Chapter Three

"There's no way we can do this alone, Hurricane," Rosey shook his head. "The Peepulation gets more powerful every day. Even with three of us we're no match for the enforcers."

"And with all the heroes in hiding…" Molly frowned, leaving her sentence unfinished.

"A dastardly situation it is," Hurricane agreed, propping his chin on his fist. "But even the most fiendish villain has a weakness. If only we knew how he so quickly came by his position of power."

"What, you mean you haven't figured it out?"

All three superheroes whirled around at the fourth voice. Trish Stratus stood in the doorway, her Women's Championship belt cradled in her arms, its faceplate glinting in the light. She lovingly traced the engraving of her name, allowing no visible reaction to the immediate defensive stance the heroic trio had assumed.

"Your snide gloating is as unwanted as your presence, Miss Stratus," Molly said with forced restraint. "Everyone knows whose side you're on."

"Oh, Molly, how I've missed you," Trish laughed. "Banter with Lita and Victoria leaves something to be desired—I think it's called the challenge. They're, shall we say, lacking in the wit department. To paraphrase JR: 'it's like fighting a one-legged Diva in an ass-kicking contest.'"

A sly look came across her face then, and she turned her attention to the Hurricane. "But I guess I shouldn't mention 'Good Ol' JR' around here, should I? After all, isn't standing up for JR after he was fired what got your ass kicked by Angle in the first place, driving you to quit the superhero business? Not headed for a relapse, are you, Hurricane?"

The Hurricane brushed back loose strands of his newly-dyed green hair and folded his arms. "I assure you, citizen Stratus, that while I am not proud of my recent actions, I have most certainly learned from them. The Hurricane is here to stay."

Trish shook her golden hair down her back and smiled, her entire attitude taking a positive turn. "Good to hear, because that moment was what got us all in the mess we're in now."

Hurricane, Rosey and Molly stared at her in an utter loss for words, and it was Rosey who found some semblance of his voice first. He sputtered, "What… you… we… how…"

"All that and more, Stud," Trish replied casually, moving into the room and shutting the door behind her. "And you three have to get your act together if you want to stop Christian in time."

"Whoa," Hurricane finally gathered his thoughts together. "With all due respect, you are a member of Christian's elite, are you not? And now you're telling us to take him down? Whatsupwitdat?"

"We're called the 'Christian Coalition,' and I don't have time to explain," Trish said.

"Make time," Molly crossed her arms.

Trish rolled her eyes. "All right, fine. You're looking for proof that I'm not pulling anything, right? Well, the answer to your first question – how did Christian come to power so quickly?" She chuckled softly. "He's not called 'Captain Charisma' for nothing, Sweetie. He's a power leech. His strength comes from the Peepulation. As their numbers grow, so does his power, which increases his hold over them and generates more followers. It's a never-ending circle."

"Holy mind control!" Hurricane exclaimed. "I knew something was rotten in Canada, but I didn't expect this!"

"If you don't stop him soon, he'll have uncontested control over nearly the entire population of Earth," Trish continued. "And while, I admit, I still feel something for him, I just can't let that happen."

"But wait," Rosey interjected. "You said all this happened because Hurricane quit?"

"Even though you didn't know it, you've been Christian's arch-nemesis for years," Trish explained. "While the Peepulation still existed, having a superhero to cheer for kept them in check. When you quit, fans had no choice but to find a new hero. They were all to willing to let the Peepulation choose for them."

"So, you mean, the attack by Kurt Angle, and the firing of Jim Ross—" Molly was beginning to piece things together.

"Was all orchestrated by Christian. Just to get Hurricane out of the way," Trish finished for her.

Everyone was quiet as the new information was allowed to sink in. Hurricane himself felt a wave of guilt and humiliation for so easily playing the unwitting fool. "It's not too late to bring Christian down?" he asked.

"Not yet," Trish shook her head. "Now, it's just a hunch, but I believe the Coalition is the key. Christian is mentally attuned to each of us – a failsafe in case any of the elite decided to try and take his place. If the Coalition were to be compromised—"

"It would allow for a window of time when Christian's internal defenses would be down!" Molly concluded.

"Exactly," Trish nodded.

"But it would have to be a simultaneous strike," Rosey chewed his thumbnail in thought. "Taking them all out at once would deliver the most powerful blow. But like I said before: there's no way we can do this alone."

"And, unfortunately, I can't stay," Trish said. "I have to maintain my cover so I can help you in the proverbial final act. But I have someone who can help you." She handed Hurricane a folded piece of paper. "He knows how to find the underground heroes. Meet him there at exactly that time. Once your team is assembled, get to the mansion in Toronto. I'll arrange it so you can get inside."

