Author Notes:
-This is the AU story of Stephanie giving the baby up for adoption in 2002 (she really was pregnant when they split up) and Vince's diabolical plot to retain control of WWE through the boy nearly 20 years later.
-Since I have no idea who will be wrestling in another decade I decided to use the WWE's current roster
-Stephanie and Triple H are General Managers of Raw and Smackdown. *they are together too*
-In this fanfic everything is real. The storylines the names the everything. No real lives outside the wwe exist.
-Enjoy
xConcr3t3 Jungl3 5urf3r
presents
Stacking Decks & Playing Games
Chapter One: Grandson
She walks into the old, musty gym stopping just short of the ring. WWE's own Linda McMahon. There's a formality, a seriousness to her stance. From head to toe, it's like she's following the strict rules of a ritual after years and years of practice. Everything in order. Nothing out of place. Even her expression is as stony as Stonehenge until she sets her eyes on the young man on the opposite side of the ring wailing away on a punching bag as his trainer shouts out orders.
Trainer: Right. Left. Right. Right. Left. Jab. Jab. Uppercut-
He's gorgeous. Handsome is just too feeble and inaccurate when it comes to describing the Adonis-like young man with features chiseled like a finely-carved Michelangelo statue- strong jawed and nose symmetrical. He is definitely his father's son- the sandy blonde locks, height, and build all clear indicators- but she sees the McMahon in him. She sees the brilliant blue irises and one edge of his lip curled up in that signature McMahon smirk.
A wild torrent of emotions swirl within the elderly women but she keeps it all contained within. She's good at that. Some would say she is an expert with all the practice she's had. So she hides it, contains it, buries it in the hopes of seeming professional.
Linda: That's enough for today gentleman!
The small woman's voice carries even over the trainers, the crisp monotone contrasting the jagged barking of the older gentleman. Piercing blue snaps in the direction of the voice narrowed in aggravation. And he isn't the only one.
Mackey: Yo, c'mon grandma. Can't ya' see we're workin' here.
The New Yorker hated people in his gym interrupting his sessions almost as much as he hated being told what to do. Seeing the stubborn old man ready to blow a gasket, his own aggravation dissipates and he gives the balding man in his mid-forties a gentle nudge on the shoulder to get his attention.
Decker: (low tone) It's cool. I got this, Mackey. (calling out) Can I help you, M'am?
Linda: I'm here to see you actually. Do you have a minute?
Suspiciously, his eyes narrow in on the woman wondering what she could possibly want with him. That's when familiarity strikes. He's seen this woman before. From the murky depths of his mind he puts a name with the face. Linda McMahon. Wait? Linda McMahon? Suddenly his suspicious edge returns. What could she possibly want with some kid from Brooklyn?
He bridges the gap between them unstrapping his gloves and casting them aside somewhere along the way. Then, he offers her an extended hand figuring a formal greeting is in order when it comes to dealing with such an iconic presence.
Decker: Decker Davis. What can I do for you, Mrs. McMahon?
She hesitates a moment before taking his hand and shaking it firmly which the teenager catches instantly. At the age of fifteen his adoptive parents died in a car accident while following his bus home from his second state championship in wrestling. After their funeral, he lived on the streets for a year until Mackey found him and when you're out there, cold and alone, learning to read people isn't a luxury; it's a necessity.
Linda: What if I told you I wanted to extend an invitation to join the WWE?
Decker: I'd say you're a cruel woman for dangling such invitation in front of me in a "what if "scenario.
Decker Davis isn't a cynic… at least not intentionally. If anything he is forced into it, damned by circumstance after circumstance until this perspective took form. If something was too good to be true in his life then it wasn't in his life or it had strings and he was no man's (or in this case woman's) puppet.
Decker: I don't mean to be rude, Mrs. McMahon. It's just that if things seem too good too good to be true, it's because they are.
She didn't know words could make her bleed like this, especially ones she's heard a million times. Not only tears her heart strings but severs them completely. If things seem too good to be true, it's because they are. She inhales the cruel words letter by letter sticking to her lungs and suffocating her. These are words a grandchild of hers should ever utter. He should have felt loved and like the world is full of infinite possibilities. Nothing should be out of reach and he should never feel undeserving.
Linda: You're Decker "Doomsday" Davis champion of the Brooklyn Bash- New York's most elite underground fighting circuit- with an extensive background in karate, mixed martial arts, and All-state in wrestling two years: you have all these accomplishments underneath your belt and you don't believe the WWE would be interested in you?
Decker: No I don't.
It just comes out. Natural. Automatic. That cynicism blurts out before he can even process the words. Well-developed arms cross over chiseled abs that protrude through the cottony fabric of his black t-shirt and, despite himself, he gives her one more chance.
Decker: What I do believe is that you're hiding something and you can either tell me what it is or I politely decline
An ultimatum. McMahons like dishing ultimatums but excepting them is an entirely different story. He knew this and he found his brain screaming at him to take it back and graciously accept her offer. Deal with the consequences later. Yet, on the outside he appeared set in his words- an impenetrable force.
Linda: You'd throw away a chance like this because you believe I'm hiding something?
Decker: No offense, m'am but I don't think. I know. I know that since you've given me the offer you've yet to meet my eyes and that there are cracks in that stony façade of yours that scream there's a personal investment in my answer. So yeah, I guess I am.
Linda: You have your mother's eyes.
It came out as a broken whisper and it takes him a moment to decipher her words but it gradually sank in, permeated his brain and struck his heart with the force of a semi-truck. His mother? The woman he called mom since he was able to speak had brown eyes- warm eyes that he could do no wrong in but he knew he was adopted… knew that there was a woman somewhere out there that owned the title mother and a part of him was always curious as to who she was despite his indifferent exterior.
Decker: My mother?
Linda: Yes. Your mother. My daughter.
To be continued… that is if enough people show interest.
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