Tightening his belt, Jeff went to the closet and picked up a pair of worn, black boots that and stared at them like they were old friends. Frustration burned. Screw the scrap and screw The Undertaker. He and Matt should have returned to Macowitts much sooner, but no, he needed that year to rehabilitate. Hell, they should never had left in the first place! He lightly inhaled. What was done, was done. He shoved the boots in a satchel, picked up the bag, and looked at a mirror on the wall. After three years, he was dressed in the black cargo pants, black tank top, and mesh sleeves. Turning away, he opened the bedroom door, finding his brother leaning against the kitchen counter with his head low.

Also for the first time in three years, Matt wore the black camouflage pants with a black tank-top and had his own bag laying at his feet. His hair was tied back in a loose pony tail.

"Ready?" Jeff asked, picking up his black jacket off the counter. He placed the satchel down, threw on the jacket, and zipped it up.

Matt straightened up, not looking at him. "Yeah. I just can't get it off my mind. Riley…she's Australian."

Jeff arched a brow. "Uh, yeah?"

"She's what? Thirty or something? And that accent of hers was thick. Really thick. Do you think she came here after the Blast?" He looked at him.

His brows knitted together, shrugging. "I don't know, dude. Why are you asking me this now?"

Matt shrugged, looking away. "I don't know. It just seems weird. Do you think…we can get out of here? Return to North Carolina? Or civilization in general?"

Jeff blinked, puzzled. He crossed his arms, shifting his weight. Never had his brother mention leaving Los Diablos– let alone the wasteland– before. The Blast radius bled into Mexico and Utah, so it wasn't like they could just hop over to Nevada or Arizona. He put his hands in the jacket pockets. "You okay, man?"

"I never thought of leaving. No one ever does, but if she got in…maybe we could get out?" Matt gazed ahead of himself into the broken kitchen. "We are barely surviving, Jeff. Radiation could kill us–"

"Hey." He placed a hand on his shoulder. "Matt. We are doing fine and have been since we were teenagers. Maybe we can plan on leaving someday." Hopefully before the week's end, he mentally grumbled, but knew that was impossible. Unless, they started planning right now, but they needed supplies and gasoline…. No. Too much pressure for a week and the last thing they needed was false hope.

"Riley had to have come here after the Blast," Matt murmured. "She's young and that accent was nowhere near watered down. Maybe we can leave." It wasn't a question.

Jeff stepped back, retuning his hand into the pocket, pondering. "Why would anyone come here after the Blast? It wouldn't make sense." He didn't want false hopes. They couldn't afford false hopes. He licked his lips, sucked in air, and gazed out to the backyard that was dry and dead. The acid rain was merciless to anything that was in its path. "Look. Matt." He looked back at him. "I like the idea of leaving, I do, but we gotta be real about this, man. We have to be. We need to plan and be prepared. We have our comeback tonight in an hour. Let's get going. We'll talk more about this when we get back, okay?"

Matt nodded, straightening up. "You're right." He smiled at him. "We do have our comeback tonight."

He lit up. "We do. Now, let's go." He picked up his satchel.

Matt held up the keys. "Let's go."

They walked out the front door, locked it, went to the garage, and opened it to a black Jeep.

Matt hopped behind the wheel while Jeff stood aside; allowing the vehicle to drive out. He closed the garage door behind, hopped in the passenger seat, and then they were on the way to the stadium that was thirty minutes away. The drive was in light-heart conversations, but both were trying to fight their own nerves that neither of them wanted to admit. Once arriving at the round stadium that had Greek-like columns around the outside, they slipped through the back door into dimly lit halls.

"If anyone told me I was going to be back in the ring," Matt began, "I would've eaten a boot."

"It is weird to be back," Jeff agreed. He smiled at him. "Don't tell me you're nervous."

Matt looked at him. "Don't tell me you're not!"

He nervously laughed. "I am."

They walked down the hall just as the boss stepped out of a room and locked on them as the brothers approached. "So you two did show up this time. Good." He crossed his arms. "You two are going up against the Scrappers."

The brothers stopped before Jonathan, looking at each other.

