Legend Killer

Warning: mention of minor character death and swearing.

Inside his isolated cabin up in the mountains overlooking Helena, Randy was going through his belongings. Having left Roman and Dean back in town to keep an eye on things, he planned to be long gone as soon as they were done taking down the demon collective. With yet another US Marshal sniffing around, he knew the longer he stayed in one place, the greater the chances were he would be either arrested or killed. He knew he would kill the Marshal if it came down to it. He wasn't eager to do it but he would if there was no choice. That was the recurring theme of his existence: kill or be killed.

After a lifetime of both witnessing and then taking part in human slaughter, Randy was used to it but honestly, he was tired of it. Demons he could and would kill easily and with great satisfaction. It was the humans that insisted on interfering with his purpose in life that he was having troubles with. He had begged Ric to leave him alone, to turn back. But Ric wouldn't listen, had insisted that Randy turn himself in and face justice for the "murder" of a demon-possessed human. After refusing to listen to Randy, to believe him when he told Ric about the Saint and what had happened to Ted and Cody, and trying to kill him for resisting arrest, Randy had no choice but to kill Ric.

Such was the trajectory of his life.

Distant thunder rolled off the mountains. He stiffened when he felt the Saint's presence behind him but didn't turn around to face him. "What do you want old man? Its not time yet." He rolled up a wool blanket and stuffed it into his pack.

The Saint regarded Randy's back. Then he said without preamble, 'Edge is dead.' He didn't bother trying to soften the blow with comforting words. He knew Randy would have none of that.

Randy's hesitation was barely noticeable, his jaw muscles jumping as he clamped down on the shock, then he quickly resumed his sorting. "What happened?" he asked, his voice steady.

Sighing, the Saint said, 'He was ambushed by your old friend Dave Batista.'

This time, the hesitation was more pronounced. Randy just stood for long seconds with his head bowed. Then swearing loudly, Randy threw his pack violently against the wall. Kicking over the table, he paced in agitation around the small room, randomly stopping to kick some furniture or throw something. The Saint watched him but did not say anything as Randy continued to vent his rage and grief. Finally, Randy sat heavily on the crude wooden bench and clutched his head in his hands as he fought to regain control himself.

'Son,' the Saint began, reaching a hand out to him, but Randy interrupted him savagely.

"Don't! Just...don't! He was supposed to be our ace in the hole. The one nobody knew about." Randy's voice broke, but after a few shuddering breaths, he scrubbed his hands over his face and looked up. His blue-gray eyes were red, but dry. "What happened?" he asked, his voice was hollow but steady once again.

'I wasn't there until the end, he hadn't yet called on me to confront the demon that had come through. I got there just as he was shot and saw the killer,' the Saint explained.

"Was it quick?" Randy asked. He knew from experience that a quick death was sometimes the best one of them could hope for. After watching Ted and Cody die, the thought of Edge being subject to what they went through was nauseating. He desperately hoped that was not the case.

'He...yes, it was quick,' the Saint apparently changed his mind about what he was going to tell Randy, but Randy breathed a sigh of relief anyway. The Saint wouldn't lie to him.

"Did he...was he able to…?" Randy trailed off, not wanting to ask, but needing to know.

Knowing what Randy meant, the Saint nodded. 'He was able to move on. There was enough left of his soul.'

"Good," Randy took one last deep breath and stood up. "That's good." He nodded at the Saint, his chin raised, determined not to broach the topic. They both knew that it was unlikely that Randy would any soul left by the time this ugly little war was over. Only a soul, even a damaged one could move on to the afterlife. But with the continuous soul-destroying use of the Colt Walkers, Randy himself was in serious trouble. Without a soul, he would never move on, caught for eternity in the nothingness between afterlives. A fate worse than the torment of hell.

Changing the subject, Randy mused out loud, "So we continue to get picked off one by one. Fuck."

'Do you think its a coincidence that it was a US Marshal who killed him?' the Saint asked, his voice dry.

Randy knew damned well it wasn't a coincidence. "When we're done with Nexus, I think its time I pay Hunter a little visit." He turned and faced the Saint, glaring at the spirit who had eyes exactly like his own. Seeing the Saint's deeply troubled expression, Randy's shoulders slumped in resignation. "Oh, what now?" he asked.

'The demon that Edge was going after. I saw what it is,' the Saint said with reluctance.

"For fuck's sake, tell me already," Randy snapped, now truly exasperated. Given the trajectory of his life, he couldn't imagine that anything the Saint of Killers had to say would be good news.

'It was Satan's pet, simply known as the Beast.' the Saint said. 'Its the most powerful demon I know of.'

Randy closed his eyes and rubbed at the back of his neck. "Of course it is. Shit," he muttered. "Is it still in the Dakota Territory?" He was already mentally mapping out a course of action.

'Yes. But its making its way to Montana territory,' was the answer. 'I think its coming for you. It has already killed many people.'

...And here was the new normal for Randy.

