Chris Jericho made his way into his dressing room, grumbling as he slung his tag titles aside on top of his bags. The night hadn't gone anyhow how he had expected, or how he'd wanted, or expected. The entire evening had been an infuriating waste of time the likes of which he hadn't experienced in all his days.
He had expected that Big Show would be able to do his part and help him to gain the title from the Undertaker, but instead, as per always with this team, the giant bastard had screwed things up for them both, and Undertaker had walked away with the championship-that he didn't deserve!-and he was left without what was rightfully his.
Jericho all but snarled as he paced the locker room a moment, then walked over and snapped the lock of the door into place. He knew Big Show would be along shortly, but he was still furious at his tag partner, and quite frankly, he needed alone time before trying to deal with the big bastard. And it would do Show well to cool his heels and think about what he'd done, and what he'd cost them both.
After a quick shower...washing away the stink of failure, he thought of it...Jericho took his immaculately pressed gray suit, shirt, and tie, getting dressed, combing and styling his hair, making sure everything was in place. Even if he'd just been cost his title, he knew he needed to put forth a strong front. It wouldn't do for anyone to dare and think that they could compare him with the enormous parasites that slugged their way about on the outside...he was better than them, always and forever, and he wouldn't give even-
The lights of the dressing room abruptly winked out, plunging him into complete darkness just as he'd finished knotting his tie, and Jericho grunted, grabbing at the sink in front of him to keep his bearing, gritting his teeth. "Big Show, I don't know how you got that door open, but this wasn't funny the other night and it's not funny-,"
A giant hand abruptly latched around his throat, and Jericho grunted as he was yanked backwards, spun around, then slammed back against the mirror, hearing the glass crack under his spine at the force of the impact.
"Chris...Jericho..." a deep voice drawled slightly, and Jericho's eyes widened as he realized that voice wasn't the one of his giant tag team partner, but rather the voice of another, entirely less friendly giant. The lights abruptly winked back on and confirmed his fear...the Undertaker was standing there, holding Jericho against the wall by one hand, almost nose-to-nose with him. Jericho grunted, kicking and squirming, trying to wriggle his way loose, but he could barely get any air, let alone make an escape of any kind. He tried to demand to be released immediately, but the only thing that came out of him was the gagging intake of air.
"You have been a thorn in my side for quite some time now, Chris Jericho." Undertaker continued, still glaring at the smaller man, seeming to use almost effortless strength in keeping him in place. "But I've done some looking into you, Chris. I've explored your very soul and I've discovered something very important about you...a very special power inside of you that I desire as my own." Undertaker leaned back slightly. "I cannot take it as you are, Chris, but I do have a way to be sure that your power will become mine..."
Jericho grunted and struggled, trying to get away, but he froze when Undertaker's dark eyes abruptly changed...going completely pure white, almost seeming to glow. He began to snarl bizarre sounds...almost like words, but in no language like Jericho had ever heard, and a cold, violent wind seemed to kick up around them in the locker room. Jericho squeezed his eyes shut against the onslaught, but then it was bizarre, like the cold outside had suddenly shifted to Undertaker's hand, and then started to try and flow through his body...iciness roiling through his veins even as he tried to fight it any way he could, not knowing how, but the feelings were overwhelming, and even though he couldn't make a sound, he screamed...
( )
Mike "the Miz" Mizanin glanced down at his watch as he walked through the backstage area, unable to help a smirk that was plastered to his face as he went. It was late and he was rather tired after the match tonight, and he doubtless would have a lot of bullshit to deal with tomorrow, but his mood couldn't have been better. He'd just proven, once and for all, who of the old "MizMo" team was the better man, and he'd done it in as nearly flawless a way as could be done, with his handpicked team easily dominating his old buddy Morrison's group of lame losers.
That had been Johnny's big problem, of course...the team he'd selected was chosen for something as goofy as "friendship." Oh, Miz supposed a couple of them weren't complete slouches...Shelton had his moments and Finlay had, once upon a time long ago, carried a vicious mean streak. But Miz had chosen people for their ability, for their power and skill, even though they were people he would never have associated with even if they were paying him to. His team were all winners, and Morrison's team...well, they weren't.
