((Hi everyone! So, you know me! I just had to carry this piece on. Thanks to the people who have viewed it so far, I hope you enjoy the next part! Please let me know what you think! I'm beginning to get into the character of Punk and can't wait to develop him, and this story more!))

ELEVEN MONTHS LATER

OCTOBER 2 || KENNEDY Central Capitol

Down there –

He could see them all, though they thought themselves invisible. They huddled against the heat of the flaming drums, close to each other for some extra warmth, to try their luck at picking each other's thin pockets. It was the waster's way to hide in the nooks and the crannies and to pray that they weren't given any shit. If they were, like cornered dogs they'd fight against the bigger hounds. These were the people of Kennedy who had nothing, gave northing, and were as worthless as the rodents who scavenged around their boots. He had no sympathy.

They tried to block the flames light from the mouth of the alley they squatted in, tried to stay hidden, out of the way, because that was what seemed safest in Kennedy.

But being safe didn't mean you stayed alive.

The people in the alley had not offended him, nor had they harmed him. He did not pity them. Their world was one of fear and they could not be counted among the living, when they were already dead. A shake of his head silhouetted against moon and cloud. There was no rain, only the nails of an early winter, struck fresh into his skin. He could hazard a guess as to how the night would end for the creatures below. He'd already heard the howls – the hounds were out hunting tonight.

Slow, he drew back from the edge. He would leave them to their oil drum fires – they could keep their hope they would be undisturbed. He had other places to be. Maybe they would survive another October night and wake up not in fear, but in rage. Maybe there would be a new birth. Only a few left chose to fight.

He kept his hands clean, save for the powder burns. Clean. No man was clean in the forsaken city they all called their home. Why they stayed was because there was little or nothing outside the walls that he'd once broken down. They'd been rebuilt, stronger, better, so that another barrage of rebellion could be contained and slain. How many people had escaped that night? He didn't know. He remembered little, save for the white faces above him as he'd fallen down from the sky. Trouble made its way into the blood of every child born inside the walls. He was no exception, and when he'd never been named by the woman who'd shoved him out, he'd taken one for himself. Rooftops were curious places. You could see the world from a new perspective, and it was so easy to understand the thrill of power – to look down on the cretins below and to know that from your place on high you could cast down all manner of evils to ruin the lives of those who were no use to you, who threatened you, or just for your own enjoyment.

Punk had seen it all.

The supposed summer of Kennedy had been a summer for him to remember. He'd walked back through the streets for the first time since the fall. He'd been a new man, rebuilt out of old parts just so that he could do something more than just be one of the lost who found comfort with those burning oil drums. Innocence was for the next life, and he found every day and night that past became the same roll of time. Tonight was different – he'd not seen the moon since he was a child. He peered up to it now, drew his hood back so that his eyes might see. It was barely real, muffled by cloud and its luminescence dulled by the perpetual grey that lingered in the skies of Kennedy. There could have been diamonds shining just beyond the border, but you could never see. Who knew what brought the cold to Kennedy. It had always been the same. It could have been the weight of all of the human evils that occurred. It was the city of villains. Those who had never committed were so few they were considered wrong. Sin was just another word for life. If the moon could have swallowed them all then they would have suffocated in the true darkness that inhabited every human heart. It was all about existence – existence made impossible by the people who cut through the sky with that miserable building to the east of where he was.

His eye caught its spike. There – the center of the city. The cosy fortress where the Authority hid. When they chanced the streets it was for personal reason. He'd seen the Game once. He'd witnessed the moment he took the throne and declared that Kennedy was entering a new chapter, that he would bring the much needed change that would give their city a burning pride. So many believed that that was the moment Kennedy would become the home they'd prayed for. He didn't believe in a God. There was no being among those polluted clouds directing traffic. The world belonged to the humans, and Kennedy belonged to the Authority.

Most were afraid.

