Titan City, best known for its heavens-reaching sky scrapers and seven time Super Bowl champions professional football team, housed over five hundred thousand people inside the city limits alone. The grand metropolis prided itself on its reputation as one of the best cities in America, because it was... on the surface.
Behind all the glitz and glamour many of the bigger cities have, Titan City has a major problem with the increasing rate of crime in the areas with increased poverty throughout the city: Petty thieves broke into locally owned shops everyday. Many drug dealings occurred in broad daylight. Several murder cases remain unsolved even to this day, simply because the police do not have the resources to keep up with everything that's happening from day to day.
Crime rate was at an all time high, but the media was mostly focused on football and chili contests and the grand openings of new skyscrapers.
Titan City was in dire need of someone's help.
Bare feet thudded hard against the sleek blacktop. The rain came down hard in a blinding flurry, making it near impossible to see where she was going. Two more pairs of sprinting feet were hot on her heels. She needed to get out of harm's reach and fast, or she was as good as dead. Her heels flew off the second she decided running was her only chance at survival. Her feet ached an unimaginable agony with every hard step she took. But she knew she had to get away.
The woman, blonde hair soaked from the falling water all around her, took a sharp turn into an alley she was sure led to a better lit part of the area.
She was wrong.
Her breath died in her throat the minute she realized she may have just made a fatal mistake. Instead of a bright and busy city street, she came face to face with a brick wall.
"Come on, sweetheart."
"Yeah, we don't bite... That much."
The woman shook with fear from her attacker's taunts. How she ended up here, or what wrong turn she may have made, she didn't know. She didn't see herself dying in an alleyway because a couple of street thugs wanted her purse. She pictured herself surrounded by loved ones while she lay waiting for her time far into her nineties. Twenty-eight was not the age she though she would see the end of the line.
One of the thugs, the taller one, pinned the woman against the wall. He disgustingly dragged his tongue up the side of her face and into her hair. The woman gagged, though she knew vomiting would leave her to die with less dignity than she already lost.
"I'm gonna have fun with you," the man growled in the woman's ear. "Get a little taste before I cut your pretty throat."
The woman threw her head back. "SOMEBODY HELP ME!" She cried desperately. The thug threw a hard fist into the side of her head, but she prayed the call grabbed somebody's attention.
"What the fuck?" The other thug screamed. A gunshot rang out, then the clear signs of a struggle just outside the streetlights illumination.
The second thug let the woman go and drew his weapon. The woman covered her ears as he let a few shots off into the darkness. A sudden thud of rubber sneakers scrapping against the slick pavement made the thug turn in the direction it came and unload his clip.
"Mikey, what the fuck?" The thug called.
Suddenly, the other thug emerged from the shadows. The woman took note of his odd stature; His head was limp to one side and he moved as if his feet didn't work. Then, causing the woman's attacker to scream, his friend crumpled to the ground to reveal he was being propped up and dragged by a third man that the woman hadn't seen before. The woman felt a wave of fear, and a little relief, when she noticed the instantly identifiable mask he wore over the lower half of his face.
The second thug rushed forward. The masked man dodged left, using the thug's own momentum against him and shoving him into the wall. The mask grabbed the thug by the back of his head, pulled him back, then slammed his face hard into the brick wall, sounding off a sickening crack that audibly signaled his skull was more than likely broken. The mask withdrew a blade from a sheath on his right leg and plunged it into the attacker's back. The attack screamed in pain, but the mask silenced him with a stiff headbutt.
The mask threw the thug to the ground. One more rough kick to the ribs and the mask backed away from the man.
The mask's chilling gaze locked with the petrified woman. She could tell, even in the dim light, his eyes were baby blue and pierced into her soul. She smiled weakly, silently thanking her hero for stepping in to save her.
Police sirens broke the quick silence between them. The masked man checked his surroundings, then retrieved his knife.
"Who are you?" The woman asked.
The man returned his gaze to the woman. "You know exactly who I am." He replied. His ice cold gaze never left the woman for the longest time, even with the sirens growing closer.
