((Hello hello! Its day 3 of merry ficmas! I hope that you are all well and truly getting into the festive spirit! We've reached 16, 500 views which is absolutely incredible! Thank you to everyone who has made this a reality. Please enjoy this newest chapter and let me know what you think in the comments!))
'Your first failure Dean Ambrose, for a man with many demons, you have been unsuccessful in killing the greatest of them all. How will you dig your way out of Hell, if you refuse to climb on the corpses left to be your stepping stones? Because of this, your friends will have to pay for your mistake. And the first will be...Seth Rollins.'
What hit him first was the confusion. Had Kane meant someone else? Had he meant Roman? Seth wasn't anywhere near the arena, he wasn't in the same city, hell; he wasn't even in the same state. He blinked at the screen, saw Dean's own shock, and as the realization dawned over them both, Seth's expression turned to one of fear. He looked up, peered around his dark room. There was no one here; he was completely alone in the room. It was dark, the shift change over had already happened. The night staff were roaming the halls, a few faces he knew, whilst others were new to him. He didn't feel unsafe. In fact, nothing about the night until this moment had felt wrong. But now...somehow he was more aware of how quiet his room was, how few and far between the staff had passed by his door. Seth swallowed and moved himself up into a proper sitting position on the bed. Raw was still playing on that open laptop, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dean help the fallen Balor to his feet. As soon as he was up, the Demon King, let go of Dean's hand, and melted back into the shadows, as if he'd never been there. Left alone, Seth's brother, flabbergasted, peered around him, searched the room for the man who'd been there only seconds ago...but nothing. Instead, he turned his attention to the ceiling, to the cruel echoing laughter which carried through the boiler room. Frantic Dean started to follow it, back through the halls, white hot rage etched into his face.
'Seth...'
Eyes widened and he glanced around, feeling far too small, far too vulnerable. That voice hadn't come from the laptop. It was in his room. His skin tingled, the hairs on the back of his neck and on his arms rose. On the laptop, Dean had near exited the boiler room. His eyes narrowed at the sudden light of the stairwell, a scratched arm up to try and shield his eyes. He stopped as the laughing started up once more, and as it had before, it echoed both from the screen and Seth's room. Uncertainly, Seth pulled the covers away from his busted legs. Wooden crutches – Dean's own that he'd left behind – were propped up next to the bed. He gripped a hold of one as a weapon, before pulling the other to his aid as well. Unsteady, and knowing that Daisy would probably kill him for trying to walk unsupervised, Seth edged his way toward the end of the bed. He braced the crutches against the floor, shifted his weight, and moved forward, allowed himself to balance. He let out the breath he only just realized he'd been holding. The room, compared to the heat he'd seen in among the boilers, was freezing cold now he'd exited the covers. The light switch was only a few metres away, it wasn't too far. He could have just buzzed for a nurse...but somehow, for some reason he didn't want to...didn't trust the idea of calling someone.
'Keep looking Seth...'
Kane's voice taunted him. He knew the demon himself couldn't be there. He'd seen him mere moments ago on the screen, all the way in New Orleans. There was no physical possible way for it to happen...but all the same...he knew that the voice was in the room with him. He searched every corner, nook and cranny, but there was nothing. Nothing alive at least; he was the only breathing thing in there. The rest was completely unanimated. Another glance to the laptop saw that Dean had encountered trouble on the stairs, attacked by people that Seth was too far away to see, especially without his glasses which he'd foolishly left behind on the table. He swallowed to try and wet his throat. This was ridiculous; he was allowing himself to be manipulated by simple scare tactics. There was no one there, nothing to hurt him. It was just plain old paranoia, just some scheme to make him do something stupid which could result in him getting himself hurt. He should just quietly get back into his bed to try and keep track of Dean's progress. Yes, that was the sensible thing.
He turned around.
Someone stood in his doorway.
'You know Seth, you and I, we have some unfinished business,' the shadow mused. 'A few months back, we both saw a dark day Seth. Oh the moon was high and the skies were dark and all you could hear were the caws of the people who thought they were gods,' for a few moments it paused, a thick hand stroked what looked to be a beard and Seth felt the uncertainty slither into dread. He knew who waited for him, who watched from the door. How could he have been so stupid? 'I saw what they thought, and I challenged the titans, only to find that I'd fallen for folly and allowed myself to be cut down by a man; a beaten down, broken, man. And they flocked to you, the disappearing man, they surrounded you and tried to touch you, but you were nothing more than an infected memory. They love you Seth, and tell me, why is that? You speak only of glory where I speak truth! I could lead them in the wake of buzzards to a new dawn when all you can give them, is early dusk.'
'Wyatt, stop this. I have no quarrel with you,' Seth edged back a little. There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to go. His only escape was blocked by the shadow man. He didn't have the capacity to try and take him down, to throw himself into a fight. He was barely managing to stay upright. There was nothing he could do, no one to help. And the Authority had known that. They must have known – must have had eyes somewhere to jump the second his friends were gone and there was no one to protect poor, vulnerable Seth Rollins.
