Chapter Four
Rosey landed hard on his back, hitting his head on the unyielding stone floor. With the room slowly beginning to spin, he sat up and realized that he was alone. He looked up in time to see the trapdoor in the ceiling closing to once again hide the chute that had transported him here. The sudden movement sent shooting pains through his temples, and when he closed his eyes he could make out his companions' screams echoing throughout the mansion. We're being separated.
His head was throbbing now, but he pushed himself to his feet to examine his surroundings. A vast stretch of hallway expanded in two directions with no visible exits down either side. There was no way to tell how far the corridor went on as both paths ended mysteriously in complete darkness. And perfectly spaced two metres apart along both walls were countless polished suits of armour, each holding a long, deadly-looking spear.
Rosey frowned as he tried to think. Logically, there had to be some way out of the hallway and back to his teammates, even if it wasn't immediately obvious. And since he seemed to be alone, it was best to make his move before Christian or any of the Coalition could isolate him.
It did not take long before another plan was required. As Rosey walked, searching for an exit, the blackness at the ends of the hall matched his pace. Whether he sped up or slowed down, he still found himself in an identical section of corridor. And to make matters worse, he was now aware that he was being watched.
Rosey continued to walk but closed his eyes, concentrating on using his still-developing ESP to locate whoever was there. He felt a vague impression of the watcher's presence; stray thoughts formed elusive whispers in his mind. The painful lump on the back of his head protested the straining power but Rosey ignored it and forced his psychic tendrils to search farther and lock on his target.
And then he found him.
With a clear image in his mind, Rosey spun around with uncharacteristic speed, fist extended. Tyson Tomko caught the punch, but the force drove him back against the stone wall between two suits of armour. The impact sent shockwaves along the hall and rattled the metal-plated statues.
"Nice trick," Rosey said. "But let's see what you can do face-to-face." He picked Tomko up over his head and threw him down the hall.
Tomko shifted his weight in mid-air and landed on his feet.
Rosey raised an eyebrow, admittedly impressed. "All right," he said, cracking his knuckles before curling his hands into tight fists. "Let's do this, then. I've been aching to get a hold of one of you this past month."
Tomko said nothing, but set Rosey with a crooked smile as he raised his hand in which he held a small metallic device. A red button flashed on the top and Tomko moved his thumb over and depressed it. The light went out and Rosey held his breath, expecting something to explode. When nothing did, a nervous laugh escaped his lips and he advanced on Tomko, confident now that his mysterious remote had apparently malfunctioned.
A spear hurtled past him, missing impaling him by a hair's breadth. Rosey turned to look; one of the suits of armour was straightening after having thrown the javelin, the point of which was now lodged in the suit across the hall. Its eyeholes glowed with a fiery crimson hue as a digitized voice emitted from its internal structure.
"Target acquired. Subject: Rosey. Status: Intruder. Orders: Eradicate."
"An assassination droid?" Rosey couldn't help the surprise in his voice, and spared Tomko one dumbfounded glance before ducking an armour-plated punch. Tomko sneered, but Rosey's strength was obviously superior to the robot's and he soon had it pinned to the wall.
Then the corridor was flooded with red light as the rest of the seemingly infinite suits of armour became activated. Their heads turned as one to look at Rosey, "Target acquired…" resonating up and down the hallway.
"Oh, shit."
Rosey acted on instinct and pulled the first droid around to deflect the barrage of spears that came flying toward him, and then reacted fast enough to turn and use it to shield the other direction. Empty-handed, the army of robots moved fluidly toward their target, several of them defying gravity itself by crawling along the walls in an effort to reach Rosey ahead of the others.
Rosey went into autopilot. He raised the shield droid over his head and hurled it into the wave of assailants, knocking several off the wall and scattering the front line. He then reached for the droid that had been speared by the first attack and unpinned it from the wall. As the foremost assassin droids came into range, Rosey swung the active but helpless machine in full, wide circles, knocking back attackers on both sides.
Three androids dropped from the ceiling on top of the superhero and sank their metallic grip into his back and shoulders, attempting to rip him apart. Rosey howled and reached up, pulling two off him and smashing them together. The explosion temporarily scrambled the sensors of those closest, but the remaining droid on his back hooked its claw-like fingers in Rosey's eye sockets and viciously gouged at the soft flesh. Rosey countered the only way he could; unable to see, he bent his knees and leapt backward, crushing the robot between him and the stone wall.
White hot pain flashed behind his eyes and his vision was blurry, but Rosey continued to fight. He began to swing wildly as he sensed the droids come near, connecting punch after solid punch and obliterating dozens in his frenzied onslaught. But while the pile of scrap metal continued to grow, the numbers of active assassins never seemed to thin.
