((Hello there! Here is the newest update for you all! I hope that you like it, this episode we return to Randy's P.O.V – any character who isn't Seth, Roman, Dean or Renee's P.O.V will be presented in italics – because reasons! I really enjoy writing Randy, and I hope you like what I've done! Please, please let me know what you think!))
SEPTEMBER 17 || UNDERGROUND CORRIDORS Capitol / HALLS OF FAME, KENNEDY Central Capitol
Three days or more on his feet and even his skin was starting to blister. The dark had burned into the back of his eyeballs and his slither was fast becoming a crawl. The lack of air, the lack of food, of water, it had all taken his body down to the barest. He knew what was ahead and that it wouldn't be pleasant, that he'd need his little strength to stay on the line. His throat was dry; his tongue sore from where that pretty little bitch had tried to slice it in two. Oh it had knitted, but the dull thud of his pulse still thumped in his mouth. He'd gone through the dark, only stopping for disturbed sleep, for his hands to snatch rats out of the shadows – protein to make you sick to your stomach. He'd been in worse holes in the ground. These lairs at least had been carved by hands who knew.
Who'd actually built the underground kingdom he didn't know. There had always been rumours. The Halls of Fame beneath Kennedy had been carved out by the crazy hands of Mick Foley. Once the man had been indestructible, but with a simple, clean break he'd dissected the legend, broken him in two. It was almost sad. But he liked that idea – Randy Orton, Legend Killer. What a name. Perhaps when this venture was followed through he'd seek out those who had wronged him, who'd claimed higher power and lay waste to them. Maybe he'd started with the Game.
He'd thought he'd been in the city by now, but he was slower than he thought. His body was tired – energy level devoted to trying to heal the missing pieces. Disease might have already started to fester from the damp air below – but he couldn't feel the mushrooms growing just yet. And Kennedy was close. He could smell that polluted air – he could smell the burn from the fall of the asylum. He'd been there not long after the bombs had hit, he'd stood among the rubble and seen what remained. He'd tasted the air and he'd hunted through the debris – there had been no sign of the Shield, no sign of William Regal and no sign of the Yes Movement. But he'd seen the presence of someone – long thought dead since his disappearance from the streets – the bomb maker, the hooded man. But what did that mean? Nothing more than an allegiance with the Movement. The chaos which had remained had already been sorted. They'd started to rebuild what parts had been completely destroyed, housed the remaining patients with their carers.
Would they be done? Were the crazies back in their cages, bashing their heads open on doors and walls?
Ambrose belonged in that bedlam. It was a bitter taste in his mouth that the lunatic was out and about in the open air. He could remember the pain as he'd tried to sever his fingers – only for that woman to finish the job. Orton walked for now; let his legs rest. He flexed his remaining digits. Enough to cause damage – too few to have a promising career as a violinist. He was sure he'd survive. He'd had his shoulders knocked out of joint, he'd broken bones and each and every injury he'd come back from. He'd near re-grown portions of skin from being caught in Movement bombings and raids. They would not be pleased to see him, but he was only miles from knocking on their door. But there was more than the rebels in the dark.
Orton stopped. He peered around him with those golden eyes. The walls were familiar, but something felt wrong. Nothing had moved around, though the shadows could play tricks on you sometimes. The smell of cinders reached his nose and he was sure he could see something flicker in the dark. He could be swift as a bat's wing, and in silence, he flushed through the pitch, moved from column to haphazard column, hood drawn up, as much of his skin covered as possible to keep him invisible. He could appear from nowhere.
There –
Body ravaged, but still alive, a creature paced. His shoulders bulked forward, his head down, fists clenched; he looked more a behemoth than a human. The damage he'd sustained to his face had made a portion of it cave, but he didn't seem to notice. Smoldering at his feet was the low glow of a dying fire, scrapped together with rogue twigs and what looked to be a flint. Randy watched in silence. He heard every single breath from the fat lips. He saw them cloud from the nose against the cold. The damp had ravaged his wounds, infected most. He could have been carved from the rubble of the fallen asylum. He seemed infected enough to be crazed.
