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Generico had been a part of Steen's life for many years. Strangers who crossed paths by chance and never left each other's side. They complemented each other; both were very emotional people, just in opposite ways. People didn't believe it in someone as violent as the brunette. He was simply a jerk, unpleasant, but all those emotions were intense and difficult to control. Kevin was much more emotional than he liked to admit, building a wall of cement around his feelings, only letting out the anger that bubbled like lava inside his body.
Meanwhile, Generico was emotional in the other way. He didn't express his anger, but rather the biggest smiles Steen had ever seen, laughter, excitement. He cried, Generico cried a lot. From happiness, from sadness. Being someone who didn't speak, his way of expressing himself was linked to how he expressed himself through his body and the little that was ever seen of his face. So because of that difference, they were made for each other,G enerico could see through Steen's shield and understand him; he wasn't dumb, he knew how much Kevin could feel, and Kevin expressed anger at injustices or stupid people for both of them. So, it was quite a surprise to everyone when Steen decided to take out his frustration on his best friend, the sun of his moon, after losing that stupid tag team match. He uttered the words that changed the course of their lives forever.
"I hate your fucking guts."
And that low kick sealed the end of that friendship forever. It left behind the gentle way they would clasp hands, those times after shows when Steen would rest those rough hands on the soft fabric of his partner's mask. Moments no one outside of them saw. They didn't have time to make it official; they had something, yeah, but Steen wasn't someone who could stay locked up with one person forever. He was like a loose dog; the idea of living with someone felt like a chain around his neck, and he let that anger speak for him. Instead of doing it the way Generico deserved, he humiliated him, he screamed it to the world.
He hated Generico, he hated Generico with all his heart.
All that hate unfolded in a year. Insults, spitting, relentless, intense fights, and a lot, a lot of blood. The hatred and anger were like the fuel Steen needed, and actually seeing Generico fight back stirred a feeling in his chest. Maybe lust? A bizarre kind of desire, because he always thought of Generico as someone weak after the betrayal, someone who would never dare attack Steen, but no, he was intense, just like a timing bomb, brusque, with powerful punches just like his. They had several matches between them, some where the result didn't favor Mr. Wrestling, but that didn't matter because in that last one, the decisive match, the important one, he won it. A ladder match, his specialty. He enjoyed that moment, when he slammed Generico against the ladder, how his body became like a rag doll, when he saw the masked man lose his strength. Nothing felt better than that, nothing was better than having the weight of Generico lifted off his shoulders. When people booed him, some even cheered; he didn't care, he won, he won it all.
Steen thought of Generico as a chain, a heavy chain around his neck, a restriction, something annoying, unbearable, and winning that match was like taking that burden off his shoulders. And after that win, Generico disappeared from ROH's locker roomThe next day, after losing him, he was gone, just like a memory, like a shadow of Steen's past, now out of his life. No one knew anything about him. Cabana didn't answer questions about Generico's whereabouts, and Steen couldn't care less. Two weeks later, he was partying, enjoying himself, satisfying that craving after the victory. It was late, probably early morning. They were at the house of one of Steve's friends. Steen was in the basement smoking weed with some guys and a girl, talking nonsense, listening to stories, when his phone rang.
He glanced at the screen, amused. The name on the screen was Colt. Cabana was calling him. A sly smile appeared on his face. After all the feud, they were no longer friends, so it was funny to see a call from the other end. He got up from the old sofa and took the joint with him, dragging himself upstairs and moving through the crowd towards the front door, looking for a quiet spot in the chaos. Outside, the night was clear, a warm night, something weird for winter. He stood in the doorway and answered the call, taking a drag from the joint.
He took the phone and said nothing, just blew the smoke into the microphone, letting Cabana on the other end know that he was waiting to hear from him, even though Steen had a nasty smile on his face. Colt didn't greet him either, there was just a sigh, before he began to speak bluntly.
— Man...I, I don't know if I should even call you. I'm drunk as fuck and... — there was an awkward silence for a few seconds, still, Steen didn't make any nasty remarks, he wanted to hear what Colt wanted to say.