The punishment for fighting back was brutality. Some died, others barely lived, crippled and left in the dust. He'd seen the coppers try to maintain the order they'd sworn to protect, only to be cut down by those who'd replaced them. When he was young, he'd met one of them on a similar rooftop. He'd been exercising his sticky fingers, and Punk had been playing with matches. Only a handful of years had separated them – a similar mistrust of the world and a determination to make a life for themselves. There was no straight and narrow for the determined. He'd shown the kid how to make firecrackers. They'd made friends under storm clouds and had grown with different aims but had the same ideas.

One grew into him...the other became Seth Rollins.

The last he'd seen of the Shield had been the night the walls fell. He'd strayed from the surface and remained below, in the dark. Not alone, but not in good company. He healed with help. The Shield were not his business. Every night was the same...but nearly a year ago everything had changed. He'd once been a free man.

Those days were gone.

Most thought him dead – buried under the bastion rubble. He knew better. His blood still pumped and his heart still beat. The cold meant he still felt, but how much he didn't really know or care. Punk sniffed and pulled the hood of his coat back over his head. Somewhere in Kennedy was a man he had to meet. Time was moving – that thread that tugged them all in the same direction and he looked down to the words written on his palm – one of the few places not layered in permanent ink. It was only a name – all that he was ever given. But this was one he knew – a man who had hidden in the cables and the dynamics of the city for as long as he could remember. No matter where you were in Kennedy, you were watched. The few spots that were blind were where the bodies piled high.

Punk approached the edge of the building, peered back down to where the vagrants were. He saluted them.

'Good luck boys, you're gonna need it.'

It didn't take long for him to reach street level. He kept his head down, walked slow enough people didn't give him a second look, but fast enough that if he needed to run, he could. No one in Kennedy kept snail pace. It was too easy to be dragged back into alleys or face first into the roads. Only the rich drove in the city. There was the underground, where the trains rallied and shot to and fro to all points of the massive space they inhabited. But for most, they tapped the streets. Down below was where the demons hid, and further below the dead walked. Superstition was not in his creed. Whatever the weather, those that breathed were alive and could die. That was what he was told when he was found among the stone and metal, broken bodied and with no chance. No chance at all.

CM Punk was a man on the brink – somewhere between the living and the dead. He could tip at any second, and so he chose impulse and chaos. It was more fun to live all your last seconds at once than to drag them out.

People didn't really know him. Didn't recognize him – he'd changed a lot. All that remained the same were those swirls of ink over his arms and chest. But they were hidden now. Only to look close at the face would you see the man who died the day the Undertaker did. Oh Punk was forgotten easily – the anonymous bomber. There was no glory in his line of work. Any who thought that there could be any real sense of satisfaction was wrong. The death of any – even the truly evil, was a misery. His delight came from the bang. And now, as payback for the kiss of life (a poisonous kiss), he moved through the labyrinth of Kennedy, to find a name written in pen.

There was a frozen, industrial beauty to the carcass of the once great city. Here and there were spots of the former spirit of the place. Built into the front of some of the buildings, where shops and businesses had been, were wooden boxes, meant for flowers and plants. There were no trees in Kennedy. There was nothing organic. The only life was what was coughed out by its inhabitants and even then, Punk doubted it meant much. The carbon monoxide sky overhead was enough to poison anyone, though the Authority just shrugged and blamed the weather.

Of course – it was the weather's fault everything had gone to shit.

Punk sniffed, paused. That smell – he knew it well. To his left, an alley mouth, similar to the one he'd abandoned just now. Slowly he moved back, folded himself into the shadows. Eyes watched the street ahead, aglow in those fragile lamp lights – the few which still worked. Straight in front of him, straight past the chasm, without a single look in his direction, he walked fast. Punk's eyes narrowed a little and once he'd gone, he pushed himself out of the shadow a little to watch him. Everyone knew the name of the strutting moron. He smelled like money because he liked to think himself rich and famous; he did the lower level jobs for the Authority because it kept him safe and gave him the green. He could fight, but he was a coward. Months before, he'd heard the stories of how he'd assaulted one of the coppers. He smacked him with a lead pipe to the ribs and heart, had retired the man of only thirty three because of the attack. Just to prove that he was hard enough.

The Miz.