He had watched his family get slaughtered. He accepted that he was alone and eventually ran away from the orphanage to join the army. Then things in the army went to shit when the War Between the States started. By the age of 21, numb to the horror and bloodshed, when the war finally ended he left the army to join the US Marshals. He hadn't realized how much worse things could get but then Ted and Cody were killed and he became a soldier in a demon war. Humans had nothing on demons when it came to inventing way to make a person suffer.

His life, such as it was, consisted of hunting demons who tortured humans in new and creative ways, while avoiding being captured by humans. Now he was being hunted by both. If this Beast got his hands on him, Randy knew from experience his death would not come until after hours or days of excruciating agony. He nodded to himself, forcing himself to accept the situation and start dealing with it. "Very well. When we get Nexus squared away, I'll send the boys after Hunter. That will get them out of the way while I go stop the Beast." There was no point in running from it.

The Saint knew what Randy was thinking and tried again, 'Son,' he started to say, but Randy cut him off again.

Getting up into the Saint's face he growled, "Just be sure to keep your promise, old man. That's the only thing I need from you." He turned and started picking up the aftermath of his rage. Things went from bad to worse, and he got used to it.

Such was the trajectory of his life.

Finding the saloon wasn't very hard for John. Compared to Washington DC, Helena was a relatively small town. It wasn't big enough to have that many saloons and they were all located in the same general area. After asking around, John was pointed in right direction. The saloon where the shooting took place was fairly small and nothing fancy. He walked in through the open door. The windows were wide open, letting the tepid breeze swirl the dirt on the rough wooden floor. The bar itself was well-stocked and clean.

There was a man behind the bar with his back to the door, but the mirror strategically placed on the wall behind the bar was enough for the bartender to see anyone entering.

"Not open yet!" he called when he saw John enter, not turning around. "Come back about three," he recommended. The bartender seemed friendly, until he turned around and saw John's badge. Then his face, complete with a black eye and a swollen jaw, went neutral.

"Not here to drink," John replied easily, subconsciously trying to convey he was a friendly. He tipped his hat back on his head. "Just looking for some information."

The bartender's eyes darted around nervously, but there was no where to run and no one to call for help. Cena stood between him and the door. He swallowed audibly, but raised his chin. Not a coward then. "I already told them everything I know," he muttered, wiping nervously at a glass.

"Who?" Cena asked.

"Sheriff Barrett and his deputies," the bartender said. There was bitterness in his voice and John suspected that Barrett had something to do with the bruises on the man's face.

"I'm not going to hurt you," John said, annoyed at Barrett. John himself wasn't averse to violence, indeed he could apply a beating better than most. But the time and place of said beating usually had more of an impact than the beating itself. "I just want to talk to you about…"

"Randy Orton, I know," the bartender finished for him. "I'll tell you what I told the sheriff. He was just sitting in here minding his own business. He was joined by two other guys and they went to leave when one of them was pushed into a card game, and Orton broke it up peacefully. But then some idiot decided to call him out. Orton killed him and the two guys backing him. It was self defense from what I could tell." The bartender shrugged. "He didn't start it. And after it was over, he just left. A couple of the boys dragged the bodies out back for the undertaker to pick up." The bartender's tone implied that bodies weren't an unusual occurrence.

"And you sure it was Orton?" John asked.

The bartender shrugged. "Could have been, but who knows for sure? He didn't announce himself."

John tapped a finger on the bar as he thought. "Describe the two guys who joined him, " he requested. That wasn't included in the reports he'd read. Randy worked alone as far as he knew.

The bartender leaned back and looked at the ceiling as he thought. "They were both taller than you, one had long black hair, looked like a mixed breed if you ask me. The other had sandy blond hair and an attitude. Neither looked real healthy though, liked they'd been through some shit, if you pardon my french."

John waved away the cussing. It was not like he hadn't heard it before. "Have you seen them around before?"

"No, by the looks of them, they had been on the trail for a while."

"Was there anything else?" he asked. The two men didn't sound like anyone who were wanted for anything. But if they'd joined up with Orton, then something must be going on besides the usual hit and run. John's thoughts were interrupted by an unexpected dizziness. He closed his eyes briefly and shook his head.

"You alright there, Marshal?" the bartender asked, looking concerned. "You look like a goose just wandered over your grave."

John took a deep breath and the dizziness passed. "I'm fine. Been awhile since I traveled this far and haven't gotten used to it. Probably just need to grab some food." He hoped that was it. He focused on his job. "If you see any of those men, or remember anything else that would help me find them, come tell me right away. I'm at the boarding house." John said. He wasn't asking and the bartender knew it. But John wasn't a bully. He pulled out a silver coin and gave it to the bartender, whose eyes had grown large.

"I will," the bartender promised.

John took his time walking across town to the boarding house. He found Seth sitting in a chair on the porch with his boots propped up on the railing, looking lost in his own thoughts until he saw John. His eyes sharpened as John approached and he stood up. "Hey John," he greeted him. "Did you find out anything?"

Motioning for Seth to sit down again, John climbed the steps to the porch. The sun seemed overly hot and he was glad to be in the shade of the overhang. "I found out that Orton left the saloon with two other men, neither of whom had been there before." John reported as he sat wearily in a chair beside Seth's. "I got a description of them and we'll start there."

