A/N: The following characters are planned to be included in this story: Dean Ambrose, Roman Reigns, Seth Rollins, Trish Stratus, Paul Heyman, Kaitlyn, AJ Lee, Stacy Keibler and The Miz. These are the main characters that will be seen the most. However, anyone from the WWE may show up in this story at any given time.

Dean

As he sat hunched in the corner, the seat of his pants brushing the dirty floor, he reminded himself that, at least it would be over soon. Not that he was afraid, or hurt, or couldn't handle it. No, at the end of the day, when he gave enough of a fuck to figure out when one day ended and another day began, he was just really fucking bored.

TV didn't know what the fuck they were talking about. Prison looked dangerous and exciting, like it was a concrete jungle and only the strongest survived. But, really, it had been so damn boring, he'd been forced to start shit of his own just to get a thrill. And what did that get him? This fucking hole, that's what, and that was even more boring than the old guy two cells down from him, back in the block, trying to teach him how to play chess.

Fuck you, old man, I already know how to play chess.

A breakout could have made things a little more fun. But for that, he'd need some inside people, and well... you can't trust a murderer any more than you could trust a thief, and hello! He was in fucking prison. There was nothing around him but murderers and thieves.

But, in a couple of weeks, it would be over. They would lead him to the death chamber, and yeah, he'd have to suffer the eyes and the blinding white light in the room, because of course, they would have to make it as bright as possible in there. But, then, that first injection would go in and his eyelids would close, his body would relax. He wouldn't even know it when they put the poison into his veins and ended his life. He would only know that he was dead when he woke up surrounded by the flames of Hell, ready to give the Devil a run for his money.

Before they killed him, though, he was going to make sure they knew exactly what he thought of them. Yeah, he thought, give me my last words. I'll fucking give you more words than you can imagine.

The cell door opened, the hinges smooth, but the bottom of the door off hinge enough to scrape on the floor. He rose his head and squinted against the harsh light that flooded his cell.

A woman walked toward him, her face in shadows. She was short, but don't tell her that. Her ample hips moved side to side, giving her a bit of boom-ba-da-boom that signified her confidence. Her heels clicked on the floor. He could tell she was blonde by the way the light behind her lit up the aura of her hair. She seemed like the kind of woman he should stand up for.

He had two fucking weeks left. Fuck standing up.

The woman squatted down in front of him. Her fingertips dragged on the floor, tracing zig zag lines on the concrete. He looked at her and grunted, but said nothing. It was his place. He didn't have to say shit if he didn't want to. Besides, who'd invited this bitch to come and gawk at the inmate.

"Are you ready to die, Mr. Ambrose?" Her question didn't hold any black humor. There was none of the mockery that came from the guards. It was simply a question, and the way her big brown eyes watched him, she wanted an answer.

He grunted. "Kinda." His voice was scratchy, his throat dry. Because of that guard who was now finding out if his insurance covered the glass eye he would need, they made him choose between water they'd probably pissed in and his smokes. He had said fuck them, and gone with the smokes.

Her head tipped to the side. Her lips puckered in a smirk. She had kissable lips. What else was kissable about her. The thighs, yeah, those he wouldn't mind getting his lips on. The tits, too, they looked hot.

He wasn't usually so vulgar when it came to woman. He couldn't say that his momma had taught him right. If anything, she taught him about whores and how assholes worked. She taught him that some women didn't give a shit what men thought about them, and some cared so much that they became that thing that men told them they were. And those women went home and they showed their sons how to be a bastard and that women didn't deserve respect.

He had learned on his own that he thought the whole thing was a piece of fucking shit, and if he wasn't going to do anything else worthwhile in the universe, he was gonna save some kid from thinking that his mother was a filthy whore.

So, he was usually more courteous to women, tried not to think of them as just sex objects, unless that's what they gave him. But, this chick was tough, and she was in command, and there was something so casually cold about her eyes that the only way to stop him from being afraid was to turn her into something no better than what his mother had been.

She ran her tongue over her full lips, then asked him, "Are you bored, Dean? I can call you Dean, right?"

"You can call me a son of a bitch if you use that voice when you do it."

"I think I'll stick with Dean." She winked at him. "And you can call me ma'am."

He barked a laugh. "Not fuckin' likely," he muttered. Dean put his hands to the walls at either side of him and pushed himself up to his feet. He fell back against the wall, leaning back, but at least upright. "The fuck do you want, lady?"

"It's very simple." She stood up a lot easier than he had. She was also healthy and well-fed. Bully for her. "My employer thinks you can be useful, Dean. If you can be contained, if you can be even remotely controlled... We think you could be very useful."

"You've got use for a convicted serial killer."