The fact that he called himself that was ridiculous. His actual name was Mike Mizanin, and he'd grown up two streets over from the slum Punk had been born into. Credit given he'd fought his way to some point of betterment. If that meant being a slimeball with a taste for expensive cologne, then Miz had succeeded. Whilst not his target, his interest was picked as to where the Authority's pet Chihuahua was going in such a hurry. A short grin caught the corner of Punk's mouth, from the wrist of the gloves he wore; he pulled free a wooden pick, and stuck it between his teeth. Head down, he shoved his hands back into his pocket and made after the rushing underling. Jagged sidewalk passed under his feet, boots tipped the edges of old puddles which would never dry out.

You could hear Miz now – his boots had in built heels to make him seem taller – his little secret until you heard the odd, dull click on the path.

'Where you heading...' Punk muttered. He liked this game. He could play the hunter in the dark. The Miz was all alone and that meant he was scared. He was afraid because people didn't like him. Oh he could bite, but it was nowhere near as loud as his squeal. They'd had dealings years before Miz had turned his back on his mutual scum and turned to the top paying breed. Miz had never wanted Punk's particular...services, but had been on the receiving end of them. The special kind which went boom had never been popular with those in charge. But devils were locked inside things – and it was his job to blow the doors right open. The particular operation they'd met had been dealt in Mullah. Natalya Hart, the queen of that part of town, unruled by the Authority, had purchased his services to take down the building of an upstart who wanted to begin his own brand of pleasure based business. Punk did – and wouldn't you know who stumbled out of the rubble, coughing smoke? Miz. Since then their paths had crossed far too frequently, and Punk stood tall every single time.

He wondered if Miz had rejoiced when he'd heard that CM Punk was dead?

He probably celebrated with a bottle of semi-expensive bubbly, ordered in three prostitutes, fucked them in alphabetical order, then returned home to his wife and took her for pizza – the fancy kind. High on ambition – low on brain. That was Miz.

But then his wife wasn't much better – as one of many in the long line of personal assistants to Stephanie McMahon, the one thing she seemed to understand was clothing – you could see that she dressed her husband. Miz had an instance of always wearing sunglasses. Punk didn't even know where you could buy sunglasses in Kennedy. It was such a bizarre thing to want in a city where the sun hadn't shined in over a hundred years. When the walls went up, the sun went out – that was the saying. Any who'd lived when the day had become eternal night were long dead. Almost childishly, Punk kicked at one of the puddles, just to watch the water splatter the tails of Miz's expensive coat, just to see if he noticed.

Nothing.

Miz was on a mission. Punk had placed to be. But this was far more interesting. He had to find out what Miz was up to, his curiosity demanded it. The night was still young – it never ended. He had hours left to locate the one written on his hand. For now, Miz would be his mission. He stalked him for what seemed like miles. Every hundred paces or so, he'd look over his shoulder, but Punk was too fast to be caught. He'd melt into shadow, hide in a dumpster, pretend to smoke – smoke, he'd never even touched a cigarette – save for the ones that had scarred his arm in one long line, the closest to a kiss he ever got with his first girlfriend, it seemed her old man wasn't keen on his precious princess rolling with a guy like him. He remembered the pain – thirteen years old and from that day forward, he didn't go near the smokes. It wasn't a phobia. Not really. More a matter of complete and utter disgust.

Miz went from the open streets of Ventura, headed to the South Side, to the dark and twisting corridors of the once powerful Heenan – the industrial sector of Kennedy. Punk found himself becoming more and more weary. Heenan was a sick place. Most of the screams that echoed through the city came from the old factories. It was where gangs lurked with strict codes, where strangers weren't welcome. He'd never gone too near, savored his skin attached to muscle and bone, rather than dried and hung out a warning. He'd seen it before. Even the Shield seemed reluctant to tread where he did now...what business could the Miz have in a place like this?

He rolled back the sleeve of his coat from where he hid, looked down to his wrist, the strange gauntlet clamped into place around it. Numbers reflected back at him. He had time.

