And so, here is Smoke Man, taking another taxi ride once again through the cloudy San Diego, California, same route, different direction. After spending the last week back in England, Smoke was finally back just in time for his next encounter in the Lethal Lottery tournament. For now though, he wanted to rest, and just departing the airport and into slow traffic, perhaps that's what he'll get - even though it's in the back of an uncomfortable taxi with stiff leather seats. He rubs his eyes, checking is light luggage to see if everything's there, as well as remembering to switch the phone's time back to the time in America.

The travelling, and most importantly the flight, has tired him out once again, putting him on the verge of falling asleep, despite it being midday. In fact, he was having to struggle not to allow his eyes to drift off and take him to the magical dream world because he didn't want the driver to just drive around the blocks to add up the money he gets paid, nor did he want to sent his body clock astray before his match tonight. Whether that last reason makes sense or not, he doesn't care. He's too tired to think properly, and was actually planning on just flumping on his bed and sleeping for a while - with an alarm set of course.

For now, his plan was to just doze off, get up later and jog down to the arena with his gear behind him. That'll probably be enough working out today. Hopefully. Maybe.

Always maybe.

The light ahead flickers green and the cars push forward, eager to join another traffic jam on the other side.

Smoke's mind traces back to tonight, about what he has done so far in the way of preparing for it. Well, he spent the last week in England and exercised there so... that's fine. He'd also produced that promo... but for whatever reason it doesn't seem... right. Ah well, if he wants to do another one he could probably gather a camera crew at the arena and do one real quick. That's all he'd done, hoping it will be enough for tonight. On reflection, when thinking back to his promo, thinking back to what he had said about NAZI and Kimmy-K, he feels like he said everything he needed to, and the thing is, he meant all of it as well. He'd go back and forth throughout what he'd said and really, there was no cushioning, no exaggeration to anything he'd said.

The only reason he had understood this now was because his mind had started planning out the match tonight, about what he'd be trying to do to make sure he came out the other end the victor. But he'd only thought about NAZI, about how much of a threat he was. Although Kimmy-K is his opponent, he still feels pretty sour about having just completely blanked her and thrown her out of the equation but even still, he can't lie to himself by saying she'll be a threat anyway.

Smoke draws his attention away from thinking about it to put his headphones in his ears, turning his iPod on and onto shuffle.



With the song playing, he unzips his suitcase and buries his hand into it. It takes a bit of blind rummaging, but he is soon able to pull out a picture. He looks at it and smiles, placing it on his leg and flattens it out of the creases and dust it had gathered in its age. He places it face down to his side and puts his hand over it, slightly applying pressure so that he can keep it flat.

Raindrops begin to steadily splatter on the windows of the cab. The driver pushes a button, causing the driver-side window to shut - keeping the rogue droplets from entering the vehicle. He initiates the windscreen wipers, which squeal as they rub against the dirty glass. Smoke pulls out his phone and admires the time, trying to come up with a reasonable time approximation on when he'll arrive back at his apartment. He's really craving that nap right about now.

Smoke lets out a giant yawn and stretches his arms up above his head and to either side. Blinking to focus on reality, he hears a blaze of sirens off in the distance. Finally opening his eyes, he sees the starting of a cloud of smoke, rising above the apartment buildings. It appears to be near where he lives. At least he'll have a good look at it, he supposes.

The rain continues to fall, the sirens proceed to blare across town, caught up by the traffic jams littering the labyrinth-like streets. At this rate it seems as if Smoke will get there before the trucks. Only a couple of corners left anyway. Suddenly, something shoots through Smoke's mind, something he had completely forgot about throughout the week. To make sure it wasn't a dream he had or something, Smoke checks his pocket.

No key.

Smoke checks the pockets on his suitcase.

No key.

Smoke unzips the bag proper.

No. Key.

He feels the sharp turn of the the taxi and looks out his window. And he sees it.

His entire apartment block is ablaze, catastrophically billowing out smoke. But none more than from the window of his apartment.

Smoke's eyes widen, and he pushes the door open. He sprints out and rounds the car. He stands at the foot of the car, amazed at the inferno that has spiraled the place he had worked so hard to pull together.

A million thoughts rush around his head, Smoke can't think straight. He stumbles a little, and places his hand on the bonnet of the car to steady himself. The driver, not having time for genuine life struggles honks his horn, annoyed at the lack of fare being paid.

However, the sharp ring of the horn sends Smoke reeling, startled at everything going on.

Everything's spinning.

Everything's a blur.

Smoke can't hold himself.

He can't.

He--

He falls to the floor, collapsing in the middle of the road, as the song on his iPod changes.