Sunday Night Heat had been disastrous as usual. Hunter and Shawn were literally thanking the heavens that it was over as they limped backstage of the arena in search of their locker room. Just moments ago, they were defending themselves against The Rock and one of the most mentally insane bastards on the entire roster, Mankind, both men wielding two-by-four equalizers that could have caused some serious, serious damage if the Degenerates hadn't gotten lucky. It was no official match. In fact, Vince McMahon had arranged for the two to fight the Acolytes, one of the most powerful tagteams in the Federation. And to the surprise of them all, the Acolytes had never showed up. Instead, out came The Rock and Mankind like two warriors with their deadly weapons of mass destruction (big ass planks of wood), marching toward their long-time enemies with malice.
Hunter suspected that Vince had all of this planned in response to Hunter's affair with his daughter, but still refused to be humbled at any cost.
"We don't get paid enough for this shit, man." Shawn groaned, rubbing his sore lower back.
"I think my spleen's busted open." Hunter replied in a grumble, hand rested on his aching side. He lifted a hand and touched his fingertips to his temple, pulling them back only to see crimson moistening his skin along with his own sweat. The Rock had gotten him good over the head with the wooden stick of death. So good that he literally saw stars dancing in his eyes instead of naked women. Blood ran down the entire right side of his face, tiny droplets landing on his shoulder now and again. "Damn, they busted more than my spleen apparently." He sighed.
"As soon as we get back to the locker room, we're gonna need Chyna to call the damn limo ASAP."
When they atlast reached their locker rooms, they immediately stripped out of their ring gear and showered, scrubbing away splinters, sweat, blood, and odor.
Just as Hunter got out of the shower and wrapped a white towel around his waist, he heard his cellphone ring from inside his gym bag. "Ah, hell. Who's calling me this close to midnight?" He complained, grabbing the bag from a locker and setting it down on a chair to search for his cell.
"Could be someone important." Shawn suggested after exiting the shower himself, a custom-made DX towel wrapped around his own, slim waist. "Like...I dunno...Stephanie."
"I doubt it." Hunter shrugged, finding the phone and pulling it out of the bag. Pressing the answer button, he put the device to his ear and spoke, "Hello? Hunter Hearst Helmsley here. How may I help you?"
A very familiar, female reply came in response. "Hunter, its Persia."
Hunter's eyes went wide as he fired Shawn an astonished look mixed with excitement. "Oh, hi Persia. I totally forgot I gave you my number at the bar. Look, about those seats you requested...turns out some family of fat ass stoners had the highest bid."
"It's alright. I found better seats for cheaper. But that's not why I'm calling. Listen, you're still willing to help me out with my cult problem, right?"
"Yes, of course. Anything for an old friend."
"Well, I need you to meet me someplace tonight. If you don't mind, that is."
"Uh..." Hunter nearly sighed, but held the breath in as best he could. He was battered and exhausted, yearning for bed rest and now this had come up. Perfect. "Sure. Um, where do you wanna meet up?" He asked, massaging the bridge of his nose between two fingers.
"There's an old cemetery a couple of miles away from the the arena. I just got here. Left the show atleast thirty minutes early. I hope you're not scared to visit a graveyard at night."
"Oh, its no problem. I'll be there as soon as possible."
"Thank you so much, Hunter. Aren't I glad I found you in Texas."
"Like I said before, anything for an old friend. So see you then?"
"Don't keep me waiting too long, Hunter."
Hunter chuckled a bit. "Bye, Persia." And with that, he hung up the phone and tossed it back into his gym bag. "And my night doesn't end." He released a deep sigh, shaking his head slowly.
"What happened?" Shawn asked, pulling a pair of jeans out of his locker along with a black T-shirt. "I heard you say Persia like twice."
Hunter searched for his own clothes as quickly as he could, which wasn't very quick at all since he was so tired. "She wants me to meet her somewhere. Got business to discuss."
"Oh?" Shawn grinned, raising his brows at Hunter. "And I wonder what kind of business that is." His voice was rather sing-songish.
Hunter gave Shawn a sardonic look. "Calm down, Shawn. Nothing's going on between us. It's just that...she told me some things at the bar and well, I have to help her with this one problem."
