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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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The internet entirely continued to buzz, tweet, debate, and passionately argue for the entire weekend, completely unable to look away from the absolute wreckage of the golden empire. The WWE Universe was completely strapped in, entirely captivated by the incredible storytelling, and counting down the absolute, agonizing seconds until Monday Night RAW went live, completely desperate to witness the catastrophic, inevitable fallout of the night the God King finally fell to Earth.
The impassioned digital discussions, the heated podcast debates, and the furious Twitter arguments continued to burn white hot long into the late hours of the night.
But while the millions of fans watching at home were entirely consumed by the fictional, on screen consequences of the Extreme Rules Pay Per View, the physical reality behind the heavy black curtains of the St. Pete Times Forum was an entirely different universe.
As soon as the broadcast feed was officially cut and the red lights on the television cameras blinked off, the chaotic, adrenaline fueled atmosphere of the arena instantly morphed into the structured, highly professional environment of a post show triage.
The backstage area was an absolute hive of frantic medical activity. Everyone involved in the catastrophic wreckage of the main event and the co main event was immediately, heavily escorted to the trainer's room by a swarm of WWE officials and producers. The smell of rubbing alcohol, the distinct sound of athletic tape being violently ripped from its rolls, and the low hum of industrial air conditioning filled the massive medical bay.
Lesnar was sitting on a stainless steel examination table, an ice pack pressed aggressively against his bruised ribs, grunting as a physician carefully stitched up the nasty cut above his eye. Across the room, Lashley was having his right shoulder thoroughly rotated and examined, making sure the Beast's Kimura Lock hadn't entirely torn his rotator cuff.
Even Heyman, who had miraculously survived the table spot, was sitting in a corner chair, comedically complaining loudly to a nurse about the price of his ruined suit while holding a bag of frozen peas to his swollen jaw.
But the center of attention for the head medical staff was, of course, the former United States Champion.
Sandro sat on the central examination table. His custom wrestling trunks were torn and stained with sweat, catering food, and dried blood. The sheer amount of physical trauma he had subjected his body to over the course of the thirty minute Extreme Rules match was staggering.
He had been tossed over barricades, thrown into steel ring posts, chopped by a four hundred pound giant, and had literally put his own body completely through a wooden table from fifteen feet in the air.
The head WWE physician, surrounded by two assisting trainers, carefully ran his hands over Sandro's heavily taped ribs. They checked his neck mobility, shone a bright penlight into his dilated pupils to check for concussions, and closely examined the x-rays that had been quickly taken in the back room.
The head doctor pulled the x-ray films down from the glaring white light box, shaking his head in a state of pure, unadulterated disbelief.
"I don't understand it," the veteran physician muttered, entirely perplexed as he looked from the x-rays back to the billionaire prodigy. "I honestly don't. By all medical logic, considering the sheer velocity of that Spear on the steel stage, and the impact of the Frog Splash, you should have at least three fractured ribs and a hairline fracture in your collarbone. At the very least."
Sandro looked at him, waiting for the diagnosis.
"But you don't," the doctor sighed, tossing his clipboard onto the metal counter. "To my absolute surprise, yet again, you are entirely structurally okay. You have some severe skin trauma, massive deep tissue bruising, and a couple of nasty cuts on your back from the splintered wood. But there are no muscles that are torn. There are absolutely no bones that are broken. You don't even have a mild concussion."
The assisting trainers in the room just laughed, shaking their heads. They had seen this exact scenario play out dozens of times over the past year. The WWE medical team had begun to have less and less of this surprise every time they examined him. It had become a running joke in the locker room.
The doctors had officially dubbed Sandro as either the absolute luckiest human being on the planet, the most biologically resilient wrestler to ever step foot inside a WWE ring, or some terrifying combination of both.
Hearing the diagnosis, Sandro's cold, sociopathic, deeply arrogant God King persona instantly, entirely melted away.
The billionaire prodigy let out a genuine, exhausted chuckle, entirely dropping his onvscreen character and returning completely to his normal, real life self. His shoulders slumped, the tension leaving his face, and he offered the doctor an incredibly warm, deeply appreciative smile.
"I appreciate you checking, Doc," Sandro said, his voice entirely lacking the toxic venom of his television counterpart. "I try to make sure I take the bumps on the absolute safest parts of my back. I guess all that mixed martial arts conditioning is finally paying off. Just wrap me up in some ice, and I'll be good to go."
"You're going to put me in an early grave, Sandro," a soft, exasperated voice spoke up from the doorway.
Sandro turned his head. Pushing past the trainers, completely ignoring the chaotic medical environment, were the three absolute loves of his life. AJ Lee, Alexa Bliss, and Nikki Bella hurried over to his examination table. They completely hovered around their boyfriend, their faces etched with a mixture of sheer relief and lingering anxiety.
AJ Lee was currently holding a heavy ice pack to her own lower back, actively nursing the lingering soreness from the agonizing Sharpshooter Natalya had used to strip her of the Divas Championship earlier in the night.