'Oh but Seth, it is I who has a quarrel with you...'
His phone was out of reach. The alert button was nowhere near his grasp. Lucia had left to return to the hotel she was staying at until the time came for her to transfer once again. The night staff? He couldn't see anyone in the halls. Wyatt knew this. He could see, he knew that there was no one to save him. He moved closer, his head cocked to one side, his straw trilby squint. But Wyatt certainly wasn't alone. Two thick set shadows advanced down the corridor to come through that doorway. They were so vast in height and width that only one could fit through at a time. Wyatt had brought his family to the ball. Seth tried to back away, moved the crutches too quick and near fell, but somehow managed to stay on his feet.
'You can try and run and you can try and hide but you know in the end we'll find you. We always find what we want. For we are guided Seth, guided! We feel your fear, we feed on it, and I know the taste of your vulnerability, because the child inside of you met me months ago. You were scared of me then Seth; tell me, what do you feel now?'
Seth considered throwing one of the crutches as the approaching Wyatts, but knew that would leave him unsteady. But he couldn't just stand there and allow them to hurt him further, allow them to take him or what other nefarious plans that they had planned for him. He doubted they would be kind – after all, Wyatt had seemingly conceded to working for the Authority, just for the small taste of revenge that he would be allowed. Luke and Rowan simply stood at their leader's back, waiting for the killing order.
Now no longer a silhouette, and close enough to smell, Wyatt smiled, and the shadows advanced on Seth...
With a sickening crunch, Dean's jaw hit the wall. Stars, such pretty little twinkling stars, flashed in front of his eyes. He blinked; a line of drool ran from the corner of his bloody mouth. The fingers knotted in his hair tugged him back, slammed him again. There were more than a few screws rattling loose in his skull, and he felt the thin scar down the back of his head tighten. Oh they'd hit him like a hurricane, but he knew that this was another trial, just something to try and stop him escaping the boiler room. They wanted him to suffer and they wanted him to fail just so they could torture his friends.
'C'mon boys,' he growled against the plaster, 'tha' all you got?'
As a response, hands were on his shoulders and threw him to the floor. He hit it wrong, hard, twisting that bad leg once more. Pain seared through his knee and hip and he was unable to stop the strained snarl from escaping. Above him, a thick set man in an expensive suit gave him a smug grin. His hands were neatly folded over his large gut, his shoes were bright from polish until Dean's red spit smeared their shine. His large face seemed to melt into his neck, and the thinning hair which splintered from the sides and the back of the head reminded him of a porcupine. But there was a name by which he was better known. Even as the fat man gave a sharp footed kick to Dean's ribs, he rolled onto his back, his own cocky smirk welded into place.
'Walrus can't kick for shit,' more bloody saliva dripped from his mouth. He spat it once again, this time hitting the pant leg.
The swift response came seconds later. This blow like a rock from a mountain top, thrown by the Beast himself...he stood over him, and those tiny black eyes focused in on every weak spot in the frail mistreated body of Dean Ambrose. That leg, which would be so easy to break again...but why go for the obvious target? The boot that hit his groin crushed any and all glory Dean had once had, but the instinctive curl of the body had protected him from complete loss of testicle. The swelling of his crotch puffed his face beetroot red, his eyes watered and he could barely scratch out a wisecrack.
The pain: every single man in the audience felt it, and the roar of disapproval could be heard from where Dean lay in that small ball on the floor. But agony couldn't stop him, he couldn't let it. If he just lay down and accepted defeat, if he didn't win by the rules of Kane's game, people would get hurt. Every single person in the building knew the stakes. What of Seth? They'd left him unprotected; they'd left him all alone in that hospital. It wasn't kind, it wasn't fair. They'd all been left as food for the animals. Dean knew what happened. He'd experienced it. He'd seen it in the eyes and scars of Finn Balor. Nothing that Brock Lesnar could inflict on him would compare to the blinding agony that they'd failed to protect Seth. Above him, the Beast and the Walrus, satisfied their job was done, made to leave. Heyman muttered something derogatory, and made to step over Dean as a final insult.
But Dean Ambrose was no doormat. He shot out a hand and gripped a hold of Heyman's pant leg, dragged it tight and pulled. There was so beautiful poetry in the motion of the fat man falling face first to the exposed concrete of the floor. The squirm as he realized there was no escaping the clutches of the Lunatic. Dean, half crazed and bloody eyed from burst vessels, crawled over Heyman's blubber, straddled his back, seized his tie in hand, and pulled. The wheeze that came from that warbling throat was delicious; the bulbous eyes that near matched Dean's own where they bulged from his head. Lesnar had made it half way down the corridor in the split second the attack happened. Dean pulled harder, forced Heyman's back to bend so that the man's face and torso became his shield. His teeth were grit together so hard he could feel the remaining bones splinter in places, crack and his own body threaten to fail but he held on, licked his lips and eyed Lesnar who charged toward him.