"Oh, I see. You're her Superman and she's your damsel in distress."
"Uh...sure."
Shawn shook his head, laughing quietly. "Hunter, I gotta say, some things about you just never change. You already got three women clinging to you like the fish that cling to the inside of a tank."
"Leave it to Shawn to have the funniest misconceptions." Hunter laughed in turn. "Atleast Persia and I know we're just acquaintances for now."
"For now?" Shawn exclaimed. "Hunter I'm apalled!"
"I'm pretty sure some guy up in New York is tapping that ass already, Shawn."
"I doubt it." Shawn replied mockingly. "And if you don't do it...I will."
"Pfft. Yeah, sure."
After both men were dressed and ready to go, they slung their bags over their shoulders and left. Chyna was already outside with the limo, where she was told about Hunter's plans for the remainder of the night. Of course, she was not too happy to hear about them, but wouldn't voice her thoughts or opinions. All she said was, "This is your business. Not mine."
…...
In the quiet confines of a cold, dimly-lit room, all white walls surrounded a lone figure standing in its very center. The figure was amazingly tall, just about every inch of its body built entirely of muscle. One milky blue eye and one deep green stared straight ahead at absolutely nothing as it seemed to be completely frozen, lost in time, lost in space, lost in some place unknown to man. Curly brown strands of moist hair hung down past its broad shoulders, surrounding its face which was hidden behind a most frightening mask. A mask that earned him the name 'monster.' That was what it truly was...a monster. Eversince the day it was created to walk upon the earth. It believed its soul purpose was to destroy, take lives, and suffer the pain of its own existence. A being born of fire and brimstone, possessing the power of Hell itself, it was highly feared by the others of the World Wrestling Federation. They called him the Devil's favorite demon, something completely alien, but somewhere deep within its fiery core, a small percentage of it was human. This monster, this man, found himself searching daily for that human side of him, but failing each time to find it. With no hope in his heart that he would ever be something normal, something people didn't run away and hide from, he was vicious, angry, and sick in the head.
Much like his older brother...that dreaded Demon of Death Valley.
As the monstrosity known as Kane, dwelled in his own privacy, he began to feel as though he was no longer alone. No longer safe in his own space. The burning, sandy skin upon its enormous form began to crawl with unease, a warning perhaps. His eyes, once blank and aimless, now narrowed within black holes as a sense of alert swept over him and just as he had caught on to what his conscience was implying, a sudden sound exploded from behind him. Instantly, he whirled on his large, booted feet, coming upon the realization that the door to the empty room had been broken open and two men were rushing in, coming at him from either side. He braced himself, taking a step back to size both men with his multi-colored eyes. They didn't appear to have too much confidence about being in the same room as the Big Red Machine and he figured he would perhaps use that to his advantage.
"Alright, ya big red bastard. Let's not make this too difficult." Said the first man in a heavy country accent whom Kane instantly recognized as Bradshaw, a member of the Ministry of Darkness.
"Fuck that!" Shouted the other male known as Faarooq, a member of the Ministry as well. "We're gonna make this bitch bleed from the inside out!"
Kane was rather confused in the back of his mind, but kept his bulked demeanor, hoping to intimidate the two. They no longer appeared to be weary, especially not Faarooq. He charged him before any more words were said, ramming himself directly into Kane's midsection. Kane's feet immediately came from under him and he reached forward as he went down, a low grunt residing in his throat once his back hit the floor. The next thing he knew, heavy dark fists were raining down upon him, but only three hits managed to connect before he threw his massive hands upward and sent Faarooq sailing backwards. Bradshaw made his move next, stomping the giant in the shin and was satisfied to hear a monstrous cry in response. Bradshaw then attempted an elbow drop to Kane's chest but missed after the big man had rolled out of the way. He sprang up like a beast out of hell, grabbing Bradshaw's ankle and snatching him off balance. The smaller man hit the floor hard, Kane's hands soon wrapped around his throat, stopping his breath dead in his chest. It was no surprise that Faarooq came running to his defense soon after, landing a blow directly across Kane's jaw, sending him keeling sideways. He landed on his shoulder, a bit dazed, then glanced up just in time to see Faarooq coming after him again. This time, he swept his leg right under the man, knocking him over like his partner in crime. Once Faarooq was down, Kane staggered to his feet and made his way to the door, shaking his head a bit to get rid of the dizziness he'd received from Faarooq's powerful fist. He knew exactly what he needed to find...fire.
