On With It.

Hayes closed the glass door behind him, stumbling onto the balcony.

Bathroom towel tied loosely around his waist, he leaned over the railing, staring out to the Mexico City lights.

The loss to Sage had followed him through Mexico, but somehow worse? The selection to Brandon Youngblood's squad.

That mother fucker.

That mother. FUCKER.

Dragging a glass of tequila across his lips, he cursed Youngblood's name into the warm air.

"I didn't ask for this," he whispered to himself.

He drained the glass, and chucked it into the night, letting it fall into the street below.

"I DIDN'T FUCKING ASK FOR THIS!!!"

His roar echoed across the horizon, but died among the city lights.

He couldn't muster anything else.

Sage Pontiff saw to that. John Pepper was next to do the same.

With an exhausted, contented snort through his mustache, he pushed himself from the railing, and turned back to his hotel.

On with the show, right?

That's right.

On with the Show.

Sorry, friends.