A/N: Enjoy guys! Man, I creeped myself out writing that last part! Read and Review or i'll be slow to update! And tell your friends!
A much changed Mark stood behind the curtain, head lowered, his red hair stained dark with water. He was changed in appearance, a gothical attire complete with trench coat and eyeliner. But part of his soul had also shifted. He was not the good-natured Texan, Mark Calaway, he was Undertaker. And not in the terms of being in character. He truly WAS Undertaker. There were times when he seemed to lose control of his body and his mind, times when they seemed to belong to someone else, not himself. Today had been one of those days. His Darker side had come out unbidden in the air port, and he had to go to the Restroom and splash himself with cold water before he felt he was safe enough to be around. There were times, when he was wrestling, when he felt so much more eager to pound his opponent, to actually hurt them. It scared him, but it gave him a whole new edge when it came to the character the fans saw, and so Mark never put more than a due amount of thought into it.
Mark hopped lightly on his feet, shifting, keeping his blood flowing as his arms were held loosely at his sides so they were free to move and sway with his body. He hated the feeling of losing control.Hated it. Mark fought an internal struggle, to keep the dark desires and urges silent, down. Out of sight, out of mind. But more and more often, he was losing control. Even tonight, he could feel his mind slipping. As his music hit, he almost lost it. He could smell the sweat and excitement of the fans. Their expectations for violence. The heady brew almost put him over the edge as the butterflies in his stomach that he got from anticipation, not nervousness, started to jump around. Slowly he began his slow pacing to the ring, a darker, more sadistic glare on his face than was usual, for inside he struggled.
-Hurt him.- Something hissed.
-No!- He violently refused as he walked around the ring, approaching the steps. He was never nervous or worried when he went out to the ring. Mark was happy in the ring. He was alive. At least, that was how it used to be. Once he had wrestled because it gave him joy, because he felt truly alive. Because he loved it. But now, his life was being turned upside down but something he could barely control-something inside of him. -Fuck off!-
-Kill him. He is your opponent. He is a foolish man. Childlike. Look at his cockiness. He should bow to me. He should worship me. HURT HIM.- The voice hissed. It was strikingly similar to the way his own voice sounded, and even in his head, it resounded very clearly, just as it would, had it been spoken aloud.
-Leave. Shut up. Just leave me the hell alone. This is MY body.- He thought forcefully, realizing that he was standing in the ring, with his coat and hat already off. 'God.' He thought. 'I have to pay attention. It..He might slip in and take over without me realizing it.'
Mark and Kurt worked a good match. Not great, not okay. Both wrestlers were excellently versed with the sport of wrestling. They knew each other, knew the match, knew the ring better than they knew themselves. It didn't take much effort to put on a perfectly acceptable match between two such exceptional competitors. But Mark, however, was less than happy with his performance, and vented it audibly as soon as he and Kurt reached their room.
"Dammit!" The sweaty wrestler snarled, limping slightly over to the couch he had been on before the start of the match. He pulled down the straps of his singlet-like shirt, exposing his tattooed lower torso, as he leaned back into the cushions.
Kurt stayed a little away from him, almost like he was unsure. Timid was the word. "Mark?" He asked, a half smile creeping unto his face. He had noticed, almost subconsciously, that his friend hadn't been working at the level he usually did- and that was 110. It was not the first time it'd happened in the past months though. In fact, everyone who had been working closely with Mark seemed to notice little things about Mark that seemed askew. "So, the hips giving you trouble today?" He prodded, feeling like now was as good a time as any to get his feelings out into the open.
"Is your neck givingyou trouble?" Mark challenged in a slightly growling voice. Of course Kurt's neck was aching, as were his hips. And his knees. And his damned mind. Obviously he was still not in the best of moods. "I know I wasn't up to my normal par out there. You don't have to skitter around the subject like a scared squirrel." He shot the other man a look, and leaned forward to rest his palms on his knees, as Kurt opened his mouth to speak again. "Don't ask. Just don't. I'll work it out. Next week; top of my game. I promise."
