around the apartment, looking for any last minute essentials such as clothes, socks, his iPod charger, and any small electrical devices he may need. He finds his phone last of all, buried in the sheets of his bed. He's sure to grab it's charger as he lights it up to check it.

1 New Message
Unknown Number

Strange, Smoke thinks to himself. He doesn't feel he has enough time to open it now, so he just grabs his things and runs down to the taxi, making sure to close the door to his apartment behind him. He flies down the stairs flings the door to the taxi open and jumps in, turning his iPod off to talk to the driver.

Don't know what chur hurry was mang, I weren't goin' no-were.

Smoke pants for breath.

Y-yeah.

The driver lets out a chuckle.

So were to, mang?

Smoke lets himself catch his breath before answering.

Just the airport. Then I'll be off your back.

Maaaaang, first choo get some suitcase outta dat arena, den choo want me to drive choo here, an' now de airport? Choo a shady-ass guy, yeah?

Smoke takes that information in for a second and hesitates even answering that.

Yeah. I guess. Can we hurry this up, I'm not entirely sure when my plane leaves.

No problemo. Consider me de Flash, no?

The driver laughs at his own joke in the fakest way possible (literally going "Ha ha!") and gets moving. At this point, Smoke decides to look at that text message. Probably spam.

1 New Message
Unknown Number

And thus, the key is revealed.

"The key is revealed"?

What was dat my sister?

Smoke laughs a little at that loud and stupid remark.

Nothing, nothing.

Holding his phone in both hands, he tries to comprehend the message before him. He notices that it was sent about a minute ago, probably just before he found his phone. Odd. He thinks of it as spam - as he had expected it to be in the first place. But then he thinks back. Back to his apartment.

Then it hits him.

He didn't get the key out of his door when he left. In fact, he doesn't even think he saw it at all, otherwise he probably would have noticed it. Maybe those two are linked.

Or maybe not. Maybe it's just spam.

Maybe.

He tosses the phone at his side and onto the seat, pushing his head back with his hands pressing against his forehead, torn between catching his flight or finding his keys. He runs his hands through his hair and buries his face in his hands to think, propping his elbows on his knees.

Airport or Home. Airport or Home. Airport? Home?

Airport.

Smoke sits back up, exhaling some air, slapping his hands on his knees.

I'm probably going to regret this decision.

What decision?

Nothing.

Jeez, mang, calm down.

Smoke heavily sighs and puts his headphones back in his ears, slipping on a hoodie he had grabbed, and presses play.

This is going to be another looooong ride.