By the time he got out in the dimly-lit hallway, the Acolytes were back on their feet, pursuing him like cops after a criminal, an enormous, dangerous criminal. He hadn't seen Bradshaw pick up a long, steel pipe off the floor and run up behind him with it, cracking it against his skull so hard it sent him stumbling forward. Just as he was about to fall, Faarooq wielded a long, thick chain that'd been wrapped around his waist and leaped forward, landing on Kane's back. Usually in this position, he would have done a sleeper hold, but instead secured the chain around the giant's wide neck, squeezing with all his might. He could hear throaty, strangled noises coming from the monster much to his satisfaction.
"Damnit, I forgot the Chloroform!" Bradshaw suddenly blurted, swinging the pipe at Kane's calve. He cried out and spun around, throwing himself backwards into a wall to sandwich Faarooq between two objects hard objects.
"You dumbass!" He coughed as the wind was knocked out of him. "We'll just have to make use of what we have."
Kane frowned behind his mask, rammed Faarooq into the brick wall again, hearing another cough in reponse. It always bothered him when people spoke of him as if he couldn't understand English or was deaf. It was insulting. The second he sandwiched Faarooq for the third time, Bradshaw ran right in front of him and swung the pipe at his left leg. It struck the side of his knee, the momentum of the swing plus the mass of the object created a loud cracking sound and all Kane felt was excruciating pain before he uncontrollably sunk to the floor. The bone in his leg had been broken from the side of his knee like a broomstick and he was soon hollering and roaring in agony. Faarooq kept the chain around his neck while he rolled and writhed on the floor, finding it difficult to keep the enormous, heavy beast still. It was like every muscle in his body was responding to the pain in violent spasms.
"Knock his ass out!" Faarooq shouted, obviously struggling to keep himself from being thrown by the strength of Kane.
"Alright! Alright, ya whiner!" Bradshaw shouted back, pulling the pipe back behind his head.
Kane saw another blow coming and threw his right hand into the air. Both Acolytes were confused by this action until they heard a crashing sound from above and looked up in time to see the foil pipes curling along the ceiling now engulfed in flames, falling toward them swiftly.
"Shit!" Bradshaw grunted, diving sideways out of the way just before a flaming pipe came crashing down where he stood only inches away from Kane's feet. Faarooq could only think to jump out of the way, jerking Kane violently with him. He swung a massive arm backwards to grab Faarooq's leg, but cried out when he felt a booted foot nearly shatter every bone in his hand.
"Don't fucking touch me, you dirty bastard!" Faarooq spat, crossing his wrists to tighten the chain around Kane's neck. He was surprised he'd lasted this long without oxygen. "Come on, fuckwit!" He then shouted to Bradshaw who was staring in shock at the exhibition of Kane's power. "Get your ass over here and knock him out!"
"So he can do some crazy shit like that again!" Bradshaw protested angrily, spit flying from his lips. "You do it!"
"You fucking pussy!" Faarooq barked viciously, dropping down on one knee and bending his upper body backwards, pulling on the chain with all the strength he could muster. "Just get over here and knock his fucking head off!"
"Fine, damnit! You're such a fuckin' nagger!"
"I'm a what? What the hell did you just call me!"
"Nagger! Nagger!" Bradshaw repeated. "Not that other word."
Faarooq noticed that Kane's violent movements were beginning to slow down and his gut-wrenching, ear-piercing cries of agony were dying down. He watched as the bounding of his wide, well-muscled chest gradually softened.
He could hear their voices, both Faarooq and Bradshaw yelling at each other, but couldn't make out words. It was like listening to an extremely muffled radio in an area with bad reception while someone was slowly turning down the volume. He could feel consciousness slipping away from him slowly and as much as he fought to stay awake and alert, he was simply shutting down without his consent. He couldn't tell whether or not he was dying or just simply passing out. Either way, he was disappointed in himself for allowing these two men to barge in his space and take him out like this. And for some unknown reason, he couldn't help but think to himself, I can't die now without my brother to join me in Hell...where we both belong....