Miz started to round a corner and very nearly collided into one of the very men he had just been debating...Matt Hardy, who was pulling a rolling suitcase behind him and holding a bag of ice to his head. "Oh, look," Miz said, the smarmy grin even audible in his voice. "Here I was just thinking about you, Matt. How is your head? Obviously the love of a million of Jeff's residual fangirls does nothing for the pain."
"Not now, Miz, I'm not in the mood," Matt grumbled, starting to push past him.
"Not in the mood for what? Obviously not in the mood for winning, or being in shape, you fatty fat fat." Miz grinned and struck a mock Hogan pose. "Wait, wait, that's not right, you'd want..." Miz paused, pretending to consider. "What kind of posturing did Bastian Booger do, again?"
"Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha." Matt rolled his eyes. "This coming from the guy who used to have a purple fauxhawk."
"Ohhh, good comeback. This of course, coming from a middle-aged guy who's hairline is receding faster than his guts are expanding."
"And it's just going to be all the more embarrassing for you, the young, fit guy, when you get your ass kicked by the fat, bald middle-aged guy." Matt tossed down the ice pack and his bag, and Miz quickly took a couple steps back.
"Whoa, there, Assy McGee. You've already had your butt whupped pretty fierce once tonight. You wanting to make it two for two?"
"Yeah, why not? At the very least I'll put a few more bruises on that supposed pretty-boy face you think you have happening." Matt started to roll up the sleeves of his work shirt.
"Hey, whoa, come on, now, Matt. You lost tonight, just deal with it. You got no chance against the Miz, man, it's just a matter of fact. Because I'm-,"
"If you say 'I'm awesome' then I'm going to start hitting you and I do not think I will be able to stop myself."
Miz rolled his eyes a little. "You are no fun at all, Hardy. At least your brother could put up some kind of decent fight, you just roll over on your fat belly and-,"
There was a sudden shrill scream from somewhere further down the hall, and a series of thumps and crashes as though there was a tremendous battle going on. Miz and Matt stared at each other in wide-eyed silence for a moment, then turned as one and bolted towards the sounds.
"Sounds like someone else is gonna be coming out on the losing end of the night," Miz snickered.
"Just shut up and hurry, it sounds like someone's getting-,"
As they went to round a corner, there was a loud WHUMP, and Miz grunted as he collided with someone hard enough to knock them both flat to the floor.
"-mauled..." Matt finished, skidding to a stop. "You all right, fauxhawk?"
"Shut up, fatty, yes, I'm fine." Miz sat up, rubbing the back of his head, wincing. "What the hell?"
"Please help me!" a voice yelped, and Miz grunted again as the thing that had hit him-what seemed like a young man with long blonde hair and wearing an oversized, rumpled and torn gray suit-was abruptly all but in his lap, arms around his neck, clutching at him desperately, shivering in fear. "Please help me, please, he's gonna get me!"
"Whoa, all right, hey..." Miz said, holding up his hands, eyes wide. "I can tell that's a guy, hey."
Matt chuckled faintly, then turned at the sound of someone stomping up behind him, and turned to see Undertaker, looking more furious than Matt had ever seen him, enough that Matt unconsciously took a step back. "Um, hey, Taker..." he said, holding up a hand. "What is, uh...?"
"Get out of my way, Hardy," Undertaker snarled in a low voice. "This does not concern you."
The young man clinging to Miz whimpered and clung tighter, even as Miz tried to push him away. "Don't let him get me, please don't let him get me!"
Miz grunted, alternately moving his hands to try and push the kid away and holding them up as though afraid to touch him, as Matt stayed, somewhat hesitantly, between them and Undertaker. "Hey, Taker, calm down, man, let's talk about this," he said, holding his hands up a little.
"This does not concern you," Undertaker repeated, stopping and pointing at the young man, almost visibly seething. "It is a matter between him and me."
