He'd had enough. He swung the chair with abandon, the groans and cries of pain barely soothing his rage. He'd had enough. So many times he'd been screwed out of the title, and time after time they promised there would be an opportunity. But every time, they lied. And he was fed up with it. He didn't want to deal with it anymore. At this rate, he was never going to get what he wanted. They were always going to promise him something, just to yank the rug out from underneath him at last minute. Calling an audible. He wanted to scream his anger; he wanted them to know his wrath. And now they were suffering, all of them that had once more had a hand in taking away what was his. And he couldn't help but grin as he actually smashed Sheamus with the steel chair. They could do nothing. They knew what he was. He'd told them, and now they were wary. They could see him connecting with blow after blow, and they could do nothing about it if they didn't want to risk getting injured.
WWE was supposed to be scripted, but the beast in Roman Reigns had finally had enough.
It surprised him when Triple H came running down the ramp behind the referees, followed by Stephanie McMahon. That made him back up a bit, and he prowled around the ring as Sheamus rolled to the edge, seeking sanctuary amongst the referees. Safety in numbers. But not even this many were safe from him. The wolf in him, the beast in him, it had not hunted in so long, and the rage finally needed an outlet. It had found it here. He'd snapped, and now there was no going back. He grinned darkly, but he fought back the wolf eyes and teeth. That was too much of a giveaway. Sure, he was going to lose his job—no doubt about that—but he refused to reveal the beast in front of such a large crowd. He wouldn't have been surprised if they'd stopped broadcasting with him going so far off script.
As he stalked back and forth in one of the corners, he noticed one of the referees up on the ring apron, and then Triple H, who had also hopped up on the ring apron, shouted for the ref to get down; he knew that Roman's wrath no longer had boundaries. He would use the steel chair wherever he found bodies, referees included. He snarled wordlessly, a sadistic smile creeping up on his face as Triple H turned around from checking on Sheamus. And before Triple H could do anything, Roman was wielding the chair like his own Excalibur, bringing down Triple H with a superman punch and more chair shots as Stephanie screamed helplessly from the outside. A few more chair shots put Triple H by the ropes, and he rolled out of the ring, clearly hoping to escape Roman. But Roman was having none of that, and he slid out of the ring after the man.
The referees of course tried to swarm him, but an animalistic snarl drove them away as the commentators speculated whether or not he would have a job after this—little did they know how serious the issue really was. Roman cleared the Spanish announce table though, stalking forward toward his prey, following after Triple H, who'd moved to huddle near Stephanie. The woman in question shouted at Roman, but he didn't understand the words anymore, and she wisely backed up as he approached. Roman grabbed Triple H and slammed him into the regular announce table, and Triple H attempted to defend himself for the first time, throwing a punch that actually pushed Roman back a bit. But Roman snapped right back, punching the human in return.
Roman wanted to laugh. His prey was weak, pathetic. He should have let Sheamus be the martyr; Sheamus would have survived. Triple H would not. He was the weak link of the herd, with a time-weakened body going up against Roman's building rage. He laughed, kicking the man in the face. And even as Stephanie screamed, he picked Triple H up, slamming him into the table. But the table refused to break, which incensed Roman. And the crowd, which seemed to think that this was all some act, chanted one more time—they wanted to see Triple H go through the table. And so, wild-eyed, Roman got up onto the announce table as the crowd screamed its approval, and Roman leaped forward, crashing down on top of Triple H, loving the sight of the man writhing in agony. He once again stood upon the announce table as the announce team debated how his acts were career suicide, and he decided to reply.
"I know I'm gonna be fired, but it doesn't matter to me now!"
One of the announcers—the beast him in him didn't care which—parroted the line, and Roman started limping away, ignoring one of the ref's requests to remain where he was. He was leaving, whether the prey liked it or not. The crowd chanted 'thank you Roman,' and he couldn't stop another sadistic grin from creeping up his face; the adulation of the crowd was perfect. How stupid they all were, to not realize that he'd actually just snapped. And then he glanced back as one of the refs approached, and he realized that his prey was back on his feet. He snarled, baring his teeth in a grimace of disgust. How dare he have the audacity to get back up. Roman turned around, and he heard the announcers panicking as he picked up speed, racing impossibly fast as he careened into Triple H, spearing him right off of his feet, once again causing the man to fall and shake in agonized pain. He screamed wordlessly before he tilted his head back in a roar, finally feeling satisfied. He was disdainful as he stared down at the wheezing Triple H, a smirk rising to his lips. Finally, finally, he'd made them pay.
"You're gonna pay for this Roman!"
He heard the words shouted by Stephanie after more of her wordless screaming, but he didn't care. He posed for the crowd a few times, but then he finally moved behind the curtain, knowing he was going to have to move fast before they did anything. But now it didn't matter; the beast had been awoken, and there was no putting him back to sleep.