"I have use for a man with your set of skills. A serial killer..." She shrugged. "We both know that you did some of those, but you didn't do all of them." She stepped up to him and looked up into his eyes. There was no fear in her, no apprehension. She was standing toe-to-toe with a fucking killer, and she looked like she was daring him to make a move. If she had that in her, then there was no way in hell he was making a move. That bitch was dangerous.

"The thing is, Dean, I need to know if you really are ready to die, because if you are, I'll leave you here. I don't have time to deal with depression and suicidal tendencies. So, if you really want to die, then I will take my leave, and I bid you a fond execution."

She stared at him, waited for him to say something, but Dean was working on his own timeline. Let her think that he wasn't interested, that he didnt' care. Fuck yeah, he was ready to die, because this whole thing was bullshit, and if he wasn't going to get to do anything that made him feel alive, if he couldn't have any fun, then hell yeah, he was ready to die.

She shrugged. "Suit yourself." She turned and there were those hips again as she moved across the floor. Dean watched the show, because damn, it had been a while since he'd seen any ass at all, let alone an ass like that.

He waited until she was at the door to say, "When the choices are boredom or death, I'll take death every time."

She stopped in the doorway and turned slowly, pivoting on her heel to face him. "Believe me, Mr. Ambrose, what I have in store for you is anything but dull."

"My kind of fun?"

"Absolutely."

Dean pushed off of the wall and took two steps forward. "Then, Ms. Badass Baby Doll, I am nowhere near ready to let go of this bitch we know as life."

Roman

The woman sitting across from him was definitely not his usual therapist. That guy had been a pain in the ass, asking the same questions over and over again, as though the answer was going to ever change. It was a very simple routine they had, and the guy just didn't seem to get that it was called a routine for a reason. He asked, "Roman, how are you feeling today?" And Roman replied with a glare and a sneer.

How in the hell did he think that he was doing? Exactly the same as yesterday, and every day since his tour ended and he thought that he could settle back into regular life. Apparently, he had been an idiot to think that was even possible. He had been given a very special skill set, and those kinds of skills weren't going to get him a job. Those skills made the idea of most jobs in the civilian world sound worse than a ten mile hike through the desert.

"I've been told a lot about you, Mr. Reigns."

Roman rose his head, pushed his shoulders back. The end of his long black ponytail caught between his back and the chair, and he yanked it from behind him, tossing it over his shoulder. "Uh huh."

"Among other things," she said, "I've been told that you're having some trouble readjusting to life in the civilian world."

"That's one way to put it."

"What if I told you that I could make that readjustment unnecessary?"

Roman grunted. There was no way he was going back into the military. He only went in the first time because it was expected of him. Almost every male in his family since his grandfather had served in the armed forces, and at least two of the women. He respected the military, he knew that it stood for something good, but he wasn't a big one on taking the kind of orders that they were dishing out.

His problems came when they realized that he enjoyed a certain kind of work. The problems rose to a new level when they figured out just how good he was at that kind of work.

"Your specialty was close quarters, am I right?" Roman only grunted at her. "For a man your size, you were very good at stealth work."

Roman still remained silent.

"Rest assured, Mr. Reigns, that I am not talking about joining the military again."

"I'd care more about what you were talking about if I even knew your name."

She smiled at him, and there was nothing friendly in that smile. Roman had met a few women in his lifetime that sent shivers of fear down his spine, and this was one of them. She had a smile that didn't touch her cold eyes. And those eyes were more than cold. They were dangerous. They were eyes of a predator.

"Call me Trish," she told him.

"Well, Trish, outside of the military, there isn't really much use for my skills, are there? So, if you're really here to find out if I did any of the missing persons that have occasionally popped up around town, the answer is no. I can control myself."

For now, but he didn't add that in there. He didn't tell the weasel that asked him on a regular basis how things were going the truth of anything, because he had taken an oath that said that, if he knew what Roman really wanted to do, he would have to have him committed. He didn't tell him that last month, he'd seen a man arguing with his girlfriend and Roman had to shove his hands in his pockets before anyone saw that he was mimicking the act of strangling the man. He didn't tell him that he spent the better part of a week and a half tracking a suspected pedophile.

The fact of the matter was, Roman liked the killing part of his job in the Marines more than anything else, and not just the jerk of his rifle, the kickback in his shoulder when he spent bullets flying into an insurgent across a sandy battlefield. He preferred his up close work, when he got to look into a man's eyes while his large hands were wrapped around his throat and watched the life go out of him. He liked to hear a son of a bitch beg two seconds after he'd been yelling expletives at him, because when you were shitting your pants, begging was the only thing you had left to do.

Roman knew that it wasn't right, that something was wrong with him, so he set rules on himself. His first rule was no women and no children. He was sure that it would be no different from killing a man, but he had to draw the line somewhere. His second rule was that he focused on the really bad people, because if he didn't have a focus, everyone around him would start to look like a victim. And in the civilian world, there were almost more really bad people to focus on that in the world of war.