Matt glanced back at the young man, then at Undertaker. "Look, I think he's scared enough, he''s learned his lesson. Why don't you just let us take him outta your sight, away from here someplace, he'll never do it again whatever it was, and-,"
Undertaker grabbed hold of Matt's throat, sneering a moment before flinging him bodily into the wall, then turned his attention to Miz, who was still unsuccessfully trying to pry the whimpering person away from him. "Give him back to me right now," he growled.
"Yeah, you know, it wouldn't be a problem and anything, but seriously, you know, it's like...dude, get off me," Miz muttered, scooting back as much to get distance from the angry Undertaker as to wriggle away from the kid.
"Please! Please don't let him get me!"
Undertaker snarled, starting to reach out for the young man. "Give him back to me now or there will be very serious repercussions for you, Mike Mizanin."
"Look, Taker, I think he's plenty freaked enough, and I don't really wanna be in your way, believe me," Miz said, scooting away even as he was trying to pry off the blonde. "Come on, seriously, guy, get off!"
Undertaker started to draw back his fist, and Miz squeezed his eyes shut in anticipation of the blow, quietly hating everyone involved, but there was a metallic WHACK, and Undertaker grunted and staggered forward against the wall. Miz glanced up to see Matt following after him, still wielding the chair, and smacked it into the larger man's back several more times, until Undertaker was on the ground. He hit Undertaker a couple more times, then threw the chair down at him, turning and grabbing Miz, pulling him to his feet despite the fact that Miz was still more or less cradling the stranger. "Come on, let's get outta here!"
Miz dropped the blonde onto his feet and started running with Matt back down the hall, dragging the youngster behind him whether or not he was going to run. "This is some serious bullshit!"
Matt didn't seem to acknowledge the sentiment as he pulled ahead and swooped down at the point where he and Miz had dropped their bags, snatching them up and continuing to run, down the hall, around a couple of corners, and finally into the parking lot. Here Miz started to come to a stop.
"Dude, my car is over-,"
"Forget your car, we're taking my car and if Taker doesn't come around and kill us, we can come back for your car!"
"Now wait, I never said I wanted and I don't want any part of-!"
"I have your bag!"
"...well fuck a duck!" Miz took off after Matt, pulling the guy behind him, as Matt got to a red sedan, unlocking the doors and throwing the bags into the passenger's seat, while Miz yanked open the back door and dove in, pulling the guy in after him, reaching over to pull the door closed. Matt slammed the key into the ignition and almost immediately threw the car into drive, peeling out of the parking lot and onto the street with a fairly blatant disregard for a silver minivan he cut off, blaring the horn and tearing down the road until the arena was well in their back mirrors.
"You guys okay back there?" Matt asked, glancing back at them. "Dude, you all right now?"
"Mm-hmm..." the guy whimpered, sniffling, obviously still pretty scared, but he managed to scoot away from Miz and sit on his own in the seat, hugging himself. "Th-thank you..."
"Hey, don't mention it. It's what we do. Well, what I do and what Miz does when sufficiently kicked in the ass."
"I'll kick you in the ass. Nice big target to aim for, too."
Matt rolled his eyes, but finally glanced back towards the strange new guy who was huddled in the other part of the backseat, practically curled into a ball and shaking like a leaf. "Hey, man, are you all right?"
The guy hesitantly raised his head, looking at them, and both Matt and Miz flinched at the sight of him. He looked young, 18 or so at the most, only a kid, really, with long, slightly curly blonde hair and wide, frightened blue eyes. His gray suit was even bigger than it had first appeared, all but hanging off him, and torn and rumpled as though he'd been through a violent battle. Which, considering who they'd just taken him away from, wasn't far out of the question. But there was something else about him as well, something that Matt knew wasn't only apparent to him when Miz spoke up in an incredulous voice.
"Is...is that...Jericho?"
Matt shook his head slowly, glancing back, then turned his attention back to the road. "I'm gonna get to the hotel and we can stop and figure this out there behind a locked door. This is definitely something crazy going on."
"No doubt about it, Fat Hardy..." Miz replied, though there was no real malice to his voice, as he simply exchanged a freaked out stare with the newcomer, wondering what fresh hell he'd gotten into this time.