Breathing heavily, Rosey bent down to pick up one of the discarded spears and quickly hurled it with all his strength. It caught four androids through the head and, like an armour-plated shish-kabob, pinned them to the wall. Sparks flew and the scarlet artificial life in their eyes went out.
But in his exhaustion, Rosey made a critical error. His concentration relaxed for a split second to compensate for the immense physical toll the android claws had taken, and in that second his ESP was lost. He failed to sense the proximity of the next wave of assailants behind him, and the leader wrapped its steel arms around his large frame in a deadly embrace. Rosey's face twisted in agony as his breath was squeezed from his body. He felt the blood rush to his head as he struggled for air. Then the rest of the droids were upon him.
The world began to darken at the edges and Rosey fought to retain consciousness as the pile of metal assassins squashing his body into the unforgiving stone floor grew heavier and heavier. A whisper formed in the back of his head: an oddly cool and emotionless voice gently urging him to give up as the weight became too much to bear.
Then something in his mind clicked and he realized that this voice was what the Hurricane must have heard after the attack by Kurt Angle. But while he had succumbed to it, Rosey refused it. After all he had been through to bring Hurricane back, there was no way he could let him down now by quitting.
He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth and, with what little air was left in his lungs, summoned together every last ounce of strength in one long and mighty bellow. He pushed himself to his feet one leg at a time but could not stand up under the excruciatingly heavy mountain of metal. His knees shook violently and Rosey knew he could not hold out much longer.
A soft hum began in his ears, blocking out the electronic buzzing of the droids. It was soothing and warm, countering the cold, detached voice from before, and Rosey instinctively concentrated on it, turning his mind inward to where he normally felt his extra-sensory powers manifest. He forced his mind to clear and suddenly felt free – the immense load was removed from his body as something far stronger was unleashed and rushed forth from his own mind. He found sweet, cold air being drawn into his lungs, and when he opened his eyes he was surprised to see himself surrounded in masses of broken droids. Here and there one still fizzled and twitched in electronic death throws, but not one of them remained operational.
Rosey blinked in amazement. "How did I do that?" he gaped, finding his voice painful to use due to his near-suffocation.
Then a flurry of lights exploded behind his eyes as a solid kick connected with the side of his head. He'd forgotten about Tomko.
Every bone in his body ached, every muscle screamed in protest and his skull felt five sizes too small, but still Rosey made himself look up into the eyes of his enemy. Tomko popped his shoulders before stepping forward and knocking Rosey down again with a knee to the gut.
Tomko moved without any hurry, knowing that all the droids had done their job. Rosey was too weak to stand up to him, and he planned to toy with him before finishing him off. He eased Rosey's chin up with the toe of his heavy black boot and then shifted all his weight down on his throat, slowly crushing his windpipe.
You should have stayed down.
Rosey's eyes snapped open in recognition of the cold voice returning to his mind. So it had been Tomko who had whispered the poisonous suggestions into the Hurricane's vulnerable subconscious the night he had lain bruised and broken in the ring. Granted, it had been Christian who had planned his downfall; it had been the collective Coalition who had oppressed him backstage; it had been the Peepulation who had turned on him. But now it was Tomko's face he could associate with that critical strike that had been the cause of so much emotional pain.
The realization triggered a reserve of strength Rosey didn't even know existed and he grabbed Tomko's foot and snapped it sideways. Tomko's mouth twisted in a silent scream of sudden anguish as the bone splintered and he fell to the floor.
Rosey opened his mouth to speak, but his compressed windpipe left no usable voice. He kept calm; Tomko, as a mute bodyguard, had developed his mind to speak for him. With Rosey's growing ESP and newfound telekinesis, who was to say he couldn't do the same? And as he slowly got to his feet, Rosey concentrated once again and reached out with his mind until he found Tomko's, which was howling in pain.
I never stay down, he said proudly. Not when there are punks like you that need to be taken care of.
And, ultimately glad Molly wasn't there to point out that he had ended his telepathic threat with a preposition, Rosey lifted Tomko into the air with the power of his mind, and hurled him into the wall. Tomko hit the stone with such force that the structure crumbled and his unconscious body fell through to the other side.
I knew there had to be some way out, Rosey mused, stepping gingerly through the hole and setting off to find his friends, reaching out with his newfound telepathy in search of specifically Molly and the Hurricane.
Chris Benoit hadn't known what to expect when he'd signed on with the Hurricane's team of do-gooders, but it hadn't been this.
After the floor had dropped out in the entrance hall, Benoit had kept himself composed enough to maintain focus and complete awareness of his surroundings. He'd even taken mental note of the general direction from which each individual member's voice was sounding after the chute had methodically separated them. And when the slick slide had spit him out at its end, he'd twisted his body and landed on his feet as gracefully as a cat.