"We've been watching you, Roman," she said, leaning forward until her forearms rested on the desk. "I'm well aware that you haven't killed anyone." She paused, then said, "Yet."

Roman bristled. He didn't like people watching him. He had done his time, and that was another reason he had ended his time. He could have re-enlisted. He could have signed up for another tour. But, they always had eyes on him, waiting for the time when their animal broke his leash. And then they would put him down. He almost smirked. They would try to put him down, at least.

Trish flattened her hands on the desk and pushed herself up. Roman watched the muscles in her arms tighten and flex. He assumed she had worn a sleeveless shirt just for that reason, to show that she wasn't just a pretty face with big breasts and great blonde hair. She wasn't a woman to be trifled with, and if she had to flex her muscles to prove that, then so be it.

Roman didn't follow her movements as she moved around the desk, at least not with his eyes. He listened for her, though. He heard her footfalls as she walked around him. He heard the door to the office close, then the blinds on all of the windows, interior and exterior, slap shut. She never came closer than five feet to him, moving around him as though he had a bubble around him.

Trish came back around and hopped up on the desk. She slid back until she could cross her legs. Another thing he noticed, she wore pants instead of a skirt. She wasn't trying to entice him with sex. She was a woman on a mission. The bare skin of her arms were for a reason as much as the covered skin of her legs.

She leaned forward and rested her forearms on her leg. "Let's talk frank for a minute, shall we, Roman?"

He shrugged. "Say what you want."

"Oh, believe me, Roman, I do." She flashed a grin at him, and again, Roman felt the sense of danger. She kept that smile as she said, "My employer has access to things in your file that even you would never be able to see."

This was the first mention of an employer. Interesting, he would have thought this woman to be in charge of the whole thing. But, she had been recruited the same as he had. Roman wondered what her special skills were, or if she'd been hired solely because she could make a man fear for his life with just a smile.

"You're not just good at what you do, Roman, you enjoy it, and that is both a blessing and a curse. Enjoying your work means that you'll be so much better at it. However, it also makes you a liability, because no one knows if you're going to start enjoying your work outside of orders."

"Then why do you want me?" Roman asked her.

"Because we've been watching you, Roman, and we think that we can give you enough work that you won't have to go outside of what we give you. We also know that you've set yourself up some very interesting rules. That's why you were recommended to us, Roman. Because you're slightly psychotic, but you're not crazy."

"And you know I'm not crazy because you read my file?"

"I know you're not crazy because crazy people don't know they're crazy. You know enough to control yourself. We can help you with that control. But, more importantly, we can let you loose on some very, very bad men. Have the time of your life, Roman. As long as it's who we say to kill, we won't stop you."

Roman lifted a curious eyebrow. "You point and I shoot."

"Shoot, strangle, stab…" Trish spread her hands in front of her, then let them fall to her sides. "However you want to do it. Now, occasionally, we'll need things done in a very special way, and we expect you to respect that. But outside of those occasional times, be as creative as you like."

He wondered for a moment if this was some kind of set-up. Maybe she was a cop- No, she didn't have the look of a cop. She had the look of a killer, like she knew the feel of blood on her hands, and had watched the soul leave a few bodies of her own. She looked like she knew what he felt, what he liked to do, and from time to time, had enjoyed it herself. She looked the only kind of person he could trust. She looked just like him.

Roman pushed himself up in his chair until his back was straight, then leaned forward. He thought of the things he could do, the tension he could release. The fun he could have. A grin slid across his face. "Where do I sign up?"

Seth

"Yes, I hacked into the computer, and yes, I cracked the safe, but I'm telling you, I did not kill anybody."

"See, there's a problem with that, Seth. I mean, yeah, you come across very sincere, but the problem is, we have pictures. We have fingerprints. We have your head on a stick, kid, and all of this evidence is going to be us waving your head around in the courtroom. But, if you confess, you won't get the needle."

"I'm not confessing, because I didn't do it! I already confessed to what I did! I'm not confessing to anything I didn't do!"

Seth Rollins wasn't going to lie. He wasn't on the up and up. He did things that he shouldn't have done. He spent too much time with his fingers tapping on the keyboard, finding other people's secrets. He also had a knack for breaking into things, which came in handy when he was younger. Sometimes, his family needed a little extra money, and it wasn't that hard to get into the bank's computer system and add an extra zero or two so they could get by.

And yeah, it was fun doing it, getting one over on somebody. Those people he stole from always seemed to look at him and his family like they were dirt. They looked at his mom like she was any less than the women they went home to and that wasn't cool. So, Seth took them for what he could get. And he didn't always get away clean. He had a record, but it was a light record. The toughest thing on his rap sheet was fighting, and most of that had been in self-defense.