From behind the pillar, Orton moved closer, shielded himself behind the nearest scramble of rock. Old vine and wet moss had crawled over its surface. His fingers gripped the slippery stone; his eyes on the monster before him. He needed to get past. The corridors narrowed to such a point that an attempt to go round could rouse attention he didn't need. His body was too weak to battle. He needed sustenance. He needed more than rats and oxygen. If only he could break open the vein like cracks in the halls and suck out all life. But there, he could see now, there was something on the floor, something human. It didn't move, its dark skin mingled with the shadow and as he peered out from around the side of the rocks, he saw, he knew. He was dead. It was hard for a human to survive without organs, without muscle and flesh. Pieces had been systematically removed, and Orton could only presume that the creature, the monster, the Beast, had eaten them. A closer look, risking being scene, told him it was the junkster from Mullah – the one who talked to the air.
A piece of the stone broke off under his fingers. It hit the floor.
Lesnar looked round. Orton retreated. His pulse was quick and he tried to slow his heart. Men on the edge could hear the beat. He curled himself up into nothing. The shadow of the Beast fell over him as he searched, but did not find, the source of the noise. Orton didn't breathe. He sank as low as he could into the darkness. But still Lesnar lingered, like he could smell him. Randy slipped his fingers down, tried to grip that piece of stone which had given him away. Somehow, he managed to roll it toward him with a finger.
It came to his palm.
He held it tight, flicked it away from him. It hit off the opposing wall with a small crack. Lesnar lumbered toward the noise, a man possessed. Randy hurried from around the rocks. Past the light, but paused, still aglow, to look down at what remained of the face of the man Lesnar had devoured. In death he seemed in pain. He heard steps. Randy looked up.
He shouldn't have stopped.
Opposite him, the other side of the last of the fire, Lesnar stared at him. His tiny eyes were not made for the dark, but his other senses were ravaged by the madness he'd no doubt swallowed with the rest of Truth's flesh and the festering of his wounds. He could almost see it come off of him in a red smoke. Randy was still, smooth as the snake. Lesnar could see him, knew he was there, his breaths were great snorts of effort. His whole body moved with the motion. Lesnar's only light – only real guide came from the fire. Slowly, so slowly, Randy edged a hand into his pocket. His fingers gripped. Lesnar lurched forward. Randy retreated his hand and threw its contents toward the fire. As soon as it hit, the flames surged upward, the heat was intense and Lesnar drew back with a roar. Orton ran.
He only had a short head start and he could hear Lesnar come after him. The Beast hit into walls and columns but didn't care. Randy knew that he could out run him. But what then? What happened when he reached the end of the line and Lesnar caught him? He wouldn't listen to reason. He wouldn't stop to hear sweet silver words right from the mouth of the viper. There was no point trying to be silent now. His boots hammered against the echoed floor. He shot glances behind to see the bulk of Lesnar still giving chase. His coat trailed. The cold air rushed against his exposed skin. Eyes adjusted at every run and duck and turn. There – above, the marker which told the entrance of the Halls of Fame. He'd reached Kennedy. How Lesnar had come to be in the underground he didn't know – had probably followed Reigns when he'd escaped the arena. Almost as soon as he was within the new halls, he could hear things.
There were more bodies than just his.
Lesnar didn't notice. He had his pray in his sights. He lurched – Randy dodged aside. He knew that he couldn't run any further, Lesnar was too close. He'd have to fight. He could break men's necks with their own momentum. He could attack from the darkness, from anywhere. He could do it; just another legend to kill. Randy closed his eyes just for a second. He could near feel the shadows talking to him. He could feel the air change as Lesnar charged. He could smell him, taste the sweat of his skin, he could hear the growl. Orton moved. He circled as Lesnar tried to gather himself, turned to try and sniff out his prey. Randy's mouth curved into a sickle. His tongue licked lips. Eyes were open once more. He saw the heat coming off of the Beast. Lesnar swung a great fist. Orton barely ducked under. He reached up, grabbed that bear paw and heaved. Using his own momentum, he was thrown. Orton's muscles screamed and he felt his breath catch in his throat. The other man recovered quickly, shook his head and was on the attack once more. His great hands caught the front of Randy's coat, dragged him through the dark, another fist glanced off his chin. Dazed, Orton tucked up his legs, caught Lesnar's head in his hand and slammed his feet straight into the gut. He was dropped and scrambled to his feet and back. Lesnar doubled over, his insides crushed, and the human meat inside was raging.