And without further warning, darkness engulfed him.
…...
The Undertaker took a deep breath as he entered the sacrificial chamber he'd been in earlier. The fallen symbol and the crushed corpse beneath still lay in their places in the center of the room and every candle still burned around it. He walked with easy strides toward the pentagram drawn in chalk in the center of the floor, watching carefully to keep the hems of his robe from brushing the candles and catching aflame. As he moved like a weightless shadow, he felt the golden locket his minions had found heating up in his hand from him clutching it so tightly. He had a feeling it had more to give him than the memory he found himself flashing back to just moments ago.
At last coming to the center of the pentagram, he lowered his head and lifted his hand to chest level, opening his fingers to stare at the flashy, golden object laying in his palm. The carvings curling along its exterior told him just when it had been made. It was old as the past Queen Victoria and her era in history, but that was not the main thing that drew him to such an object. The others seemed surprised that he actually found it useful, but what they didn't know was that when The Undertaker looked into the eyes of that precious, little girl in the picture, there was something about those ocean blue eyes that immediately awakened something deep within him. Something dead and gone that wanted to resurface, but barriers in his memory would not allow it to...unless channeled.
That was exactly what he planned to do at that moment, send himself deep into the recesses of his time and find out just why that face, those eyes, brought something up in him. Closing his hand around the locket once again, he lifted his fist up to his face and swiped it beneath his nostrils with a deep inhalation as if sniffing the object for any scent of the person it actually belonged to. His eyelids slowly fell shut over his acid green orbs as he then spread his arms out on either side of him, lifting his face skyward at the same time. He began to chant in tongues, each sound and syllable flowing from his lips in a steady pace and with a deep rumble that seemed to reverberate through the very walls of the room. In response, a breeze began to stir in the room. It was awfully cold and eerie, an indication that the gates of the supernatural had been opened both spiritually and psychically. He continued his demonic drawl, the air around him becoming thickly tainted with a dark essence that would stop the hearts of normal beings with no connection to its power.
His hair began to sway about his head as the breeze picked up with a low, ghostly howl. And it was then that he felt something strong and electric like a burst of energy, shoot from the hand clutching the locket all the way up his arm and neck until it reached his skull. It was like a knife had suddenly been driven into his temple and he winced a little, his head falling back further.
The darkness on the insides of his eyes had suddenly turned into a dim, green room. He heard voices now, masculine voices that sounded like they were coming from afar. The smell of withering roses and formaldehyde filled his nostrils. Behind him, he could hear the loud ticking of a grandfather clock and the ballpoint of an ink pen tapping a clipboard. His vision moved like a man exploring a scene with his video camera, capturing magohony furniture, flowers dying within dusty vases, several portraits painted in black and white hanging upon the smooth, green walls.
It was the old funeral home lobby.
As the scene before his eyes became clearer, he turned and came face to face with his own reflection in a glass china cabinet. It actually had no purpose being there since it was empty, but what he saw caused him to stir inwardly. He was but a child...no older than the age of thirteen with unruly red hair and a round, expressionless face. The fuzzy red sweater and gray slacks he was dressed in portrayed no one fit to lead a cult based on the power of the dark side. His attention was soon drawn away from himself when he heard masculine voices again, but one of them was a bit too high to be very masculine at all. His eyes just barely shifted sideways and he saw a reflection of two figures standing behind him. Curiousity sprouted within him as he made an about face and saw Paul standing before a man much taller than him wearing a brown trench coat with a simple black bowler hat, his head hanging low in sorrow. Taker was a bit surprised to see Paul on his two feet, speaking with the tall man while giving him the usual crazy, one-eyed stare. "We will take excellent care of your wife, sir. Oh, yes, we are known for treating our bodies with care."
"Thank you for your services, Mr. Bearer." The man spoke clearly and his voice held no signs of sorrow or emotion. He then looked over his shoulder and said, "Come on, hun. We're going home now."