"The Scrappers?" Matt slowly asked; both pairs of eyes slowly drifting back to the boss.

Jonathan nodded. "Yeah. They used to be scrappers and they fight dirty." He tightly smiled. "Good luck."

"Uh, thanks," Jeff grumbled.

Jonathan dropped his arms as his smile vanished; giving them a final glare before walking away.

"Scrappers?" Matt hissed. "We're going against actual scrappers?"

"Relax. It's not like they'll have weapons or armor in the ring." Jeff paused. "Maybe a shiv. If you see the guy reach for a pocket, it's probably a shiv."

"If he has a shiv, I'm tagging you in." He continued to walk.

Jeff playfully smiled, joining his side. "Not even going to try to disarm him for me?"

Matt smiled at him. "I think you have more experience with that."

"If you don't have at least one knife or shiv fight, are you truly living the wasteland dream?"

They both laughed, then died down.

There was a pause.

"What if…?" Matt shook his head. "No, never mind."

Jeff looked at him. "What?"

"What if…we're forgotten?"

He didn't know how to respond to that.

In silence, they continued to walk to a back room, passing both unfamiliar and familiar faces on the way. Once they were in a break room, they dropped their bags on a table in the back along with others. Once they switched out their sneakers for their boots, they left the room and walked down a hall of graffitied, red walls that once held the names of countless musicians that once preformed when the stadium was called the Forum. They continued through, asking where to find the Wanderers, but heard that Riley Voss had yet to show. Being pointed in the right direction, they arrived at a small lounge, finding Alexa Bliss. She was dressed in a washed out pink brassier and black shorts with black boots. Her blonde hair was pinned up in pigtails, but instead of getting amped up for her match, she was pacing with her hand to her chin.

Jeff lightly knocked on the open door.

Alexa spun around. The worry washed away as her blue eyes lit up and a grin formed on her lips. "Come in! You guys look like you never left!" She giggled as the brothers entered, folding her arms. "How do you feel?"

"We're alright," Jeff smirked.

"You sure? You both look like you need to breathe."

Matt nervously chuckled. "That obvious?"

"You've done this a million times! It'll be fine." She smiled with reassurance.

Jeff laughed. "Thanks! We'll remember that."

"Do you know where Riley is?" Matt asked. "When we asked people where you were, they said they hadn't seen her."

Alexa frowned, tossing her hands in the air. "Neither do I! She said she would be back before 7:30, but it's 7:45!" She bit her lip, hugging herself. "She didn't tell me where she was going and I think she could be in danger, but I'm sure she's fine?"

The brothers looked at each other, then back to her.

"Do you know what she was doing?" Jeff questioned.

Alexa wrung her hands, avoiding their gazes. "She…was going to see a friend about something. She said she didn't want to give me details in case the deal didn't work out and it wasn't worth getting our hopes up. I asked if she wanted me to go with and she made it sound like wasn't a big deal."

A sickening knot formed in Jeff's gut as he and his brother exchanged glances. "Sounds like me," he murmured.

"You think?" Matt hissed.

"Oi!"

Jeff heavily exhaled, glancing a silent apology to his older brother, who subtly shook his head.

"Where were you?" Alexa cried. "I was worried sick!"

"Sorry, sorry," Riley panted, walking to a bench behind her partner, slipping off her crimson shirt, revealing her black and red brasserie and a black tattoo on her left, upper arm. "It took longer than I thought." She shoved the shirt into her backpack. "The bloke said he had them and he lied, can ya believe it? I threaten to knock his teeth out. He starts talkin'. They always do." She slipped her necklace off, stuffed it into a pocket in backpack, and zipped it up. "I told 'im if they're broken, damaged, or just plain duds, I'll shove a grenade up his ass and laugh while doin' so." She quickly tied her long hair back into a ponytail. "He swore up and down that everything was goin' to be in workin' order, yadda, yadda, yadda, and he will 'ave the full supply by tomorrow." She spun around with a grin. "And then you and I hit the damn road and 'See ya, Los Diablos!'" She laughed with a two-fingered salute. She sat down, removing her sneakers and pulled out black wrestling boots from the backpack.

Alexa blinked.