Orton didn't give him a chance to recover. He moved to the side. He judged the distance, saw that head, knew what he had to do. He ran. When he was close enough, he smashed his boot into the side of Lesnar's head. For a moment, he didn't move. The crunch had screamed round the halls, and Randy could feel dozens of eyes on him. He knew, that once this was over, he wouldn't be standing. Lesnar roared, deafened by his own thrown equilibrium. Lesser men had been killed by that kick. The Beast stumbled, confused, thrown, out of control. He swung his arms, tried to hit the constantly moving figure of Randy. A chance one caught him in the heart.
Orton fell back, eyes wide, ribs constricted and cracked. The world was sweet agony. The stony floor slammed into his back, the wind knocked from him. This was it, the last hour had come and the blood pounded in his ears. He pushed a hand against the floor, found something thin, sharp, pressed into his palm, a gift from the earth and forced himself to his feet. The darkest of minutes could end any man and he knew that he would not die so easily. He had survived so much, shed so many wounds and pressed his own brand of poison down into the veins of his enemies. He knew the feel of what was in his palm. A syringe – fallen from his own personal collection perhaps, from the belt that wrapped around his waist. What did it matter? Dirty needle or dirty poison of Orton's own designs could be what ended them both. He could see Lesnar – his damn eyes near glowed in the dark. He seemed incapable of words, reduced to an animal. There was only one thing to. With a roar, Randy hurled himself forward. Lesnar came at him. Orton ducked low and skidded among the dirt and the wet. He near fell but steadied himself with a hand, was up, and flung himself onto the brute's back. He clung on for dear life. Lesnar shook and he grabbed at him with those massive hands. Blows struck Orton's head and arms and sides but he held on with everything he had. The syringe between his teeth. He didn't have enough grip, could feel himself slipping. Lesnar slammed him back, straight into the crumbling wall. His spine buckled, his head span as it hit, but that moment, that second he had leverage. He snatched the syringe from his mouth and slammed it straight into the side of Lesnar's throat – right into the jugular.
The scream was unearthly. It shook the foundations of Kennedy. Such a sound had never been heard on earth. It shot through the cracks in the walls and the world seemed to shake. Orton didn't let go. He pushed down harder as the ceiling above started to crumble. He jerked the needle free and slammed it through the skin again, again, again. The world turned sideways and they hit the floor, Orton's legs trapped by the weight. He tore the syringe free and with a roar, plunged it into the beetle eye of Brock Lesnar. His thumb squeezed the contents down, down. The agony that spewed from Lesnar's mouth frothed. He drowned on his own pain. Orton didn't let go, couldn't, even as the exhaustion started to blot out his sight, his breath heaved as the other man's slowed and when he couldn't hold on any longer, he released his grip.
Held in place, his leg throbbed, he couldn't move. He opened and closed his eyes, tried to gather back his senses before they disappeared completely. He heard feet come closer, saw feet just in the field of his extraordinary vision. He could hear a dozen or so close in. He tried to shield his eyes with a limp arm as something bright came over him, shot hot white light all around. He hissed, hands plastered over his sockets, blinded. There were mutters, he heard curses, he heard threats, he heard it all silenced when a new pair of feet came forward. He peered through the gaps in his fingers as someone was illuminated. He burned in the light, and the eyes that looked upon him were not gentle. They belonged to a man battle-hardened and weary of the existence he lived.
'Bryan,' he snarled.