Taker couldn't help but follow the man's gaze, only to spot a short, feminine form standing across the room, admiring one of the family portraits. Her back was to the rest in the room at first, but she soon turned to answer to the tall man. She was dressed in a pretty, pink dress and her long, dark hair was braided into two neat pigtails hanging past her shoulders. The second Taker saw her and looked over her doll-like features, he almost immediately noticed her pale, innocent face and peeking up from long, dark lashes were a pair of emotionless, ocean blue eyes. As she walked obediently toward who Taker assumed was her father, her head turned and in that instant, she saw him watching her. It caught him off guard a bit because he didn't know he was actually visible. He figured it was a Ghost-of-Christmas-past type affair, but he refused to stop looking at her due to the shock of the fact that she was the girl in the locket. That must've meant that this was more than a vision; he was looking right into his past, a file of the memories stored deep within his mind. Reliving each second of it.
After a few seconds had passed, the girl looked away, approaching her father and sliding her hand into his. She was so young, no older than 11. But still looked like the offspring of an angel. The man lowered himself to whisper something in her ear and she nodded, walking with her father to exit the funeral home. Taker watched her until she was gone from his sight and it had been only once again that she looked right back at him and he saw those sparkling, ocean blue eyes.
"That's impossible." He blurted suddenly, awakening from the vivid flashback. He turned his head side to side to make sure he had completely come back to present time, present thoughts. Seeing the candles lit all around him and the pentagram beneath his feet, he knew he was back in the sacrificial chamber. He no longer smelled withering roses and formaldehyde, but blood instead, looking down only to spot the body that lay crushed and bloodied beneath the heavy, metal symbol. Tilting his head, he stooped down slowly and brushed his fingertips against the pool of blood under the body. When he returned to his full height, he slowly lifted his fingers to his lips and slid his tongue along the tips to lap up the blood, his body shuddering in response to the coppery taste. He was not the least bit disturbed with himself for his action and it was made evident, when he simply turned on his heel and left the chamber, a harsh gust of wind killing every candle flame in the room the second he passed through the door.
…...
Arriving once again in Paul's funeral parlor, he looked over the damage caused by the intruder who had attacked his conscience, a heavy frown upon his face. The locket was telling him one thing, but his eyes were telling him that the man nor the innocent child -which by now had to have been a grown woman- could have done such a thing. He knew nothing of the two in the picture except for the fact that they had visited the funeral home to have the woman of the house buried. And what would he have done to them that they would hunt him down and attack a member of his Ministry?
"I don't understand..."He muttered to himself. "So much blood will be shed until I get to the bottom of this."
"Taker!" He heard a voice shout from behind him and when he turned, he saw young Gangrel running toward him. "They've returned with Kane!"
…...
Roger Morgan Cemetery was probably one of the scariest places Hunter had ever visited. On top of the fact that a breeze was blowing, howling like a ghost, he could have sworn he was seeing shadow people out of his peripheral vision. He swore several times to himself as he walked briskly between tombstones; some large, some small, some captivating, and some absolutely daunting. It wasn't too long before he spotted Persia standing beneath a large, oak tree with her arms folded across her chest, an idle look on her face.
"Persia." Hunter called, approaching her from the right.
She seemed a bit startled by the way she whipped her head around to look at him, but her tension vanished as soon as she recognized who it was. "Oh, you made it. I was beginning to think you forgot about me,"
Hunter took a quick breath to erase the fear from his system and forced himself to smile and laugh softly at her. "That's a bit hard to do." He replied, noticing her apparel; a snug, cream summer dress with black lace curling all over its flaring skirt. Her shoulders were bare, which lead him to spot a tattoo drawn on her right shoulder blade of a beautiful, black rose.
"So, um, why are we here exactly?" He couldn't help but ask, looking around while trying his hardest to hide his nervousness.
Persia started to walk forward steadily, approaching a tombstone built in the shape of a Catholic-style cross. "This is where my mother was buried." She answered softly, causing Hunter's heart to sink a bit for her. "She was born and raised here before she moved to New York to marry my father. I was only 11-years-old when she passed away and I remember her telling my father she wanted to be buried at home. Houston Texas. She was the most amazing woman I'd ever known."