That was when things had gotten interesting.
He'd had approximately two seconds to take in his surroundings – an indoor paintball course created to mimic all the natural surroundings of a forest but spared the frigid temperature of a Canadian winter, complete with shrubbery, camouflage walls and barbed wire fencing – before he had to dive out of the way of a projectile aimed directly at his face. He looked back to where it had splattered against the wall: a bright yellow paintball.
"That was a warning shot, Dork Chop," Edge's voice rang out around the course. "Don't say I never did you any favours."
"Gee, and here I was figurin' it was a premature release," Benoit retorted, his eyes darting back and forth in search of his stalker. "Heard you were known for that."
"Funny," Edge replied, though something about his tone made it painfully obvious that the sentiment was less than sincere. "Get your shots in while you can, my fellow Canucklehead, 'cause you won't be talking for long."
And with that, a spray of bullets – quite real this time – showered down on his position, and Benoit scrambled for cover, quickly diving under a bush and then moving deeper into the course before finally stopping behind a wall. He leaned up against it while he caught his breath and listened carefully. He'd been right about the choice of direction; the shooting had stopped; Edge had lost sight of him.
Now he could have some fun.
His keen ears heard Edge curse softy under his breath from the other side of the maze, and he risked a quick glance: clad in fatigues that looked like they were stolen straight out of a box of D-Generation X memorabilia from their invasion on WCW, Christian's antagonizing older brother had emerged from his hiding place. He was cautiously inspecting the underbrush into which Benoit had first disappeared. Seeing nothing, he narrowed his eyes and peered into the foliage.
Edge moved slowly, pulling his gun up to aim and fired a couple of rounds in short bursts into random areas. Benoit scoffed; while there was nothing funny about the semi-automatic machine gun Edge had traded with the paintball rifle that was now slung over his back, his technique did nothing but alert his prey to his location. Benoit would make sure it would turn out to be a critical error.
Ceasing fire after failing to flush out his quarry, Edge stood chomping on his bubblegum (a practice he had claimed many times assisted in the thought process). He looked down and kicked aside some of the smaller plant life to reveal a clear boot print. He smiled to himself.
"Marco…" he arrogantly called out, initiating a deadly version of the hide and seek they were now playing. His voice was picked up by a tiny microphone extending from his helmet and broadcasted around the course through hidden speakers. "Marco…" He took a step into the trees. "You can't hide forever, old buddy."
Benoit lost sight of Edge as he moved into the synthetic jungle, and his echoing voice was throwing him off the beat he'd had on his position.
"Marco…" Edge followed the trail to one of the camouflaged walls where the prints ended in a mess of broken branches – Benoit had scrambled for cover here. Edge sneered. "Polo," he said confidently, and then swung the gun muzzle around the wall and emptied the chamber.
Nobody was there.
His face fell as he apprehensively reloaded his gun and carefully scanned the area. There were no prints leading away; by all logic Benoit should have been there. Then his eyes settled on a series of crude scratches carved into the wall that spelled five simple words:
- THE HUNTER BECOMES THE HUNTED -
Edge felt a lump form in his chest and whirled around at the sound of rustling leaves, but there was nothing there. Trying to calm his heart to stop the blood pounding in his ears, he fumbled with his belt until he found a small button and pushed it.
Instantly dozens of tiny valves installed systematically throughout the course released dry ice into the air until visibility was so low Edge couldn't see his own hand two feet in front of his face.
"Hunt me now, you bastard."
Several metres above, Chris Benoit squinted as he quickly lost sight of Edge and then shifted his weight on the tree branch that was supporting him. Knowing Edge had been so close to discovering his location, Benoit had moved with unparalleled speed, carved the ominous message in the soft wood and then scaled the wall and leapt into the trees. From this new vantage point he'd been able to catch his breath and collect his thoughts.
Edge was playing for keeps, that much was clear. If Benoit had doubted the Hurricane before about the severity of the situation then there was now no denying it. And that meant he couldn't simply play the mercenary any longer. It was time to admit who he was.
First things first.
The smokescreen was so thick now that Benoit had to carefully feel his way along the tree branch lest he lose his footing entirely. He figured he was safe in the treetops for about five minutes maximum; while Edge had been nothing more than a dopey blond toothpaste model in the past, much like his brother, he'd gotten vastly more cunning in his solo career.
The thought made Benoit smile; at least this would be a challenge.