But she didn't care about the lost title, as it was part of the business. She carefully reached out, gently wiping a streak of dried blood from Sandro's cheek with a damp towel. Nikki Bella grabbed his left hand, squeezing it tightly, while Alexa stood close by his side, gently running her fingers through his sweat drenched hair.
They wanted to yell at him. They wanted to lecture him about the sheer stupidity of jumping off a massive eighteen wheeler production truck. But they couldn't find the words to say it anymore.
It had been far too many times that he had actively engaged in these terrifying, incredibly dangerous matches, and the medical results always showed that he was actually entirely fine each and every time. The sheer, paralyzing panic they used to feel during his matches had slowly faded into a dull, manageable anxiety.
They were certainly less worried than they had been a year ago, but it absolutely didn't mean they weren't still incredibly worried about the man they loved.
"I'm fine, girls, I promise," Sandro smiled softly, entirely breaking the illusion of the ruthless God King as he pulled Nikki's hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. "Just some bruises. Nothing a hot shower and a good night's sleep won't completely cure."
"You looked like a literal car crash out there," Alexa murmured, shaking her head. "When the Big Show threw that steel crate at the truck, I thought my heart was going to completely stop."
"But you survived," AJ added, leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to his bruised forehead. "You always survive. Even if it cause us to worry to much."
Before Sandro could entirely respond to comfort his girlfriends, the heavy double doors of the medical room violently swung completely open.
The entire atmosphere in the room instantly, fundamentally shifted. Trainers stood up straighter. The doctors stopped writing on their clipboards. The chatter entirely died down.
Walking into the room, entirely flanked by two massive security guards and a senior producer, was the Chairman of the Board.
Vince stepped into the triage center. He was wearing an immaculate, highly expensive tailored suit, his tie loosened slightly after a long, stressful night of running the live Pay Per View broadcast. Despite his age, the boss exuded an absolute aura of undeniable, intimidating authority.
"Good evening, everyone," Vince grunted, his deep, gravelly voice entirely commanding the respect of every single person in the room. Everyone respectfully greeted the boss, a chorus of "Hello, sir" and "Great show, Mr. McMahon" echoing through the bay.
Vince didn't immediately go to the top star. He entirely understood the psychology of the locker room. The boss walked directly over to the massive examination table where the Big Show was having his knee heavily taped.
"Paul," Vince smiled, reaching out his hand.
The Big Show, out of character and entirely humbled, shook the Chairman's hand firmly. "Thank you for the opportunity, boss."
"You earned it tonight, big man," Vince congratulated him sincerely on winning the United States Championship.
The victory, of course, had been entirely predetermined in the booking meetings weeks prior, but the execution was absolutely flawless. Vince was incredibly pleased. He knew that the Big Show's kayfabe stock had just soared to absolute, unprecedented heights.
Pinning Sandro Zhang, a man whose kayfabe power level was currently the absolute top number one in the entire WWE, and still remained so due to how carefully and dominantly his character had been built over the past year, was a massive rub.
Big Show was instantly revitalized as a monster babyface, and the crowd reaction had completely validated Vince's decision.
After ensuring the new champion was in good spirits, Vince turned on his heels and purposefully walked directly over to Sandro's examination table.
The boss stood in front of the billionaire prodigy, looking at the massive welts and dark bruises entirely covering Sandro's chest and back.
"How are we doing, champ?" Vince asked, entirely dropping the corporate sternness and offering a rare, genuine smile. "You put on an absolute clinic out there tonight. Took a hell of a beating to make the monster look good."
Sandro smiled back, adjusting his posture on the medical paper. "I am more than okay, Vince. Honestly. These injuries are absolutely nothing. A couple of scratches. I'm entirely ready to go for RAW tomorrow night."
Vince slowly nodded his head, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked at Sandro, then briefly glanced at AJ, Nikki, and Alexa, before bringing his attention back to the top star of his company.
"That's the thing, Sandro," Vince began, his voice dropping slightly into a more serious, business oriented register. "I was actually entirely planning to have you not come out tomorrow on Monday Night RAW. In fact, I don't want you on television at all. Maybe for several weeks."
Sandro's eyes entirely widened in sheer surprise. He was the biggest draw in the company. His segments consistently brought in the highest quarter hour ratings. Being told to stay home the night after a massive Pay Per View was almost unheard of for a reigning world champion.
"I want you entirely off the road," Vince clarified, seeing the confusion on Sandro's face. "The official statement we are going to put out on WWE.com and announce on the broadcast is that you are legitimately injured from the Extreme Rules match and the subsequent beatdown."
Hearing that, Sandro entirely furrowed his brow. He was a businessman first and foremost, and his mind immediately went to the logistics of his remaining championships.
"Wait a minute, Vince," Sandro questioned respectfully. "If you announce that I am severely injured and I stay off television for several weeks... wouldn't I then be officially stripped of the WWE Championship and the World Heavyweight Championship? The thirty day defense rule is a core part of the television product."
Vince threw his head back and let out a loud, booming laugh, completely waving his hand dismissively at the concern.