"Thank you for all your help, citizen Stratus," Hurricane graciously shook her hand. "History will not forget what you have done here today."

"Just make sure history doesn't repeat itself and whatever happens will be worth it," Trish replied.

"Done," Hurricane smiled.

Trish turned to go, but Molly stepped forward. "Trish?" The Women's Champion looked at her with a raised eyebrow. Molly gave her a sheepish smile. "I guess you're not so bad after all."

Trish laughed. "Not so bad? Honey, I'm guaranteed to Stratusfy." And as suddenly and as silently as she had come, Trish was gone.

"Where do we meet this contact?" Rosey asked curiously.

Hurricane examined the paper. "The boiler room, in precisely two minutes and thirty-seven seconds."

The boiler room was very likely the most unwelcoming place in the world.

A single dying light bulb hung bare from the ceiling, providing the sole source of illumination. It flickered randomly, giving the chilling feel of a horror movie just before an impending murder scene. The air smelled damp and cold, and somewhere in the expanse of shadow a constant drip echoed, the sound bouncing off the walls making it impossible to pinpoint its exact location.

Molly wrapped her arms around herself, trying to will out the freezing wave that had just spread through her bones. It was well-known that Kane felt at home in the boiler room and she suddenly found herself hoping that Trish hadn't set them up.

Hurricane cleared his throat. "Anybody see anything?" he asked with a noticeable waver in his voice.

Rosey felt his skin crawl as what might have been a spider web brushed past his face. As he reached out to steady himself against the wall, his fingers slipped through a coating of unidentifiable icy goo. "Nothing," he replied, swallowing hard.

But a voice darker and more terrifying than they had ever heard, as if formed from the very shadows, answered: "I can see you, but you can't see me."

Hurricane jumped. "Molly?" he gulped. "Tell me that was you."

She punched him.

The voice cleared its throat and when it spoke again it was far less frightening and flowed with an easy Boston accent. "Sorry 'bout that. I'm fighting off a cold."

"Are you he that we were sent to meet?" Hurricane asked, rubbing the bruise that was already forming on his shoulder and holding up the piece of paper like a flag of truce.

"I'm your boy," the disembodied contact replied.

"Where are you?" Rosey said.

"Look up." They complied and saw nothing. The voice chuckled. "I'm just playin'. Turn around." They did, and collectively jumped to find that he had been standing right behind them.

John Cena smiled. "Limited invisibility – cool, huh? Been working on it. It's not much, but it's helped me keep an eye on the Coalition this past month."

"You've been working against them?" Hurricane asked in surprise.

"Someone had to since you dropped out of the picture, bro," Cena replied a little harshly and Hurricane dropped his eyes. Cena then turned to Rosey. "Unfortunately, being Champ left me with a huge target already, which meant I couldn't openly help you out. Sorry, big guy." Rosey nodded.

"In fact, if it wasn't for the Chain Gang, I'd probably have been a goner long ago," Cena continued.

"You can draw power from your fans too?" Molly raised an eyebrow.

"Mostly defensive – that's part of the reason I'm so damn tough to beat," he nodded. "A lot of guys don't realize how important a strong fan base is. It doesn't pay to turn your back on the people. If Christian knows one thing, it's that.

"But you're here for help, not to hear me preach." He reached into his back pocket and produced a folded manila envelope. "One perk about invisibility is that you can get into places you're technically not supposed to be. These are files on anyone with latent super powers – ripped them off the company database on Bischoff's personal computer. I love messing with that bi-atch.

"I circled the ones that are your best bets to convince to come out of hiding," he wrapped up his instructions. "Good luck, yo. You're gonna need it." Then, as if their eyes were playing tricks on them, Cena's image faded before vanishing entirely.

A cold early November wind swirled around the streets of Toronto, weaving around the many pedestrians to seemingly exclusively blast its bone-chilling fury upon the three heroes where they waited two blocks from Christian's mansion. Molly shivered.

"It's like it knows who we are," she said.

"Preposterous," Hurricane replied, pulling his hat brim lower over his eyes. "Nobody can identify a superhero beneath the traditional trenchcoat-and-fedora disguise. Everyone knows that."

"Then how will the ones we contacted be able to find us?" Molly inquired.

"Don't worry. They'll recognize us."

"But you just said that nobody could identify us…"

Hurricane sighed in exasperation and turned to look her in the eyes. "Molly," he began slowly, "please refrain from using your powers of verbal continuity against me."

"I'm sorry," she nodded, hiding her smile.

Rosey perked up and scanned the darkness. "They're here," he said.

"Excellent use of your fledgling extra-sensory perception, Roosevelt," Hurricane commended him. "Where are they?"