"Jon Moxley," she guessed, knowing that was exactly who she was talking to.
A flash of lightening made the woman jump. As the roll of thunder followed, the mask vanished into the shadows again.
The woman, relieved beyond comprehension that her life was no longer in danger, sat down in the rain with her back resting against the wall to wait for the authorities to arrive.
12 Hours Earlier
Dean Ambrose fell out of bed to the irritating sound of his alarm clock going off. He lifted himself off the tattered floor of his rundown apartment, head ringing from another late night out.
"Mother fucker, alright already," Dean's clenched fist slammed down hard on the clock's snooze button. There was absolutely no need for so much excessive force, but Dean didn't care and he was pissed he didn't get a lot of sleep the night before.
Dean pulled himself to his feet. He brushed himself off, only then realizing he was still wearing the same outfit he had on the night before. His custom fitted SWAT style sleeveless hoodie was still soaked through from the rain; It had been raining every night for the last week and it was supposed to keep going until the week after. His black cargo pants, also custom made to fit his personal shape, thankfully weren't torn anywhere like some nights in the past.
"Thank fuck I don't have to spend extra for another patch job," Dean muttered to himself, stripping away his gear and tossing them over the heater to dry.
The last thing Dean peeled off was his mask. The garment covered the lower half of his face and displayed the bottom portion of a skull. Simple, yet effective in scarring off would be attackers and striking fear into anyone who he caught breaking the law.
"Fuck, you too," Dean muttered to the mask as he tossed it next to his hoodie. "Fuckin' get dry by tonight. Heard some bad shit's goin' down."
Dean's next step was a much needed hot shower. The warm water covered his body and helped settle his strained muscles. Engaging in hand-to-hand combat was hard enough, but every single night was a whole new level of pain.
It was a Monday, which meant Dean had to go to work. He put on his required mechanic button down, with his name patched over the breast pocket, and a pair of dirty, raggedy jeans he was sure had never been washed.
Dean shuffled into the living room. On the tv, a news broadcast was talking about a thwarted jewelry store robbery that occurred the night before.
"The masked man, said to be believed as the ever infamous 'Jan Muxley', was apparently the one who arrived at the scene of the crime and apprehended all four men part of the heist," Michael Cole, lead anchor for the morning news recited from the teleprompter in front of himself. "Two of the four men are in critical condition with several broken bones and internal bleeding. The other two men only suffered mild injuries, including one broken hand and six broken fingers. As always, Titan City authorities are still offering a reward of ten thousand dollars to whoever can come forward with information on this 'Jan Muxley'," Cole turned to his broadcast colleague, Cathy Kelly. "After all, Cathy, vigilante justice only works in the movies."
Cathy flashed a fake, 'please retire so I can take your job' smile and faked a laugh at Cole's lame attempt at humor.
Dean shook his head, mildly cross about the mispronunciation of his alter-ego's name. "It's 'Jon Moxley', for fuck's sake," he muttered to himself.
Yes, to anyone unaware, Dean Ambrose was Jon Moxley by night. Masked crime fighter working outside the guidelines of law enforcement to bring down the crime rate. Dean lived in Titan City his whole life and seen the worst the city could be. His father was sent to prison for dealing drugs to a undercover police officer and his mother overdosed shortly after his twelfth birthday.
Dean never had an easy life growing up because of his parent's constant absence, even before his mom died and his dad went to jail. He was constantly picked on at school and always getting into fights with the other students. Luckily, he joined the army soon after earning his GED and soon learned all kinds of hand-to-hand techniques to protect himself. After only serving a year before getting honorably discharged, Dean returned home to get a new start on his life. His new life of fighting crime and doing police work for free kind of new life.
It all started when Dean disarmed a man that tried to rob a liquor store Dean happened to be browsing. Police arrived and scolded Dean for playing the hero, saying that he should let the police take care of business. Instead of backing off, and since he had a nag to punch just about every dealer, thug and druggie on the street, Dean decided doing the police work for them was the best way to let off steam while making his town a better place.