"Not for the God King," Vince smirked, his brilliant, villainous booking mind fully on display. "We aren't going to strip you of a damn thing. We can simply say on commentary that your highly paid lawyers inserted an ironclad clause into your WWE contract. We will announce that the 'Nexum Core Clause' specifically states that the God King absolutely cannot be stripped of his world titles if he is injured in a match that he was contractually forced into by WWE management."
Sandro's jaw slightly dropped as he entirely processed the sheer brilliance of the booking.
"Do you know what that is going to do, Sandro?" Vince continued, his eyes gleaming with absolute excitement. "It will invite the fans to become even more angry with you. They will be absolutely livid. A champion who refuses to show up to work, who holds both world titles hostage from his mansion in Orlando, completely hiding behind legal red tape and corporate lawyers? The heat will be absolutely nuclear! It will result in significantly more attention, and when you finally do return, the ratings will completely go through the roof."
Sandro nodded slowly, entirely recognizing the genius of the angle. It was the ultimate heel move. But he was still curious about the broader narrative.
"I love the heat, Vince, you know I do," Sandro asked, leaning forward slightly. "But why this specific direction? Why take me off the board right now, right when the babyfaces have all the momentum?"
Vince sighed, uncrossing his arms and leaning against the metal counter.
"Because this is the natural evolution of the story," Vince explained, entirely laying out his grand vision. "Look at what just happened tonight. You have just been betrayed yet again, this time by three of your loyal soldiers. The Undisputed System lost the Divas title. And you, the untouchable God King, just suffered a massive, humiliating loss, dropping the United States Championship. This was a very huge, incredibly catastrophic blow to the psyche of the God King character."
Vince gestured around the room. "The character feels vulnerable. He feels exposed. This is a moment for your character to retreat. To lick his wounds. To rest for several weeks in his billionaire castle, completely paranoid and angry."
Vince looked directly into Sandro's eyes. "While you are gone, selling the physical and emotional trauma, the remaining remnants of your empire, the Undisputed System lackeys and Bobby Lashley, are going to be systematically, entirely dismantled on television by Lesnar, McIntyre, and Big Show. Your kingdom will crumble without its king."
Sandro listened intently, entirely captivated by the creative roadmap.
"And during this time off," Vince concluded, "you can deeply think of a new direction your character will be going in when you return. You will still absolutely be the God King. The ego, the money, the power, that stays. But there have to be some changes. A darker edge. A completely new, paranoid, perhaps more vicious kayfabe character. The evolution of Sandro Zhang."
Hearing that, Sandro was silent for a long moment. He looked down at his taped hands, entirely processing the enormous creative responsibility Vince was handing him. He looked up at AJ, Nikki, and Alexa. They were all smiling softly, entirely supportive of the idea of him finally getting some much needed time at home.
Sandro looked back at the Chairman and slowly, definitively nodded his head.
"I'll think about it," Sandro agreed, his voice filled with newfound determination. "I'll entirely rebuild the character from the ground up. And you know what? I feel that I genuinely also need the rest. This is a remarkably good way for me to get a physical and mental break, heal up properly, and stay fresh."
Sandro smiled, realizing the absolute unselfish benefit of the booking. "And it also gives the spotlight to the other wrestlers on the roster. I have been entirely dominating the top of the card, main eventing every single show for far too long. The fans need a break from my face so they can miss hating me. This gives Drew, Lesnar, and Show the main event television time they deserve."
"Exactly," Vince agreed.
"Even though," Sandro added with a confident, arrogant smirk that briefly mirrored his on screen persona, "my shadow will still be completely looming over the entire company kayfabe wise, purely due to the fact that I am still sitting at home holding the two biggest world titles in the industry."
Vince smiled widely, entirely nodding his head in absolute agreement.
"Yes, that's the absolute truth," Vince chuckled. "You will be the ghost haunting Monday Night RAW."
The Chairman clapped his hands together, signaling that the primary business was entirely concluded. But before he turned to leave, Vince paused, pointing a finger directly at Sandro. "Now, I also have a personal request for you, Sandro," Vince said, his tone shifting into a slightly more demanding, creative producer mode. "And that is regarding Big E, Kofi Kingston, and Xavier Woods."
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Name: Alessandro Zhang
Age: 21 (2011)
Birthplace: Orlando, Florida, USA
Brand: WWE - RAW
Wrestling Style: Mixed Of All Styles
Faction: The Undisputed System
Championships History: 1x FCW Tag Team Champions, 1x FCW Florida Heavyweight Champion, 1x TNA World Heavyweight Champion, 1x TNA X Division Champion, 1x WWE United States Champion, 1x WWE Champion, & 1x World Heavyweight Champion
Other Achievements: 1x Andre the Giant Memorial Battle Royale Winner, 1x Mr. Money In The Bank, Youngest WWE Champion, PWI Top 500 (No.1) - 2010, & 1x KOTR (2010)
Wrestlemania Record: 2 - 0 Main Event: 1 - 0