This started as a oneshot request at my Shield Imagine blog (shieldxreader - tumblr). I liked the idea and have sort of had it stuck in my head for a year. I always imagine wrestlers as modern day gladiators. Essentially, they are. They are driven high or low by the crowd, They fight for entertainment, and they are revered for that skill. So, obviously, I took that idea and turned it into a dystopian adventure. It will be a stand alone for the moment, but I hope to expand it. Enjoy.
The thumbs up.
How had he managed a thumbs up? He should be dead, killed like the criminal he was made out to be. Yet, the crowd chanted his name over and over. Even on his knees in the dirt, bloody and broken, with a switchblade held precariously to his throat by someone who would have no problem running the blade across his jugular and letting him bleed to death, they chanted. Why?
Ambrose, Ambrose, Ambrose
He looked up through the eye that wasn't swollen shut at the people chanting his name behind the steel. The arena had been built years ago by the new world order known as The Authority. They televised these fights every Sunday as a way to not only distract from the fact that people were starving in the streets, but to deal with the Rebels who tried to fight back. It was mandatory to watch the sick and twisted battles that were usually heavily weighted to one side. Some selected population was allowed to attend to give the illusion that the people had the choice as to who lived or died. It was unusual that anyone chose the former.
His capture was considered a huge victory. As leader of an uprising known only as The Shield, he was considered public enemy number one and should have been shot on sight. Yet, they wanted to make an example of him, force him to fight their best man, Randy Orton. Of course they had already beat him and his best friend and second in command, Roman, before they even entered the cage. They were captured together as they tried to hijack a food truck to feed the starving of the city. It was a stupid mistake on his part that caused this so maybe he didn't deserve to live anyway. Yet, Roman was watching him in anxious concern as they held him back. He knew the large Samoan was trying to get to him, fighting against the hands that kept him on his knees. He was set to fight next.
The microphone sprang to life and the man known as Triple H Spoke. He was the leader of The Authority and creator of this bloody punishment. He was trying to appease the crowd outside the steel cage with his mollifying smile and a gentle wave of his hand. Though the crowd quieted slightly, they never stopped chanting. "Okay, okay…"
Ambrose, Ambrose, Ambrose
"Quiet." Triple H said with as fake a smile as he could muster. It was obvious he was unhappy with the outcome of the fight that should have rid him of the petty outlaws that had caused him so much grief in the past few months. "You want him to live?"
Ambrose, Ambrose, Ambrose.
"You realize he has stolen from all of you. He is a criminal!"
He could tell Triple H was getting angry though trying desperately to hide it. Yet, they continued to chant.
Ambrose, Ambrose, Ambrose.
He couldn't help the triumphant grin or the laugh that escaped his bloody mouth. Even a punch to the jaw from Orton that sent him face first into the dirt couldn't stop it. Even as Randy lifted him back to his knees by the hair, he couldn't stop it. The crowd had spoken. They wanted him to live. Oh he was sure Triple H would find another way to take him out, but the crowd loved his fight and wanted to keep him around to fight again.
"And what of his friend?" Triple H continued. "Should he not die either?"
To his surprise, the chant changed and the growl from the microphone was evident. Triple H was pissed and no longer trying to hide it.
Reigns, Ambrose, Reigns, Ambrose.
The authority leader tried to force a smile as he gave the crowd what they wanted. Randy let go of his hair and licked him in the gut before stalking off. Authority guards immediately handcuffed him and Roman…
They would live to see another day.