Storage units were lined up in their thousands – stood like a wall of cards, and behind, the titan of them all, and the only one of the behemoths still active – the Kennedy Power Plant. No one knew who kept it running. The Authority seemed to have control over what power actually came from it, but who hid behind those doors? A mystery to everyone...none dared tried to enter, the stories which circulated were enough to disturb even the most perverted of minds. Miz didn't seem to want to head toward it, instead, his attention was caught by the units. He fumbled in his pocket, possibly for a key, for something as Punk followed. He kept to the edges, eyes always on Miz. He wouldn't lose him for a second.

Eventually, Miz came to a shaky halt. The number 108 was painted above the old yellow door, barely legible, even with the dull light that came on with Miz's movement. Punk edged closer, closer.

Miz turned, gun in hand, directed straight at Punk. He shook – how he fucking shook. Had never held a gun in his life – he'd forgotten to take the safety off for starters.

'Stay back! I don't know who you are, or what you want, but just stay away from me!'

Punk didn't answer, kept his head a little tilted, just so his eyes could see, but couldn't be seen. Slowly, he raised his hands, palms closed.

'Why were you following me?'

Clever than Punk thought – that or he was getting rusty. Maybe he'd actually felt the drops from that kicked up puddle. Maybe he'd have to give the Miz a prize if he got out of this. Maybe a nice shiner to go under those ridiculous sunglasses, then he'd have reason for wearing them.

'Answer me!'

Safety off.

Well now he'd just have to intervene, before Miz did something they'd both regret. Punk jerked forward, caught Miz's wrist and twisted just as he fired. The shot blasted past, but the sound deafened his ear. His equilibrium was thrown but he slammed a shoulder into the other man, wrenched the weapon from him, and quickly disarmed it. He threw it aside to skid along the black. He didn't like guns. Ear ringing, Punk twitched his head. Miz was on the floor, and tried to shuffle back on his hands and feet as Punk closed in on him. He reached down and grabbed the terrified man by his front, brought him close enough to lick. But Miz didn't see who he was. The hood strayed too low, the shadow cast down his face from that little light above the unit door.

'Open it.'

Miz froze in horror.

'OPEN IT.' Punk slammed him against the door. The echo smashed off everything, too loud, too everything. If the gun shot hadn't been enough to alert the rest of Heenan something was going down, they would have heard that. Any time he'd had spare had been significantly shortened. Miz didn't seem to be getting the message, Punk's fingers curled in his short hair. 'I don't think you heard me.' He wrenched his head back and it collided once more with the door. That seemed to do the trick. Miz's stuttering hand came to the combination padlock. Punk could hear him whimper and genuinely wondered how the Authority put up with him. A quick glance around, they were still alone. For now.

The lock gave. Punk shoved Miz forward.

'The door.' All of this, just to sever his curiosity. Another quick glance down to the hidden gauntlet. He still had time.

Miz was reluctant, but the threat of Punk's boot up his ass made him move. His fingers caught the handle of the door, and he heaved it upward. The dull light above it did little laminate what hid inside. The thought that this could have been some strange sex dungeon flashed through his mind. But then, Miz was probably not that imaginative. The first drops of a new storm started to fall, like a thousand beads hitting the road. He looked up at that hellish sky and then to the darkness within the unit. But he could hear something. Something moving, something muffled.

'Light it up.'

Miz's hesitation earned a sharp elbow to the nose. Was it bad that Punk enjoyed the sound? Tears spilled from the corners of those glasses, blood started to run and Miz clutched his face. He moved with wild abandon, swearing. He fell to his knees and curled up in a ball. 'Ladies and gentlemen, the Authority's finest...' Punk muttered to himself. You just couldn't get the help these days. He stepped over the fallen man and felt along the edge of the door track for a switch, a cord, anything. After a moment, his fingertips chanced something smooth and plastic, rectangular. He flicked it. At first the lights which flickered into being were too bright; he had to shield his eyes. But then, as they adapted, he began to see.

There –

An old dust sheet hung over something which moved – something, or someone.

Unsure, really, of whether or not he'd taken his own curiosity too far, Punk edged into the unit, a close eye on Miz, and reached out toward the dust sheet. His fingers grasped it and pulled -