Dean's secret persona followed soon after. He was arrested, but released the next day, when a security camera caught him roughing up a pimp outside Suplex City, a local strip club. Dean soon dawned his signature mask and combat attire, since he could move the most comfortably in the custom gear and nobody would recognize him with his hood and mask on.
And thus, Jon Moxley was born. Moxley came from a street term used for police 'screwing everything up', ie 'the drug deal turned into a real fucking Moxley after the dude with the mask showed up'. Jon was adopted as his first name when good ol' Michael Cole dubbed him that on the evening news.
Dean paused in front of the bathroom mirror after he spat out his mouthful of toothpaste. He snickered at the small black bruise forming around his left eye, then flipped the lights off and headed for the door.
Dean quickly fetched his wallet, keys and cellphone before stepping out of his apartment and making the quick walk to his daytime job.
In a smaller section of Titan City, nicknamed LAX because of its Latin community, sat Camacho's Auto Body Garage. Dean walked from his part of town, Kickout Valley, to LAX every morning to get to work. He'd been a mechanic there since returning home from his brief stint in the army. In a little bit of irony, Camacho no longer ran the garage after being beaten down by Jon Moxley and arrested by the police. Instead, his younger cousin, Zelina, now called the shots around LAX; Basically, whoever owned the auto shop had the most say around the neighborhood.
Dean entered through a side entrance that led right into the employee lounge. Like every morning, Dean chuckled to himself when he found Andrade, Zelina and Camacho's other cousin, fast asleep at the small, round metallic table.
Dean took a moment to fix himself a cup of coffee. As he flipped on the hot water, Zelina entered the room from the front counter with fire in her eyes.
"Andrade!" The furious Latina snapped, causing Andrade to sit up and shout. She began cursing him a million words a minute in her native Spanish language. Andrade made some half-assed excuse in Spanish, then shuffled tiredly into the shop.
"Buenos dias, boss-lady," Dean addressed Zelina with a grin. "Glad to see somebody woke up on the right side of the bed for once."
Zelina cocked an eyebrow. "Kissing my ass won't get you nowhere, Mr Ambrose. You're lucky you got a pretty face or I'd fire you."
Dean snickered. "Whatever you say, miss. I won't tell anyone about the crush you have on me."
Zelina's small smirk gave away her true feelings, despite trying to come off stern. "Got you workin' the front counter today. Shop's over staffed as is."
"Then have Andrade work the counter," Dean suggested. "You know I hate talkin' to people."
"Andrade doesn't speak English, pendejo, half our customers are scared white women trying to fix a loose gas gap," Zelina shook her head slowly. "Be a God given miracle if I make the quota this month."
"We'll be fine, you always think of something," Dean winked at Zelina as he passed by her. "You're a smart little chimichanga, Z."
Dean patted Arn Anderson, one of the older workers and the only other Caucasian that worked at Camacho's, on the back as he passed by him to head for the break room.
Dean wanted a chance to sit and situate himself, but the bell above the door opened just as he sat down on the stool. He set his coffee down beside the register and took his spot behind the counter.
The young woman, a pretty blonde wearing clothes way too expensive to be from this part of town, confidently marched up to the front counter. Dean, for maybe the first time in his life, was at a loss for words when the blonde flashed him a bright and cheery smile as they made eye contact.
"Hi," Dean muttered weakly. "What can I do for ya?"
"Just need someone to take a look at my SUV," the woman's voice was soft and each word was spoken with practiced enunciation.
Dean nodded. "Sure, no problem. Name please."
"Renee Young, I have a two thousand five Toyota highlander. The brake pads need to be replaced, I'm sure of that. Otherwise, maybe just an oil change."
"You from LAX?" Dean asked while typing the woman's information into the computer. "You seem way too out of place here. I mean that in a good way."
Renee chuckled softly. "No, I live up in Nearfalls. A friend told me you guys have the best cheap service."