Seth could take care of himself. He was tall, but he wasn't hugely muscular. He was lean growing up, and even though he had filled out with muscle when he got older, there were still people out there that thought they could take him. They thought he was just a computer geek, just a geek in general, and they could make him do things he didn't want to do. They thought they could take from him. Those were the people who learned that Seth could throw a punch. And some martial arts training from an old family friend meant that he could throw some kicks, too.

But, he wasn't a murderer. Seth couldn't even kill an insect. He found a dog dying in the street, hit by a car with a driver who didn't give a damn, and he'd paid out of his pocket at the nearest vet to have him put down. Seth had to live on Ramen and mac 'n cheese for a while after that, but it was better than watching someone suffer.

He knew how things went on the streets, though, and he knew shit happened. And it kind of made him a hypocrite or a pussy or something, because he couldn't kill anything, but sometimes, he watched the news and knew that there were people who deserved to die. He heard about people getting taken out and he didn't feel bad about it.

But, that didn't mean that Seth was a killer.

"Look," he said, "I'm admitting what I did." He took in a deep breath, trying to make the shakes stop. But, his body still trembled, because, Jesus Christ, they were talking about the needle! "I hacked into the security system and took down the alarms. And yeah, I went in and cracked the safe. But, I swear to God, there was nobody in there, and when we left, no one was dead."

"Well, Seth, it sounds like somebody is trying to set you up, doesn't it?"

Seth's head whipped around to the face of the new voice. The woman coming into the room looked friendly, a lot friendlier than the beefy cop sitting across from him that kept trying to tell him that he killed somebody. For a minute there, he thought she was another cop, and it was time to play the game where she came in talking all sweet and got him to confess to something. But, another look at her said that she wasn't 5-0.

The new woman, the only person of any authority who seemed to have any sense in her head, wore skinny jeans tucked into tall boots with heels that were meant to give her a few more inches. She wore a blouse and jacket to dress it up. Her smile softened the hardness of her eyes, but the eyes were what gave her away as something other. She was trying to put him at ease by dressing like a regular, casual person, but the blonde that stalked his way was anything but casual. And she damn sure wasn't regular.

"I'm sorry, Detective, but Mr. Rollins is now in my custody." She laid down a neatly creased folded paper in front of him. The detective opened the paper and started to read, and she turned away from him. She looked at Seth and said, "You can come with me, now."

"Wait a minute." The detective stood up. "What are you, some kind of Fed?"

She laughed. "Oh God, no. I'm just an agent for a very important man who has friends that are more important than you. So important, in fact, that all of your charges against Mr. Rollins are being dropped as we speak, and we are free to go." She reached into her back pocket and came out with a card between her index and middle fingers. "Call this number if you have any questions."

The detective took the card, and the next thing Seth knew, the blonde had her hand on his arm. He looked up at her, grateful to be free, then suddenly very afraid, because her eyes said that he was anything but free.

"Come along, Seth," she said. "We have things to do."

Seth jumped up before anyone could change their minds and decide to put him in handcuffs and drag him to a cell down the hall. "Are you a lawyer?" Seth asked the blonde as she escorted him out of the interrogation room and they maneuvered their way through the police station.

She laughed, the same mocking laugh that she had given the detective. "Sometimes, Seth, I'm more likely to need a lawyer than I ever am to be one."

She led him outside to a waiting black luxury car. A man in a crisp black suit opened the door and she slid easily inside. The man jerked his head toward the car and, hesitantly, Seth moved in beside her. The door slammed shut the second he was fully inside.

The driver returned to his place behind the wheel and pulled the car into the Davenport, Iowa traffic. Only when they were three blocks away from the police station did the blonde turn to him and offer her hand. "Trish Stratus."

"Seth," he said, taking her hand. "Seth Rollins."

"Yes, Seth, I know." She smiled at him as she took her hand back. "Now, Seth, I'm going to tell you something, and you're going to listen, and when I'm done, we're going to go to your apartment, you will pack your bags, and we are getting out of Iowa. Do I make myself clear?"

"How do you know that I'm going to go anywhere with you?"

Trish smirked. "Do you want to go to jail, Seth?"

"No."

"Because let me assure you, while my employer and I know that you didn't kill anyone, the evidence said you did. And the evidence that is now being deleted from the Davenport Police Department servers and the evidence going missing from their evidence locker can all go right back where we found it."

Seth sighed. "I don't want to go to jail."

"Are you sure? I mean, you're looking at Murder 2, at the very least. If they try hard, they can probably get you on Murder One."

Seth sighed again. "I don't want to go to jail. I don't want to get anything worse than jail."

Trish reached out and her hand dropped to his knee. "That's what I thought," she said, "and that, you precious little genius with a motherboard, is exactly how I know that you're going with me."