Riley looked up at her, frowning. "What?" She slipped a boot on.

She gestured to the puzzled men beside her with her head.

Riley smirked. "What 're they gonna do? Ask if they want to tag along or am I going to go Undertaker on them because I blurted out our plan and blame them for it?"

"Jeff! Matt!"

They turned around to Jonathan.

"You're on in five! The last match ended earlier than expected. Another broken neck." Then he disappeared.

"Yikes…." Riley murmured.

Jeff looked at his brother. "I'm going to wet my hair. I'll meet you at the entrance." He hurried away before another word could be said. He hated the water the stadium had since it wasn't in the important part of the city for clean water, but he hated having hair in his face more. He darted into the bathroom, ran the water until it was clear-ish and wetted his hair until it was soaked. He wrung it out, turned off the water, and hurried to the entrance where Matt was waiting. Jeff shook out his body feeling as though electricity was shooting through his veins, but the question was branded in his mind. What if they were forgotten? Would they have to start from scratch? Alexa remembered them, but she was a wrestler, too. What would that mean for the rest of the people? Would it even matter?

They heard the announcer call out their opponents to the roaring crowd as their unfamiliar opponents, the Scrappers, bolted out in blurs.

"Returning after three years," the announcer began, "the Hardy Boyz!"

They darted out and the stadium was screaming and chanting their name as if they have been waiting for this moment since the duo left.

Jeff swore that almost every person was on their and going to scream their lungs out.

Grinning, they bolted to the ring and once in the ring, Jeff ran to the catty corner turnbuckle, hopped on the middle rope in his signature pose with his arms spread wide as Matt was on the other turnbuckle. They beckoned to the audience as the announcers were acknowledging the undying screaming chants of their name. If this was in civilization, they would have their own theme, but right now, the chant was their theme. The brothers hopped off the rope and joined in their corner.

Matt climbed out of the ring.

Jeff turned to his opponent, who was a tall, scrawny, young man with a madness twinkling in his eyes and his blond hair was short and ruffled. He and his partner wore torn pants; old boots; and fingerless gloves.

The referee gave the signal and the bell rang.

The kid was nimble, Jeff had to give him that, but what he was not expecting was a high kick that connected to his jaw. He caught himself from falling to his knees and before he could react, the kid roundhouse kicked him in the side of the head, sending him down, and proceeded to kick him until the referee had to pull the scrapper back. Jeff quickly and carefully got to his feet, watching his opponent, who deviously grinned and lunged. Jeff caught him the jaw with a snap kick. He grabbed the kid's head, and slammed it against a turnbuckle, picked him up, and slammed him on the floor. He hopped on the middle rope, dove into the air, but the kid rolled away. He gasped for air, tensing up. Opening his eyes, he stared at a large, bald man who grabbed him and tossed him across the ring like a rag doll. Jeff desperately tried to reach for his brother's hand, but was dragged back by the ankle. He kicked the man in the face, scrambled to his feet, dove for the tag, and rolled out of the ring as his brother stepped in. He ran his fingers through his damp hair, catching his breath as he stood at their corner, eagerly watching.

Matt was in a lock with an arm twisted behind his back.

Jeff started chanting their name and the crowd immediately joined in and a grin grew on his face, watching his brother fight out of the lock, then snap-kick his opponent and drop-kicked him. Matt jumped to his feet and went for the pin.

Irritatingly, it was kicked out.

The scrapper punched and kicked until Matt was on his knees, then slammed his throat against the rope.

Matt slumped to the floor gasping and coughing.

Jeff grabbed the rope, watching his brother with large eyes.

The other scrapper was laughing and cheering.

The opponent grabbed Matt by the hair, but was elbowed in the face.

Matt grabbed the man's head and kneed him in face. He released the opponent, who staggered, holding a bloody nose. He did a Twist of Fate and the Scrapper was down.

The younger Scrapper was screaming for him to get up, desperately holding out his hand.

Impressed, Jeff held out his hand and was tagged in. He slipped through the ropes and looked at his brother, who was still rubbing his throat. The brothers nodded to each other. They climbed on opposite ends of the ring. With a wave of the younger brother's hand, the audience returned to the chanting of their name. The Boyz leapt into the air and fell onto the opponent. Jeff pinned and was counted to three.

