"Please hold still, Mister Ahad, else we'll be here all night"
Abdul Ahad had not caught the young EMT's name, a freckled yough, for the ringing between his ears. His pupils dilated as the man waved the flashlight over his eyes, checking with extreme care for the early signs of a concussion. The light was an aid, a friend to the EMT, but to Abdul, it was nauseuating, sickening to see it as he looked up again, so soon. How long had it been--an hour, two?--since he had been doing just that after the facebreaker from Kendrix. The light reminded him he had lost and that he was hurting because of it.
Thankfully the young EMT put it away soon after, rising to his feet while Ahad remained seated on the tiled floor of the locker room. A member of the UTA adminstration was there as well, clean suit and hard eyes, as he looked down on the competitor before him. That was a loose term, really; Abdul didn't think he had put up much of a competition since returning to UTA, but that is what they deemed him, so that was what he was. At least in their eyes.
"It's hard to tell, sir," the EMT stated, speaking almost like Ahad wasn't even in the room.
"We need to know for sure, though. Last time we weren't careful, the UTA lost a champion. He isn't quite that, but there are still . . ."
He's not a champion
"We can run more tests once we've left Cairo. I can't say this country is the most welcoming of foreign Arabs, so seeking medical attention may not be the best course of action."
"Do what needs to be done. We need him to be a wrestler and right now, he isn't one. He's just a broken tool."
He's not a wrestler.
The hard official left the room, leaving behind a young EMT and a distraught, aching Abdul Ahad. Pushing himself to his feet, despite the sudden protests from the freckled man, Ahad used the wall as a crutch to reach to his full height. The EMT reached out, hoping to stabalize the stumbling competitor, and Ahad latched onto him. Not in a secure way, though, but one with intent, with force. Ahad--or the dizziness, the light in his head--gripped hard onto the man's shoulder until he verbally cried out. Ahad looked him, unaware just what he was doing. He focused on the man's face, on the frightened blue eyes, so he didn't have to see the light above him.
"When we reach Dublin, I wish to be cleared for competition. This is not the way my time here shall go out."
"Mister Ahad, I don't think its safe for you to--"
Ahad silences him with a single finger pressed against his brown, dry lips.
"One match. I wrestle in Dublin and then I make the call on my own capabilities."
Ahad held tight to the man, stared hard into him with his glazed, dialated eyes. Finally, the youth nods, unsure of what to do in the situation.
Ahad releases him, placing his palms against the wall to push himself into a more balanced position. Patting the young EMT on the sore shoulder, drawing a flinch from the freckled youth, Abdul Ahad shuffled to the door, slowly but surely.
If he wasn't a champion nor a wrestler . . . just who was he?
Abdul Ahad exits as the scene fades out.