Dean shrugged. "Yeah, that'll be us. We get the job done and luckily all of our workers slave away for pennies," Dean nodded at the camera around Renee's neck. "What's the camera for?"
"Photographer for Titan Times," Renee proudly showed off the camera. "I started last week, but I'm running a little behind today. I'm supposed to be in a meeting right now."
"Well, we'll get your car looked at and fixed quicker than you can say, 'I need my Goddamn car, I'm late for work'," Dean joked, earning a quiet chuckle from Renee.
On the tv above the counter, another report on Jon Moxley's actions from the night before came on. Renee tuned in to Michael Cole's ramblings, but Dean caught an eyeful of the blonde's luscious cleavage. She missed a button towards the middle of her white blouse, giving Dean a line of sight right to her matching white satin bra. His mind took off in all sorts of directions, steaming from asking Renee out to diner to taking her on the counter in front of his coworkers, but Zelina Vega's sudden angry Spanish voice pierced his ear and brought him back to reality.
"I'm just checking her out, er, in," Dean said in his defense. Zelina rolled her eyes and stormed back into her office. "Shit, sorry, miss. The guys'll bring your car in right away."
Renee cleared her throat. "I have a boyfriend."
"I wasn't-"
"I don't think it's workplace appropriate to stare at a woman's chest while trying to get her service," Renee smiled sassy like. "Just a thought... Dean."
Just hearing the pretty blonde say his name did wonders for Dean. He imagined what his name would sound like rolling off her tongue while she screamed at the top of her lings as their hips crashed together and she dig into his back with her fingernails.
Once again, Zelina's sharp and no-joking matter voice brought his attention again. He quickly sent her info through to the shop. Renee took a seat in one of the chairs in the waiting area. For a split second, she switched her legs around and Dean caught a glimpse of her panties up her skirt ala Basic Instinct. He shuttered, chuckled to himself, then pretended to look busy after catching Zelina's eye again.
Now
Dean staggered into his apartment, nearly tripping over his coffee table as he settled into the couch. Another successful night of protecting as many people as he could, one of them being the pretty lady he met at Camacho's earlier in the morning. He now felt bad, after saving her, for making her take a cab to work and not having the car ready for her when she got back. That ultimately led her to try to walk home, which then caused the events that ended with Jon Moxley saving her life from a pair of would be assailants.
Dean pulled off his mask and clicked on the tv. The news was on with a recap of the crime scene he was literally just at. He clicked the volume up a few notches when police cars zipped past his building in the direction of LAX and, thankfully, not Kickout Valley.
"Live on the scene with Captain John Cena of the Titan City police department," Charly Caruso, the other pretty newswoman with the black hair and big hips, stood beside the Bane to Dean's Batman, Captain John Cena. "Captain, what exactly happened here tonight?"
Cena cleared his throat, then spoke. "Well, it seems Mr Moxley beat us to the scene again. One man was found in critical condition with a knife wound in his back, while the other is believed to have passed away from his injuries. Now, I don't know what happened, or who is to blame, but the woman who was attacked swears it was Moxley that saved her. As always, I'm glad a good samaritain stepped in and did what was right. But one man is dead, and that's still against the law, no matter who you are."
"I didn't shoot anybody," Dean snickered. "Stupid fuck shot his buddy himself."
Charly turned to the woman who was saved, the very gorgeous Renee Young, who was still damp from the rain outside. "Miss Young, you say it was Jon Moxley who saved you tonight?"
Renee nodded. "I know that mask anywhere. I've taken his picture a million times to know it's him."
"Little devil," Dean muttered with a smirk. He recalled seeing someone hiding behind a newsstand while he took down some drug dealers, but he didn't know Renee and that woman were two in the same.
"I just think, Jon Moxley really is a hero," Renee announced into the mic. "I know he does some bad things, but without him I would be dead... Or worse. Jon, if you're seeing this, thank you so much."
"You're welcome," Dean said to himself with a chuckle.