"Your winners," the announcer boomed, "the Hardy Boyz!"

The brothers leapt to their feet and were greeted with a standing, cheering ovation and embraced each other. The referee took the winners' hands and tossed their hands in the air for a moment, then released them.

"What did you say about being forgotten?" Jeff grinned.

"I take it all back," Matt smiled. "Is just me or does it seem fuller?"

They rolled out of the ring, waving to the fans as they returned backstage where the Sanguine Wanderers ran to them.

"You did it!" Alexa cheered. "Welcome back you two!" She frowned at the older brother. "Are you alright, Matt? We saw what happened."

Matt rubbed his throat, smiling. "Yeah, I'm fine. Got my payback, so I'm satisfied."

"Well, I was wrong."

They turned to Jonathan Macowitts, who managed to crack a smile.

"Three years and you two still manage to be just as good. You aren't has-beens." He held out a pouch. "Your pay."

Matt took the pouch and shook hands with him. "Thank you so much, Jonny."

Jeff clapped his hand into the boss's with a firm shake. "Truly. Thank you."

A faint smile formed, then dropped his hand. He turned to the Wanderers. "You two are on in ten." He walked away.

The roar of the crowd was still echoing in his head and the adrenaline was starting to die down. They proved Jonathan Macowitts wrong whether he liked it or not. The Hardy Boyz were back and they planned on staying. He spotted the Scrappers in the back as a medic was tending to the broken nose and his friend was pacing. It was common for such incidents to occur in wasteland matches. It's usually frowned upon amongst the wrestlers because no one wants to die in the ring, but sometimes scores are settled in the ring and it's personal. The Scrappers were reckless and got a taste of their medicine.

"Jeff." Alexa gently touched him arm.

He snapped back into reality, looking at her.

"You need a rest." She gently smiled at his brother. "Both of you. C'mon." She and Riley led the way down the hall.

He silently followed with his brother at his side, suddenly exhausted. Sure he trained over the three years to never lose what he loved the most, but that was the first match he had in three years. Once the four of them returned to the lounge, Jeff sat on the bench, staring at the stained ceiling with his arms lame at his sides.

"Before I collapse," Matt began, "I'm going to get our bags." Then left.

Jeff chuckled; looking at the women, earning their attention. "I wanna thank you two. If you hadn't walked into that gym when you did, I honestly don't know where Matt and I would be right now."

Riley waved a hand. "Aw, it was nothin'."

"Really," Alexa agreed, smiling. "No need to thank us."

He nodded. "So, uh, if you don't mind me asking, but are you two really leaving?"

"Yeah," Alexa slowly answered, "we are."

"I don't think I've ever heard of anyone trying to leave the wasteland. I hope it works out for you."

"Me too," Riley murmured, lowering her gaze. "Well," she looked at her partner. "Ready?"

Alexa nodded at her, smiling. "Ready."

Jeff smiled. "Good luck!"

"Thanks!" they both chirped as they left, closing the door.

He rested his head against the wall, then after ten minutes, he locked his eyes on the door. "Where's Matt?" he asked the empty room.

If anyone told Matt that he and his brother would have returned to the Wasteland Wrestling, he would have laughed. He gave up on the idea when he was fighting for his own and his younger brother's survival. Getting Jeff back to his feet was more important than protection, steady pay, and wasteland fame. Now, he had both. His brother was doing better than ever and they both got their jobs back. Well, they still had the The Undertaker issue looming over their heads, but that would be solved soon. It had to be. He walked to the first lounge, finding their bags.

"Matt."

He turned to Jonathon with a dark and lanky man standing behind him.

The man gestured to the boss. "Beat it."

Jonathan hurried away.

His black hair was long and wore simple, torn clothes, but what stood out were his fingerless gloves that had homemade spikes on the knuckles. "The boss wants to speak with you." His voice was ragged.

"The bos– Oh." His heart skipped a beat, glancing around for anything that could used as a weapon.

"Relax," the lackey sneered, dark eyes twinkling. "He just wants to talk. If he wanted you dead, you wouldn't be standing right now."

