Title: Obsession
Author: TheVampireLucinda
Featuring: The Undertaker; mentions of Triple H and Shawn Michaels
Disclaimer: Nothing odd here! (laugh) Seriously! This is appropriate for all ages! I swear! Haha.
Summary: ob·ses·sion: a persistent disturbing preoccupation with an often unreasonable idea or feeling; a compelling motivation.
Based off the events of 2/6/12 RAW, and that excellent promo. Nearly a year has passed since the Undertaker and Triple H had their violent, emotional, and life-changing Wrestlemania match. The Game, it seemed, had moved on after the match, taking comfort in the fact that, of the two of them, he had been the only one to leave the ring that night of his own power. For the Undertaker, however... "moving on" was the last thing in his thoughts. One-Shot.
A/N: I'd like to dedicate this little ficlet to EroSenin'sDeciplesKJT. A small thank you, for your kind words...You've actually helped me to organize my thoughts (about life) a bit, so, really, thank you. On a related note, I'd recommend that anyone who hasn't already should check out In Over Your Head by EroSenin'sDeciplesKJT. It is an EXCELLENT story that I am thoroughly enjoying! Check it out, and don't forget to review it!
On a more personal note, I do apologize for my spotty and intermittent appearances...Life has been very...interesting, but not in the fun way. I find it hard to write when I'm not happy, or feeling a "pure" emotion...That probably makes no sense, haha. In any case, my feelings (about life in general) have been a bit muddled over the past few months, and so it's been hard to be creative. But, I always hold onto hope, and I feel a bit better resting after a long week, so, I've started writing again. I daresay I'm even a little happy again...
But enough about me, onto the story! Oh, and it's written in a sort of rambling, repeating sort of way because 'Taker's thoughts are like that right now...at least, in my mind they are, haha.
He sat back in his large, ornate chair, studying his handiwork, a grim smile coming to his lips.
Nearly every square inch of the walls—even some parts of the ceiling—was covered in pictures, and articles, and newspaper clippings. Again and again, everywhere he looked, he came face-to-face with the often-smiling visage of that man.
That man. The arrogant son of a bitch who left him lying in the middle of the ring after their match on the Grandest Stage of Them All...and then had the balls to go on national television and brag about it later.
It had been about dominance, about past hurts, about proving something to the world; but, most of all, for that man, for the Game, for the King of Kings, it had been about vengeance.
Triple H had lost his best friend because of the man who stood across the ring from him that fateful night. With every punch, with every throw, with every kick, with every swing of every object, he let the man in black, the demon who had beaten his friend and forced him to retire, know that he hated him.
Given the chance, he would have crippled him, maimed him, broken his body as far as it could be broken.
And that would have been out of the kindness of his heart, considering all of the horrible things he really wanted to do to him.
The Undertaker, as he sat, clenched his fists at the memory. Oh yes, he recalled well seeing that very thought in Hunter's brown eyes—eyes that managed to switch between laughter, bloodlust, and soullessness so very easily.
He remembered that one emotion, desperate and unfamiliar, when he had been unable to stand, having been hit in the head God knows how many times, and Hunter slid out of the ring to get his ever-faith sledgehammer.
He remember crawling, crawling, dragging his injured body to the ropes, to get out the ring, to get to the floor, to...flee?
No, not to run away, but to get away from Triple H, whose eyes in that moment reflected such a focused intent that the Undertaker knew that the man would bash his head in right in the middle of the ring and not give a damn about the consequences.
He had been buried alive before...but returning from a shattered skull and splattered brains was not something he desired to attempt, if such a thing even was possible...
Yes, the Deadman remembered it all well, sighing and closing his eyes, the same image replaying in his minds eye again and again as it had for the past year.
If he thought about it long enough, he could feel that same emotion, sickening as it was, turning his stomach and making his head light as he clutched the ropes, doing everything in his power to get away from the blond-haired demon who slowly stalked after him.
His pride was all but forgotten as—damn it all, it was terror—terror coursed through his veins when Triple H grabbed him by his ankle to drag him back.
He desperately reached for the ring apron, the ropes, something, anything... No... Someone, please...!
The Undertaker's green eyes snapped open. He felt a dull pain in his hand and looked down; he had clenched his fists so hard that his nails, short though they were, had cut into his palm. Slowly, his own bright red blood welled into a thick mini-river before sliding down the length of his fingers to pool on the dark floor.
Luck and instinct had saved him that night. The same hand that had him by the ankle was within reach of his arms, he had realized all at once. In a blur of movement, he pulled his soon-to-executioner down, locking him into the so-called Hell's Gate submission hold.
He pressed hard, harder than he had pressed against anyone before, tears of relief nearly coming to his eyes as Hunter's struggles began to become less violent, and more lethargic. But the smaller man, long past the point of reason, continued to fight. What if he held on until the Phenom's waning strength ran out?
