The WWE is the rightful owner of the characters used here in, and each wrestler mentioned are the owners of their own names. Any original characters are created by Tassie Taker.

A/N: So, its been three years since my 'Taker muse made itself known, and this is the result. There are similar fics like this on FFnet, but I hope to give the story my own twist.

And just a bit of warning - please do read this, but keep in mind that out of all my muses, 'Taker-Muse is by far the most illusive (these days) and doesnt pop up often. I hope to finish it, but that will be all up to the whims of my muses.

Dark clouds covered the sky, making the afternoon seem more like early evening, and even though the sun was firmly hidden behind the thick cloud, it was swelteringly hot, ripples of heat visible on the sidewalks and roads. The heat had come on so suddenly, people scrambled around, eager to get somewhere cooler. With each passing moment, a young, tall and muscular man was becoming more and more agitated. It was supposed to be his one day off, the first day he had been given for months. He was supposed to be at home, nestled in air-conditioned comfort, a beer in one hand and a good book in the other. Yet, here he was, forcing his way through the stifling streets, having to park a good block away from his workplace, his body donned in black leather, protection for if he fell from his expensive Harley Davidson Motorcycle. As he entered the large sliding glass doors of a high-class club, he had been ready for the grateful blast of cool air, but what hit him was an unnerving icy wind, as if the whole marbled room should have been covered in snow and ice.

"Why can't they fix it!?"

A frustrated male voice came from the direction of the white marble desk, a young woman sat behind it, her hair put back in a neat bun, dressed in a well-made suit; she looked quite cold and quite distressed.

"I'm sorry sir; he says nothing is wrong with the air-conditioning."

"Bullshit! Call another repairman."

"Sir, I…"

"Do it! And when that good for nothing body guard of mine gets here send him to my office!"

She glanced up at him, a scared look in her eyes as she looked at his handsome but intimidating face.

"He – he just arrived sir."

If there had been a reply, he didn't hear, as he was already taking large strides down the carpeted hallways, eager to get whatever this job was over and done with so he could get back to his, supposedly, relaxing day off.

He knew his mere presence made the other body guards under his bosses employ uncomfortable. He was almost seven feet tall, tattoos covered his large arms completely, some tracing up his neck. None of them had ever looked him in the eye, nor had his employer, who sat behind a large red-wood desk, wringing his hands together, a look of fear and dread plastered on his face.

"Mark, please…"

He gestured behind him; to the normal spot he would have his most intimidating body guard. Often he didn't even ask for him at all, only on "special" occasions, where the self-made crime boss would need that extra "incentive". Mark took two long strides across the room, behind the desk and lent up causally against the wall.

"Sir… your – uh – appointment is here"

The temperature in the room slowly became odd, a mingle of hot and cold that interacted but avoided each other at the same time. The distress of the man before him was becoming ever more apparent as the heat became hotter. The door slammed opened and small group of well-dressed men stepped through, seemly unaffected by the strange weather conditions of the room. One man was flanked around by the rest, and while he didn't look strange, Mark found him threatening and intimidating. He was shorter than his companions, black hair slicked back, but a few bits still framed his handsome face, that was rounded, making him look slightly chubby. His eyes were a dark brown that seemed like an endless black.

"I thought I requested that you be alone. No matter, we can deal with these hanger on's."

It all happened far too quickly for any of them to realise, the quick bangs of concealed handguns echoing around the room. A deep scream filled Mark's ears as he felt something hot burning though him, the force of the projectile pushing him backwards into the wall, slamming his head as he slowly slid downwards, this was it, his end.

Death looked not has he had envisioned, he was tall, and carried a scythe, yes, however there was no long dark robe, nor a hood covering his face, while the clothing he wore was black, it was almost modern, loose-fitting black pants, a muscle tank top covering his well-built chest, but a long black leather trench coat overed the rest of his pale body. His face was covered by a simple black fedora hat.

"I am not death, mortal. Nor will you die this day."

If he had of been asked, he doubted he could have told anyone what this man had sounded like, if he had said anything at all. He lowered his scythe, a purple light covering it as he did so, as it shifted and changed into a long, impressive looking sword, which the man preceded to sheath in an elaborate scabbard that sat on his hip. He lifted his head slightly, revealing pure, white eyes that glowed slightly.

"However, you will no longer be a mortal man after this day."

Mark wanted to scream, but his mouth did not open and no sound came from his dying lungs. The man that had been before him was gone, leaving a trail of white smoke that was somehow forcing its way through the bullet wound in his chest, following the path of death that the projectile had caused, before reaching his heart. The shot, Mark realised, had been a good one. His eyes closed tight, as if someone had grabbed his heart with their own hand, and were squeezing it. He wanted to yell out once more, his mouth wrenched open, instead of a noise escaping him, the remaining mist that had yet to enter though his wound rushed in at the opportunity, and made his whole body tingle.

"Stop struggling, you'll only make it worse for yourself."

Another voice, his own but somehow not, deeper, darker, as if someone else was inside his body with him.

"The more you struggle mortal, the more your mind slips from sanity, calm yourself!"

He wasn't sure how he could be calm, was this Hells eternal punishment? To be constantly tortured this way? No, that couldn't be right, if he was in Hell, how could he still hear, all be it far in the distance, the voices of the people that had been in the office with him, the pleading voice of his employer begging the man that had entered for something. If he could hear that, surely he wasn't dead; this was just all some pain induced hallucination. No, he knew deep down that whatever was happening to him now, when he should be dead on the floor, was not a hallucination. Someone, something, was doing something to him, stopping the bleeding from his heart, closing the wound in his chest. The same something had appeared before him dressed in black, the same something that was that voice inside him.

"Do not fear. I am no demon here to bargain for your soul. I am no angel here to lead you along some divine path. I am both, as I am neither. I am the Grey Seraphim, The Undertaker."