— Maybe this isn't right? You probably don't even care. But, in a way... I think he would have liked you to know, you know? — The tone of voice Colt used was familiar to Steen, as if he were reminiscing about something, searching for something in his mind, perhaps staring blankly at some wall.
Kevin knew Colt was talking about Generico, and he didn't enjoy it much, but he hadn't expected the call to be about anything else. Even so, he was somewhat curious to know the whereabouts of his former best friend, the loser.
— The only thing I know is that Generico went to Mexico for a while after losing. And...I don't know who, but some authorities called me from there to let me know. Something happened. I don't know many details. — And the smile on Steen's face remained, but his eyes showed something different. He looked up at the stars.
And he heard Colt. A fire. Something happened. Generico tried to be the hero, save children. His body? Almost unrecognizable, burned to a crisp. Only his mask remained intact, having melted to his face, forever a mystery. They found his phone. That's it. No family to claim him. Transport back to the United States? Expensive. They would leave him there. Cremated, there was nothing to bury. Generico died to be just another one, one more in a pantheon of unknown heroes, or as Steen saw it, people with hero complexes.
The news hit him hard. Steen kept living, yeah, he didn't cry, not really, he didn't have the right. But after that, Generico stayed in his head. He thought that after it was over, he wouldn't care about the masked man anymore, that he would only remain as a bitter memory of wasted time, but now, he was a true shadow. Kevin Steen didn't regret many things, nothing, really. Everything he did had its own justification, but...he liked to think about what if. He didn't regret what he did, never. Nor did he feel guilt. He didn't kill Generico, he didn't burn down that orphanage, but maybe the idea of having been able to say something more, the idea of having been able to see him one last time before he disappeared forever. He started thinking about him more, seeing him often. Black and red reminded him of him, wrestling reminded Steen of him. He couldn't hear anything that had olé on it, a specific smell inside the locker room reminded of him, and he hated it. Steen never spoke of Generico again, not in public, not in private, but subconsciously, a new chain was being wound around his neck, and now it wasn't anyone's fault but his own.
It was an unconscious reminder of his past, he couldn't watch their matches together, neither as a tag team nor as enemies. He stopped using his singlets, left them behind, threw away the shirts with Generico's decapitated head, a bad reminder. And when WWE came knocking, he took the route of maybe a fresh start. Steen was in the past; Owens was now his future. Leaving the ROH locker rooms was perhaps for the best. There was nothing related to the luchador. It was, sad perhaps? Nobody knew who Generico was in the big leagues, an unknown name outside the indies, but maybe, yeah, Kevin preferred it that way, Generico being forgotten.
But oh, how wrong he was. NXT was great, a cool place, a new start, he was fine with it. What wasn't fine with? Those eyes, that hair color. The first moment he looked at Sami Zayn in the eyes, brought with him all his memory with the ghost of his past he tried to forget. Zayn had the same eyes as Generico and the color of his beard was similar, almost identical. And Stee...Owens hated it. Because it brought with it everything he tried to forget in long nights of staring at the wall or trying to hold his breath when he smelled something similar to the luchador.
Sami Zayn was optimistic, a sun, but Kevin already had the sun to his moon and he preferred to cover the sunlight with one finger. Sami's presence irritated him because he felt like a copycat, it was like Sami was trying to copy Generico. His gear, he only used black and red. He hated it, he hated Sami Zayn as a whole because he was never going to be Generico, he hated his stupid smile, how he was so friendly, and what he hated more? His voice. Because he would have loved to heard Generico speak, not this weird ass Generico copycat with not mask. So, Kevin did what he did best. Attack Sami, punch him to a pulp, cause him pain because the chain he'd put around his neck was tightening, and he needed to vent. Maybe in a way, he was releasing that frustration on Sami. Maybe, without admitting it, he really felt guilty, lamenting never seeing his best friend again, never feeling his lips against his, and Kevin Owens would beat the shit out of Sami if that brought him peace and the idea that Generico could rest more peacefully knowing that Steen missed him.