"I'm really sorry, Persia." Hunter apologized sympathetically, watching her.
"It's alright." She sighed, flattening her hand against the tombstone, closing her eyes as if thinking back on her deceased mother. "It was so long ago, the emotion really isn't there anymore. But I didn't come here to tell you the story of my mother. I have something to show you." She walked around to the back of the tombstone and gestured for Hunter to follow. He did as told, went around to stand beside her, and looked at the back of the tombstone. It wasn't until she took a small step back that he noticed the small, red mark on the rough surface of the stone. In fact, upon closer observation, he realized that it was no mark at all. It was a little, red symbol. The same symbol Persia had shown him in the picture she took of her father.
"Jesus Christ." He muttered, frowning. "Is that-?" He stopped and looked at Persia who nodded her response to him.
"I've never seen this hear before. They must've done it right after they-" She paused to take a deep breath. "Right after they killed my father."
Hunter could hear the emotion in her voice, not knowing whether to put his arm around her for comfort or give her some space. He chose to stand still in case she was one of those women who preferred not to be touched when they got emotional. Surprisingly, she didn't seem very emotional at all. A strong woman she was.
"Look, if there's anything I can do for you tonight, just let me know." Hunter said straightforwardly.
Persia walked all the way back to the oak tree and bent down to pick up something off the ground. It was a small, brown book with the appearance of a journal from the 1800s. Hunter frowned slightly at it.
"I found this when I went to visit the house my mother bought as a vacation home down here. It was hard to search that attic with so much dust and cobwebs everywhere but I managed to find a chest where she kept all her old stuff. She had this journal when she was around my age, maybe older." She opened it and flipped to the middle of the book, taking another deep breath before she read:
"I can't count the times I've told them to stay away from me and my family. Times are much different now and all I wanted was peace, but apparently I've only made matters worse for myself and perhaps my children. They call themselves the Brotherhood of Beleth, greedy men who only wanted me to be apart of their little group to use my intelligence and my body. Because I refused, I've received many threats upon my household and I'm not sure how I am to tell Nicholas. I'm afraid now. Not afraid of what might happen to me, but what might happen to the future of my children."
Persia stopped reading then and flipped to another page close to the end, reading aloud again:
"They know where I live. Last night when I went outside to feed the dogs, they were all dead and hanging by their throats from the picket fence. I didn't panic because I automatically knew who had done such a thing. Luckily, I was able to clean the stinking carcasses before Persia and Lucas went out to play. Their poor, innocent eyes...the terror they would feel. I want them to know that they may not see me soon. I'm not sure how soon, nor am I sure how to explain to them what will most likely happen to me. Beleth...they are absolutely terrible. I've seen them do heinous things to their opposers such as hanging their burning bodies from trees, sometimes in citizen's yards. They are cruel, heartless men who deserve to rot in hell. I just wish others knew of their existence for they are so well hidden it's quite nearly impossible to catch them and end them."
"Who is Lucas?" Hunter asked once Persia was done reading.
"My brother. Well...my adopted brother. He moved all the way to Seattle when Mom died. Didn't even attend the funeral." Now the sorrow was starting to surface. Hunter could see her face reddening despite the dark of night. She went silent, averting her eyes to the distance. "He was 18 then. Old enough to live life on his own." She paused again, looking up into Hunter's eyes. "The bastards who killed my father just recently, took my mother when I was a child."
It pained him inwardly the moment he saw the hurt in her eyes. "Do you know why I want to find these men so badly, Hunter?" She then asked.
Hunter remained silent.
"I'm not just going to turn them in to be taken care of by the law. No." She bit her lip in anger, shaking her head slowly as the breeze bustled her dark hair sideways across her face. "I'm going to take care of them myself. Even if it kills me. When I made up my mind about it, I knew I couldn't do it alone. That's why I was so happy you came along."
Hunter still said nothing. He didn't know what to say actually. He couldn't turn her down because she was obviously disturbed on the inside, but he also didn't know how he would feel about taking lives. Hell, then again, they certainly weren't innocent lives.
"But how do you know you can trust me?" Hunter asked, his voice low, uncertain.
Persia swallowed down her tears, her gaze never letting go of his. "High school."