Match of the Millennium

Gregory Ilvich is a man at the top of his field. Able to contact any professional fighter of note and thousands of ones who aren't. He knows his business; unflappable in the face of fireballs and raging wrestlers alike. He is also, currently, screaming. The elevator jerks to a halt, and with it, Gregory hits the floor hard. He rolls onto his back and tries, again, to make himself heard. "Look. I can tell you're upset." The elevator begins its ascent. Again. "If you could just, give me a chance to explain." "I am not upset with you, Mr. Ilvich." Comes the cool, robotic voice as - dozens of floors up - ARIA continues her negotiations. "I am only recognising that you seem to have some misconceptions about our professional relationship." The elevator plummets. Greg screams. As it accelerates to a truly alarming degree, he again finds himself floating. Until it suddenly halts, and he once again hits the floor. It begins to rise. "When I contact you, you do not attempt to mute me." Fall. Scream. Thud. Rise. "When I send you a message, you read it." Fall. Scream. Thud. Rise. "When I give you an instruction, you obey it." Fall. Scream. Thud. "I do not require your justifications. I require your obedience." The doors remain closed as Greg gathers himself from the floor, adjusts his jacket, and tries to steady his breathing. "Your presence as a liaison to Team Metal is still required at this point in time. I hope that further disciplinary action is not necessary, Mr. Ilvich." The doors open. The first floor. He exhales, and it takes every ounce of skill he has learned looking men who could break him in half in the eye to step back out without his legs shaking. "Seven more years, Greg. Seven more years, then retirement and all the Mai Tais you can drink." He mutters to himself, as he heads out into the lobby.