'No! No!' Heyman tried to ward him off, and waved a flailing hand in cease and desist. 'Stop!'
'Ya know I reckon ya should listen to yer boy Heyman Mr Beastie. He seems kinda smart,' Dean buckled his head forward and ran a slimy tongue over the side of Heyman's sweating face. 'Tastes kinda smart, musta eaten a lot of books to be so clever.' He tightened the tie and relished the pig like squeal from Heyman.
Lesnar's muscled bulk rippled threateningly. His forehead had creased to a deep set frown, his eyes near on fire with annoyance at the puny insect that dared to intervene with the voice of the Beast. He came closer, one heavy foot at a time, and with each, Dean increased the strength of the make shift noose. It was only when Heyman turned a dangerous shade of beet that Lesnar stopped. He was meters away, if Dean let up even a little, he knew that he'd be a gruesome pulp on the concrete.
'See, way I figure it is there's rules I don't know to this game, and but Kane is tryin' to be clever. So he sends me ta hell to fight a demon, and then a beast, so what's next?' he released one hand, counting who'd encountered on his fingers. 'Cos the only thing I can think of is Mr Red himself,' he heard the approving cheer from the audience floors above him and nodded, 'but I can't be lettin' any more friends get hurt. So I propose we has a deal,' he rubbed Heyman's bald spot lovingly, 'you back off, and you can has the fat man. Or, you can try and kill me, but I'll rip Heyman's head off his shoulders before ya even get close.' Dean smiled something wicked, and with his missing teeth, it was terrifying. 'Ya might be the Beast, but I'm Dean Fuckin' Ambrose, and I taken down bigger dragons than you. I survived worse odds and dead days and lookie here I's still tickin'. Ya might come back fer me Beastie...but I'll be ready fer ya, an' I'll eat ya alive if ya stop me from keepin' my family safe.'
Heyman spluttered and bucked. Fat man had a lot of fight in him. Everyone knew, that without his precious advocate, Lesnar was nothing more than a machine. Heyman was the hype and he was the man who played with pretty words and he built up a man to be a god. Heyman kept him in check and let him loose to prey on the weak and the stupid. But Dean wasn't stupid. He was mad. A raw and dangerous thing. Madness was a disease that could spread through every neuron, it birthed unpredictability, psychosis and gave him power. Dean could wait, and reached his jaws forward, and bit down on Heyman's exposed ear.
The scream stopped Lesnar, made him finally step back a gargantuan pace. Then, his face red from the rage that made him unstoppable, he nodded. One slow, solitary nod which gave Dean another twenty four hours of life; there was no mistaking it though, Dean Ambrose was a marked man. Lesnar would hunt him down to the end of time, until that moment where he could shatter him into a million bloody pieces. But that was fine. Dean could run, he could fight like a lion backed into the last hazy savanna corner. Bloody eyes and bloody teeth smiled at the unspoken threat. He released Heyman, who felt straight forward again; hand to his neck, trying to loosen the tight knot the tie had been pulled into. Dean was up from the floor, and he edged past Lesnar as quick as his lame leg would allow him. As he hobbled up the corridor, back toward the arena, where the stage and the ring and the audience waited, he felt the dark thud in his head of concussion threatening to set in. No, you got Roman you won't get me.
'Argh,' frustration slammed his own fist against the side of his head repeatedly until he had to stop, to rest his body against one of the walls.
'I suppose I should applaud your ingenuity Ambrose. But don't be mistaken, I'm sure you will be made to suffer for your impulse. You may have passed this second trial. Rest assured however, Mr Rollins will receive his punishment for you first failure. But I get ahead of myself; you have one last opponent to face. And this one will be the real killer.'
'Fuck off Kane!' Dean spat and rubbed his sore mouth on the back of the strands of tape peeling away from his hand. 'I've had enough of your games! Come out big man! Come and fight me!' he pushed off from the wall and stood there, arms held out in the middle of that corridor as he walked as fast as his repaired leg would allow, progressing closer, closer to the Gorilla position, to where he could burst out onto that stage. He'd been alone for this, his allies sent away by him so that they were not so easily hurt. Every single one of those black hoods had made their case to help him, to stay. But he'd rejected every single one. Paige and Roman would be too easy to target after the assault on Triple H. Seth wasn't the only one who could make plans.
'Your insolence is almost admirable. But I think I shall make you wait, make you hunt for your own demise. It'd be too easy to dismantle you now. There's still much of Raw left. I don't want to leave the audience unsatisfied. Keep hunting Ambrose. You'll find your opponent eventually.'
Dean's fingers curled into quaking fists. A single, shrill scream of frustration echoed through the arena and the Titanitron faded to black.