He could hear Edge crunching through the underbrush off to his right, but the sound was still being picked up by the microphone and broadcasted faintly through the sound system just enough to make him impossible to pinpoint. Any attempt to track him would be futile – he was just as likely to run smack into him as he was to locate him while remaining undiscovered.
Therefore, if he couldn't go to his prey, he would have to make his prey come to him.
Carefully removing his buckskin jacket, he let it drop to the base of the tree. Edge's tentative footsteps stopped and there was a slight rustle as he changed direction. Benoit closed his eyes, held his breath and concentrated on the near-impossible task of interpreting Edge's proximity based solely on the volume of his true footfalls: a sound that had to be siphoned from the electronically replicated noises spilling forth from the speakers.
So close now – Edge's pace had slowed as he realized that he was headed back toward the wall – just a few more feet – Benoit's heart was pounding – he could hear Edge's short, nervous breaths – one more step…
Snikt!
The unmistakable sound of metal scraping on metal rang out just as Edge spotted the jacket and figured out Benoit's hiding place. Swinging his gun upward, his blood ran cold at the feral battle cry that pierced the silence of the jungle fog as Benoit leapt at him. The man known as the Canadian Crippler slashed his hands in one smooth, downward motion as he descended from the canopy, and Edge suddenly found his gun barrel diced into seven neat pieces.
"What the–?" he gaped.
Benoit stood snarling before him, his hair wild and his eyes dark and menacing. His lips were drawn back to reveal uncannily sharp canines and the muscles beneath the skin of his bare chest and arms rippled with a spring-loaded tension that was just aching to be released. The wispy dry ice swirled around his chiseled figure as it began to dissipate, drawing attention to every exposed abdominal, pectoral, bicep, tricep and trapezoid. His yellow and black-striped tights accentuated his defined legs and gave the illusory impression of a furious tiger standing on its hind limbs. But perhaps the most terrifying aspect of the feral man barely recognizable as Chris Benoit was the three deadly foot-long claws protruding from between the knuckles of each hand.
Edge felt himself break into a cold sweat. "You're…you're…"
"I ain't called 'the Rabid Wolverine' fer nuthin', Bub," Benoit snapped, whipping his hand up to hold one set of claws mere inches from Edge's throat. "And here's a little advice from me to you: next time you're huntin' someone, lay off the body spray."
The claws retracted with a snakt! and Benoit drove his bare fist into Edge's neck. Edge dropped the severed remains of his gun and stumbled backward, clutching at his windpipe as though futilely attempting to catch the breath that had just been driven from it. He desperately tried to fight back but Benoit was relentless in his assault, slicing cleanly through the paintball gun when it was momentarily used as a block, and then introducing his rock-hard knuckles to the bridge of Edge's nose.
With hot blood gushing down his face, Edge fell to his knees and spat red all over the dense underbrush. His hands were quickly covered in scratches, the soft flesh shredded by the thorny stalks of several wicked-looking plants, but he hardly noticed these new prickling pains. He did notice, however, the bulky piece of the gun that he'd dropped earlier that was once again in his grasp. And as Benoit moved to follow up his attack, Edge swung it upward in one fluid motion, splitting his adversary's chin open.
Benoit howled both in pain and frustration for letting his guard down after drawing first blood. Edge pressed his advantage, jumping to his feet and cracking the butt of the gun across Benoit's cheekbone and then sweeping his legs out from under him.
"Almost had me there, Chump-stain," Edge snorted, spitting his blood into Benoit's face as he stood over him, pinning his dangerous hands to the ground with his feet. There was no longer any trace of the sarcastic humour left in the sneer on his face. He raised the gun piece, preparing to administer the finishing blow.
"One last thought, Blondie," Benoit choked out his words around the blood in his throat. "That stuff you're wearin' – Tag, right? That's Trish's area of expertise. Does that mean you're after the Tag Hunt Mistress herself now? She's only your brother's girlfriend. Wonder how Lita would feel about finding that out…hell, maybe I oughtta go console her."
That did it; Edge lost his temper and provided Benoit with the opening he needed. As one foot let up just a hint of the pressure on his hand, Benoit jerked it free, unsheathed the claws inside and swung his arm over his head. The blades sliced cleanly through the base of a tree which came crashing down on top of Edge, knocking him, out cold, to the ground.
Benoit got to his feet and casually dusted off his tights and wiped the blood from his face and chin. He moved to where his buckskin jacket still lay in the brush, and reached into the breast pocket where he kept his cigars. After pulling one out and clenching it between his teeth, he sauntered back over to Edge and used the stubble on the unconscious man's face to strike the match with which he lit the cigar. "Good fight, Kid," he mused, taking a long puff and mussing Edge's perfectly highlighted hair. "Not so much a challenge as a hearty workout, but I'll give the devil his due."