With that, he got up, his knees cracking as he stood. The big man strode over to the room, still in his wrestling tights and folded-down shirt. With one swipe, he picked up his heavy duffle bag and walked out of the room, the door still swinging as he disappeared down the hall. People he passed seemed to slow and give him a double take, before continuing on, for where the usual easy coming lop-sided grin, and a pleasant, "How ya doin'?" usually were, in place was the scowl he wore to the ring.
Mark's match with Kurt had been the main event, so he took his time showering and changing into his street clothes before he started making his way through the winding back-halls of the Arena to his car. Getting mobbed by fans today was not a good idea, for either parties involved. When he finally got to his silvery-gray rented Cadillac, he fumbled with the keys, cursing, before getting in and high-tailed it out of the now almost deserted parking lot.
"Damned finicky automobile," He growled as he slipped into the drivers seat, fumbling with the keys once again as he went to get them in the ignition. Finally he got them in. With a sigh of relief, he turned the keys. A sound like a dying cat yowling reached his ears. "Shit!" Quickly he yanked the keys out, turning the car off. Mark shoved the door open and tumbled out of his car, over six feet of boiling anger extremely close to overflowing.
Mark pulled the lever to pop the hood, and he lifted it up, examining the engine. It looked alright. Mark quickly checked the oil and then hopped back into the drivers seat, one long leg hanging out the side. He tried again. Still nothing good.
Mark cursed as his eyes trailed across the gas gauge. "No gas? I just filled this damn thing up!" He thought for a moment, and then his green eyes narrowed to dangerous slits as he slunk out of the car to look at the opposite side, where the gas cap was. It was dangling open, covered in scratches. He tried to shut it, and it swung back open. That was the last straw for the stressed out giant. "DAMMIT!" He roared, ripping the top off its hinges, and without a second thought hurling it across the parking lot. Mark walked back around the car, and slammed the door loudly. "Why can't I catch a fucking break once in a while?" Mark exclaimed, his boots clunking on the ground as he walked back to the door he had come out from, and yanked on the handle. All he got for his efforts was a protesting creak from the bolted door. "It's locked!"
Mark was fit to be tied. He turned on his heel, his face red. In the nighttime, it was hard to see anything, and as he was walking back to his car, he tripped over something on the ground. Cursing, Mark jumped up and grabbed the thing, realizing it was a crowbar. Feeling almost possessed, he threw the long metal tool that had obviously been used to pry open his gas cap so the fuel in his car could be siphoned out. He didn't hear anything for a second, but suddenly there was the unmistakable sound of glass shattering. Mark winced, feeling like a boy who had just hit a baseball through a window. Unfortunately, he wasn't a boy, and he couldn't just run for it. He had to go see what his tantrum had caused now.
Mark walked quickly to the sound, and found himself in a darker corner of the parking lot where there were no lights. He didn't think much of it, until he felt a sharp stabbing pain in his head, almost like a dagger being thrust through his scull. Completely different than a migraine.
With a groan, Mark sank to his knees with his head in his hands next to the car where the crowbar he had thrown was sticking out through the rear window. "Oh, God," He managed in an extremely rough voice as he put his hands to his head.
-You should have listened to me.-
Something said inside his mind. The voice was scaly, hissing. It actually scared Mark. He wasn't a man easily spooked by any stretch.
-Get out! Whatever you are, whatever you're doing to me, get out! He shot back.
-You're scared.-
The voice was pointed. Confident. Mark could almost see the dark thing licking its lips with pleasure. His heart rate sped up as he squeezed his eyes tightly shut, willing with all his heart for this just to be a nightmare.
-I knew you were nothing. I can't believe I put up with you for this long.-
-You want out? Then go!-
-Ho, boy, you're in for an eye-opener. You'll wish you never said that.-
And then there was no more talking. Mark shot several more shaky sentences at the thing, but none of them sounded the same as they had before. They weren't connecting with it. It was as if his thoughts weren't transmitting properly.
Mark let himself fall forwards, his forehead resting on the cool asphalt of the parking lot. Alone in the dark with an unknown pain like he had never felt before, and a voice inside his head that shouldn't have been there, Mark was more terrified than he had ever been in his life. Especially when deep, cackling laughter filled his ears, and he was unsure wether it was coming from his mind, or if the thing had taken on a tangible form and was waiting for him in the darkness.