"SHIT! What the hell was that?"
As one, every single inhabitant of the locker-room jerked around to stare at Dave Batista, who in turn was staring intently at the busted television screen in front of him. The cause for the commotion was the fact that some sort of explosion had just taken place in the general direction of the teevee, which was immediately noticeable by the trail of smoke rising from the middle of the large hole in the screen. Batista, in fact, seemed to be the only one who was maintaining some sort of calmness about the incident.
"Well? What the hell was it, Batista?" The speaker was the widely acknowledged leader of the locker-room, Hunter Hearst Helmsley; known to the masses as either Triple H or The Game. Despite being shorter than a few of the other men in the room, his accomplishments in the ring had vaulted him to the top of the stable. His current accomplishments, in fact, were hanging off a shelf on the far wall of the locker-room: he was the first wrestler to hold both the World Heavyweight Championship and the World Championship since the brand split back in 2001.
"None of you were listening, were you? None of you heard what Shawn just said." Batista was one of the men in the room that would make you think twice about going down that ramp. A six-foot five-inch solid wall of muscle, the now almost-demonic entertainer had once been the Deacon Batista – the enforcer of the 'Word'. Now he was the United States champion, and an imposing one at that. There wasn't a wrestler outside the nWo rooms that would rush into a match with him.
"Course not, Dave. We were busy trying to relax before tonight and forget about the little boy. After all, some of us have titles that are worth defending, ain't that right Raven?" This time it was the Road Dogg who spoke. He was one-half of the world tag-team champions, and generally regarded his title as something second only to the two World belts. After all, all the other belts (European, Intercontinental, United States and Cruiserweight) had only been invented to keep the mid-card wrestlers from bawling about their lack of opportunity.
"That's damn right, Jesse!" Raven grinned, reaching into the icebox beside him and pulling out a bottle of beer. The brown-haired Jester was the other half of the world-beating tag team, and with the Evenflow DDT, he probably could have made it on his own if he wanted to. It was just that with the current state of things, going for any title other than the Cruiserweight would mean risking the nWo's alliance. "Now, before JayJay interrupted you, what were you going to say, Dave?"
"Well, I really don't feel like sharing it with people who can't get a belt on their own... So Hunter, Hall, Nash, and all the rest of you with some degree of talent... The man wants a title shot. And not at me or Hall. He's going for the double gold." Batista stood up from the leather couch, taking a few steps on sneaker-covered feet to lean on a counter on the wall that, on the other side, formed the back of the best skybox in the stadium. "And the annoying thing is, Vince can't do a damn thing about it. This isn't his show. This is Shane's show."
"That isn't worth busting the teevee for, Dave. D'you know how much those things cost, if you're willing to pay for something above the level of crap all the people outside use?" Hunter shook his head, not to signify disappointment in his stable-mate, but to settle his light-brown hair behind his shoulders. After all, if it fell forwards, it gave off the impression that the dual champion's black tank top didn't have any straps and was being held up by sheer unwillingness to touch the ground. "Not that we can't afford it, but still."
"I didn't bust the teevee, Hunter. It just blew up. Something stuffed up in the wall." Batista grinned, his pointed chin even more accented by the short black goatee he sported to match his close-cropped dark hair. "Anyway, we've all heard your crap about how much you earn with those two hunks of junk on either arm. This is where all the money is, my friends." He stretched a well-toned arm out to grab his own belt – a black leather strap with three gold plates on it. The middle plate was decorated by the US flag and a name plate that simply said 'Batista', who was also the man with the belt over one huge shoulder.
The remark was met by general scorn, even by the strapless X-Pac, who had lost his Cruiserweight belt in a bout a few weeks ago against Rey Rey. The short, longhaired man had been caught by a 619 straight to the face, which was usually enough to end anyone's hopes of winning a match. Well, it was half of hope lost. The other half came from the Drop of the Dime.
"No-one wants your belt, Batista. You haven't defended for weeks. Whereas me... Well, you saw what just happened. Next week it'll probably be me and Shawn for these babies, and we all know how that's going to turn out, don't we boys?" The last part of the comment was aimed towards the two men on the other side of the wall, looking out of the skybox – Kevin Nash and Scott Hall, otherwise known as the Outsiders. They were usually the ones who made sure everything in the Federation ran like a well-oiled machine... or at least a well-oiled machine that was turned on, operated, and maintained by the New World Order. They competed in the occasional tag match, but nothing much ever happened. After all, they couldn't take the tag belts away from the New Age Outlaws.
"Yeah, we do, Hunter." Nash's voice came through the doorway, the seven-foot tall giant's frame resting on yet another leather couch, this one facing out through the glass barricade, towards the ring. Next to the long-haired Big Daddy Cool rested his companion, Scott Hall – a black-haired man with stubble issues who stood in the taller half of five foot. "Anyway, you guys going to come watch this? We have... hey, according to this, it's Scotty 2 Hotty against... Hey, it's a Hardy boy..."