There was no need for Rosey to answer; it soon became abundantly clear from which direction their potential allies were approaching.

The night's darkness became suddenly absolute, and, while the wind died, the temperature dropped to a frigid degree. A dense mist began to rise inexplicably from the pavement and spilled out from the back alleys to surround the heroic trio. Molly drew her hands up under her chin as the ghostly whisps curled around her fingers. She could swear that she could hear the dull, mournful tones of a distant gong. And as the moon fought to break through the thickening blanket of fog, it cast a purplish glow as though an enormous black-light hung above their heads. The nervous sheen of sweat on Rosey's forehead now glistened eerily as he pointed straight ahead to the figure emerging from the all-encompassing vapourous cloud.

The hemline of the Undertaker's long leather trenchcoat just brushed the pavement as he approached, and his wide-brimmed hat was pulled down to hide his eyes. He seemed to glide rather than walk, so smooth were his movements, and the trio couldn't help but watch him in awe.

The illusion was then shattered by a blinding light that pierced the misty veil and lit up the area where they stood. The sound of a helicopter motor could be heard far above and as they looked up, shielding their eyes against the brightness, they could discern a silhouetted figure rappelling from the sky. And as he hit the ground, a series of pyrotechnics exploded from the chopper, raining down crackling and fizzling bits of fiery light. Now easily recognizable in his heart-print tights and signature torn T-Shirt, Shawn Michaels straightened and grinned at the sparkling shower around him.

"Nice light show," Molly laughed, and Shawn tipped an imaginary hat to her.

"Is it only the two of you?" the Hurricane asked. "Nobody else would come?"

"My entry ain't quite as flashy as theirs, Bub. Don't put much store by smoke 'n mirrors."

Everyone collectively turned to face the new voice and found Chris Benoit leaning casually against a building, the smoke from his cigar mingling with the Undertaker's lingering fog. He wore a heavy tan buckskin jacket to keep out the wind and his yellow tights were adorned with his trademark black slash stripes down the outsides of his legs.

Rosey smiled. "Now at least we have some counter against Christian's homefield advantage."

"Edmonton's more'n a stone's throw from the big T-O, but I figured I'd lend a hand anyway," Benoit said with a lopsided smirk that quickly disappeared as he took one last puff and then tossed his cigar. "What's the plan, kids? Assuming they don't already know we're here, of course," he cast a glare at Shawn, the last of whose fireworks were still trickling down.

Michaels shrugged him off. "I learned a long time ago not to do anything unless it was done with style."

"A valid argument has been presented, however," Hurricane's hand grasped his chin in thought. "While we do have an undercover operative working to get us into the mansion, a little more insurance wouldn't hurt. Citizen Taker," he turned to address the man known for years as the Phenom, "would it be possible for you to provide more mist to mask our approach?"

Michaels held up his hand before anything could happen. "Hold the phone on the smoke machine, Dead Man. I just want to make it perfectly clear why I'm here before we go in." He paused for effect to ensure all ears were listening. "I mean, the whole 'stop Christian' plan is very noble and all, and let's face it, I hate Canadians as much as the next guy—"

"Yeah," Benoit snarled. "Because Texas has spit out so many role models."

Michaels blinked in surprise. "Wow. You just came right out and said it." There was an awkward moment as he waited to see if Benoit would add anything else, but the man known as the Canadian Crippler merely stared him down while methodically cracking each individual knuckle. Michaels made a noise in his throat which was taken collectively to mean, 'All right then, that's the end of that, I suppose,' and then continued what he'd been saying before the interruption.

"I'm here because Kurt Angle is one of the enforcers you're needing help with. There's nothing noble about my quest: we find Angle in there, he's mine. End of story."

"I can't think why that would be a problem," Hurricane nodded. "We're glad to have your help, for whatever reason it is offered."

They shook hands.

The Undertaker, who had been silent as the grave up until this point, now spoke. "The Witching Hour draws nigh. Our time to strike is at hand while the Creatures of the Night may yet lend us their strength to overpower the leader of this unholy rabble and ensure he rests…in peace."

Even Benoit looked taken aback at the ominous words. And while Hurricane debated whether or not to inform Taker that they weren't actually out to kill Christian, the Dead Man raised his arms and summoned forth a great shroud of mist that swept them toward the imposing double-doors of the mansion. These they found open the tiniest crack; Trish had kept her word.

Rosey heaved them open further to reveal a deserted corridor. They could see their reflections in the highly polished floor, and the only sound besides that of their own breathing was the creaking settling of the wood-paneled walls. Along these were hung endless portraits of Christian, each of which had lifelike eyes that seemed to follow the group as they moved.

"Creepy," Molly noted.

Then the floor dropped out from under them.