The bearded man jerked his head. Obediently, hands came forward, and all together they heaved Lesnar off of Randy. He gasped in quick elation as his lungs inflated and his foot twitched. Nothing broken, he'd been too lucky. Almost as fast as they body was gone, those hands were on him. They grabbed his shoulders, his arms; they pulled back the hood to expose his smooth skull, bulleted by the grit from the fall. Bryan came through the light, reached up to inspect the injuries. He gripped Orton's chin without sympathy, turned his head this way and that.
'So rough,' Orton chided.
'Missing something, Orton?' Bryan asked, and tapped the side of his head where his ear had been sliced clean off.
'A gift from your precious bride,' he snarled in retaliation.
The sheer mention of Brie found his legs kicked out from underneath him by one powerful move. Bryan may have been smaller, but he was strong. It was so delightful to see the malice in his eyes, the wish to cause pain to those who hunted him. Oh Randy had hunted the bearded man, he'd driven him down into the very dust he knelt in. The hand which had held him gripped harder, as if he wished to tear the chin from his skull.
'You saw her?'
'I did better,' Randy said smugly, 'I wrestled with your bitch in the sands of Buchanan. I tasted her blood,' he licked his lips, 'delicious.'
The fury was beautiful. The sheer desire to destroy him – he could see it all there in those eyes. The balance that had been created in the lives of the Movement was about to be thrown – all by the words of a snake. He could see the fracture already forming, he could guess what would happen to him and he could imagine how he'd escape it all. They were all forsaken in the Shield's war. Bryan drew back a fist, but as it reached its peak, as it barreled forward –
'She's quite the fighter Bryan. I can see how she survived so long.'
'She's alive?' Bryan's fist stopped and his eyes narrowed in suspicion.
'As the plague. She's dancing with a new crowd now. Playing with Seth Rollins and some girl they picked up on the way. Your Ziggler ain't done shit. She's the one protecting them all. I have to hand it to you Bryan...she's divine...'
He deserved the smack. But the sting just made his smile grow. He bucked a little against the hands which held him. 'Touchy, about your wife, Bryan? I can understand why...all these years and she had no idea you were alive. Tsk, tsk. What a terrible husband you are. But that's all behind us now that she knows the truth.'
Bryan lapsed. 'She knows?'
'You didn't expect your blond rat to keep quiet did you?'
The pain inside – Orton just wanted to suck the mirth straight out of the man. How it would have tasted. The dying spark inside the man was confused, whether or not to burn or to go out. How he'd failed at his duties as a husband. How he'd betrayed her, made her think she was alone for so long. He was not the hero the people wanted and needed. He was just a little man, standing on a metaphorical box, shouting the words that could give some kind of hope – that wonderful, delicious hope that Orton just loved to crush down to a whisper.
'She's waiting for you Bryan. She's waiting in Buchanan. You might want to hurry. She's awful close to that Rollins. She seems to have forgiven him for killing you. If you're not fast enough, you might be too late. I saw how he looked at her.'
Lies – his own special poison that came from that tongue of his. But he had seen something between the Seth and Brie. There was a trust there, something deeper than the friendship it first appeared. How rare for a woman to fall in so deep with her husband's murderer.
'Bind him.'
'I wouldn't do that if I were you,' Orton hissed as those hands made to tie his own. 'If you want to get to her before they move on, you'll need my help Bryan. No one can get through these corridors faster than me.'
Next to Bryan was another man. His hood was drawn low and Orton knew who he was – the man who'd bombed the asylum. So he was with the Movement. No shock. He pulled Bryan back by the shoulder as Randy's hands were snapped together. He grunted, strained his hands against the cuffs as the two men spoke. Bryan nodded slowly to his comrade and stepped forward, in the light you could see how he'd aged. Clearly rebellion didn't make you any younger. He could see the cracks in the corners of his eyes, the lack of soul reflected back at him. He may have crawled out of that grave, but he'd been dead from the moment he'd left his wife.
'You killed Lesnar Orton. I'm impressed.'
'We didn't get along.'
'So sad to hear,'
'Can't please everyone,'
'Brie would have come to me – why Buchanan?'
'The Shield are waiting for you. They want your help, Bryan. They want to kill the king.'