When he felt the warm splash of the Game's blood on his chest, he knew that it was done.
He had survived.
"But that's all I did," the Undertaker said aloud, although he was still alone in the large room. "I survived. But you, Triple H..." He inhaled deeply, eyes glowing like emeralds in the darkness.
He remembered his worst moment, being literally carted from the ringside area, barely able to open his eyes, much less stand on his own two feet. That humiliating, helpless feeling of being carried...
It was too much to bear.
You won. You got your vengeance.
"Now I'm gonna get mine."
For perhaps the tenth time that day alone, he flicked on the switch that would start the old-fashioned projector, and then a second one, the images appearing on the only uncovered parts of the wall exactly mirroring the ones that replayed again and again in his head.
As the days passed after that horrible match, again and again the Undertaker had found himself thinking about the details of it. Where had it all gone wrong? How had it gotten to the point that he couldn't even stand on his own two feet? Triple H was going to put him down that night like a rabid dog that had bitten the wrong person...
A bitter smile came to his lips as the Deadman recalled the reason for all of this suffering. Shawn Michaels.
Shawn Michaels.
Shawn Michaels, who continued to haunt him, and probably would for the rest of his life. Shawn Michaels, who had challenged him, who had forced his hand for two years in a row. Shawn Michaels, who had been so determined to prove that he could once and for all beat the Undertaker and end his Streak that he lost his career in the process.
Ironically, Triple H had come to the Undertaker with the same intentions...Or, at least, he pretended he had the same intentions. Because the moment the match actually started, it became clear that the Game didn't give a shit about the Streak, or wrestling, or any of that nonsense.
And now, the Undertaker found himself in the exact same place.
Again, his mind wandered to Shawn, whom he figured must have been feeling the same thing those few years ago. That all-consuming desire to face a man one-on-one, and beat him down, and batter him, and leave him a bloody shell of his former self in the hopes of proving...
What? What was it that they were all trying to prove?
What was the point of this destructive obsession?
As he looked around the room, the Undertaker could feel his blood boiling. Over the past year, he had collected every article written about his match against Triple H, had recorded every interview, had save every picture. They were all taped haphazardly to his wall now, staring him in the eye every waking moment of every day.
He wanted...needed vengeance. He didn't care what it cost him this time...He didn't care if he was beaten down so badly that he'd never walk again; didn't care if Triple H hit him in the head so hard that he forgot his name and everything about his own life.
What mattered was revenge.
One by one, the torches in the little room began to come to life, as though all on their own. The Undertaker had heard Triple H's threats. The man said that he was going to finish him if they were to face one another again.
So be it.
Because, the Undertaker swore to himself long ago, if he couldn't get his revenge, he deserved to be finished. To be killed off like a dog that needed killing. A win would mean nothing; but getting long-sought-after revenge would at last allow him to rest in peace.
Whatever he had lost to the Game during that match...He was going to get it back. He deserved the chance to take back what was once his...
And whatever it was, the Undertaker knew deep down in his heart that he wasn't going to be able to rest until he regained it.
He crossed his legs as he sat in the chair, locking eyes with an older picture of Triple H. This one was from long ago, when the man had been universally called Hunter, and had yet to gain a mean streak and a killer instinct. The brown eyes were still quite young, mischievous as they always were in those days.
Back then, the Undertaker hadn't even given the man a second thought, except in conjunction with Shawn Michaels, his one-and-only worthy opponent besides his little brother Kane.
Now, however, he knew he'd forever remember the cold glint of those once-jovial brown eyes. A sharp, brief stab of fear would hit him right in the gut if...when he came face-to-face with that smiling mask of death.
Because, at the end of the day, it wasn't Hunter that scared him, but rather what Hunter could do when he lost himself to his own Darkness. And the Undertaker had a hunch that Hunter feared that about himself as well, which is why he outright refused his challenge.
But none of that mattered now, because the Undertaker had a plan. Ironically, he was taking a page out of Shawn Michaels book, in order to use it against the man's own best friend. He was going to have to force Triple H's hand if he continued to deny him.
And, unbeknownst to the Game, the depths of the Undertaker's Darkness was more than anyone, even the Deadman himself, could fathom.
"I will get my rematch," he said softly, again closing his eyes.
"I will have my vengeance." He stood up suddenly, and drove his fist into the nearby wall, inevitably striking a picture of Triple H. As it floated, crumpled, to the ground, the Undertaker knew that his sleep would once again be filled with the image of this man, and all the ways in which he could, would exact his revenge.
Because, at the end of the day, it wasn't about wrestling anymore. Neither man cared about Streaks and glory and win-loss ratios. One man walked out of the ring; the other was carried.
The only thing that mattered was vengeance and immortality.
This was not over.
Thanks for reading!
Review? :)