Matt silently abandoned the bags and followed the man down the halls, passed his own boss who shot a death glare. They went up cracked stairwells and out a door that lead to the an empty cluster of seats amongst the roaring fans. He noticed the Sanguine Wanderers were against the Larson Sisters. They walked down the steps to a center row where a small group of people were sitting. At the sight of a familiar large man in black clothing, his mouth grew dry.

"Boss," the man greeted as he gestured to the wrestler with a nod of the head, then hopped over a chair to the upper row where five others were sitting.

The Undertaker's icy gaze drifted to him. "Matthew Hardy. Please, take a seat." His voice was dreadfully low.

Matt silently obeyed, sitting beside the cold-blooded crime lord.

"Now, before you jump to conclusions, I'm not going to kill you."

"Thanks," he murmured.

"First, I want to congratulate you on your win. It was a good comeback. You hit that rope hard, but broke his nose in return. I'm surprised you didn't punch in him in the throat."

"Not my style," he lowly replied.

"And I respect that. Too many people die in the ring as is. Now, the reason I brought you here is because I want to talk to you– about your brother."

He forced himself to look at the crime lord, who kept his pale eyes on the match, but wasn't watching. "He told me."

"Oh. I know he did because what's at stake for him is something that he cannot hide from. He owes me 250. Correct?"

"Correct."

"How much do you have?"

"I–"

He turned him, staring into his soul. "How. Much?"

"At most fifty," he answered, forcing himself to keep eye contact. "We will get–"

"I knew it." The Undertaker turned back ahead of himself. "150 in a week? I highly doubt that." The leather gloves squeaked when his fingers curled into a fist. "Here's the thing: we both know Jeff will run. He always does. He won't have the scrap by Thursday. We all. Know. It." He stared at Matt from the corner of his eye.

Matt wanted to argue, but it was a fear that he and Jeff both shared. He swallowed. "You're going to kill him before then, aren't you?"

A low chuckle rumbled from the crime lord as a faint shadow of a smile crept on his lips and eyes returned to the match. "I knew that's what he told you. I just knew it." His smile vanished. "His life isn't on the line, Matthew." He turned to him. "It's yours."

The blood froze in his veins as his heart felt like it was being dragged down into his gut. "What?" He barely heard his own voice.

"I want to punish your brother and killing him isn't exactly a punishment. So, you, my friend," he pointed at him, "are the punishment."

Matt turned away, feeling like he was going to be sick.

"However, this isn't your fault. Your brother stole from me, so he has to pay, but you are the innocent one. Why not give you a chance to fight for your life? We both know Jeff won't have the scrap. We both know he will try to run at the last minute. This is a match that Jeff Hardy isn't going to win. In this city, it is about survival." He scanned the audience who were cheering like they were not living in literal Hell. "It's no longer the city of angels, but the city of devils. The majority of the people here has probably killed someone for something. It is either death or survival. Loyalty means nothing. Which is why I have a proposition for you." He locked on him. "You can either sell him out to me or you can take care of it yourself, unless you choose to die for your brother's stupidity." He slowly balled his hand into a fist. "Your choice."

He snapped his head to the boss, fighting every muscle in his body to stop himself from strangling the man since his own men were more than likely armed and directly behind him. "Did…you just tell me to kill my own brother?"

"If you chose to do so, unless you hand him over to me and I will be sure have a grave ready for him. If you do betray him, find AJ Styles at the Black Star. That is also where Jeff is meant to meet me, but he already knew that. The choice is yours, Matthew."

Matt swallowed. "Go to Hell."

Undertaker thoughtfully nodded, looking at head of himself. "Honorable. But no surprise." He looked back at him. "I'll give you until Thursday at noon to decide. Don't look so anxious, Matthew. I hope everything works out for all of us because I would love to have my scrap back as I'm sure you and your brother would be thrilled to live passed Thursday." His monotone voice did not help the sincerity if there was any.

Matt stood up, but it felt like his body was made of lead as he began to walk away.

"And your winners," the announcer hollered over the cheers, "the Sanguine Wanderers!"

"Oh, they won again," he heard the crime lord hum.