"You alright?" Seth asked. John was looking a bit pale and Seth was justifiably concerned after his talk with Dean, Roman and Randy.

Removing his hat and wiping the sweat from his forehead, John shrugged. "A bit warm," he admitted. He looked up at the clouds building from the west, their fluffy gray tops barely visible over the mountain peaks, hoping that they would bring some relief from the sun and heat.

Shaking his head, Seth glanced around and said, "We need to talk."

Curious, John glanced at Seth, his eyes narrowing at seeing the deputy's pensive expression. He leaned backward in his chair and put his feet up on the railing, mirroring Seth. "What about?" he asked.

"Wade Barrett and his crew," Seth said, keeping his voice pitched low. His eyes were on the street in front of them, watching the foot and horse traffic flow by. Behind them, the breeze twitched the curtain in the open window to the sitting room.

Remembering the bartender's face, John nodded in understanding. "What about them?" he asked, trying to draw Seth out. He was interested in what Seth's impression of the sheriff and his deputies were. A another perspective always came in handy.

"I don't think they are what they seem," Seth started, searching for the words he needed to convince John of the impossible. "In fact, I think there is more to them than we know, and its pretty bad." If he could convince John that the sheriff and his men were evil, it would go a long way to help Randy, Dean and Roman. He glanced over at John, who didn't look surprised. "Judging by your expression, you are either a very good poker player, or this doesn't surprise you," Seth said, his voice dry.

Quirking a grin, John shook his head. "I'm not good at poker, so its the latter. Someone had beat up the bartender at the saloon, and even though he didn't name names, I am pretty sure it was either Barrett or one of his guys."

"He okay?" Seth asked.

John nodded. "He'll live, but he's not a fan of Barrett. He was willing to talk, so they shouldn't have needed to rough the guy up," he shrugged, leaning back and closing his eyes. He didn't see Seth watching a drunk stagger by, an amused look on his face. "So what else you got?" he asked. There had to be more for Seth to bring it up.

"Do you believe in the supernatural?" Seth asked, seemingly completely at random. He was still watching the drunk who was now leaning against a nearby tree.

"What?" John asked opening his eyes, baffled at the sudden change in topics.

"Do you believe in supernatural?" Seth asked again, patiently.

Mulling it over, John thought about it. "You mean like demons and angels and things?" he wanted to know.

"Yes," Seth answered, drawing his attention away from the drunk and back to John.

John thought about it for a while. "I wouldn't pretend to know for sure if such things exist. But in my experience, I have yet to see one," he said.

Knowing that John had already seen some but didn't know it, Seth pressed his lips together and scratched at his short beard. The drunk man staggered over to the boarding house. Hanging on the porch railing, he started singing an obnoxious song. Seth shook his head and tried not to laugh at the outraged looks from passersby.

"But I guess if I had to answer your question, I do think there is more out there than we know about. There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. " John shot an annoyed look at the singing drunk. His head was hurting and the singing was completely out of tune.

For a while John and Seth sat on the porch, not talking. The drunk man stopped singing and was muttering to himself as he watched the people walk by. John was just about to suggest they go find some food when he recognized the bartender striding down the street towards the boarding house. He waved a hand to get the bartender's attention and Seth glanced over, puzzled.

"Marshal!" the bartender said, even though John was looking right at him. "I remembered something else."

John sat up, ignoring the buzzing in his head. "What is it?" he asked, completely calm. He noticed that Seth was watching him with some concern. He wondered if he looked as bad as he was feeling. The drunk man looked interested, too.

"I saw them when they rode by the doors of the saloon when they left, one of them was riding a black horse."

"Were there any marking on the horse?" Seth asked, already knowing the answer.

"No, a solid black," the bartender answered confidently. He smiled as he caught the small coin John tossed to him. "Thank you Marshal," he beamed.

"Thank you sir, for letting me know," John appreciated the information. There were not too many black horses in town and that narrowed the field considerably. John turned to Seth and was just about to ask him if he was hungry when the bartender, who had turned to leave practically shouted in surprise.

"It's him!" the bartender yelped, his eyes wide as he stared at Dean.

Still slouched against the rail, Dean squinted at the bartender. "Him who?" he asked, genuinely confused.

"You're him!" the bartender said again, pointing at Dean.

"I dare you to make less sense," Dean mumbled and pulled his hat down over his eyes.

"You're one of the guys who left the saloon with Orton that night." The bartender looked at John, "This is the guy!"

Oh shit.

John stood up and Seth followed suit, not sure what he needed to do right then. But he was not about to let John arrest Dean. He put a hand on his gun, but Dean subtly put out hand to stop Seth from drawing on John. Seth bit his lip, but trusted Dean to know what he was doing.

"Are you sure?" John asked the bartender, his face was serious.

"Yes!" the bartender said again. "I'm sure of it Marshal."

John stepped down the steps and stood in front of Dean, who looked at him with that confused expression that only Dean could do so well. "Sir, please come with me," John started to say, but Dean pulled back, suspicion replacing the confused, drunken look he maintained. Seth marveled at Dean's acting ability.

"Who're you?" Dean demanded, slurring his words perfectly.

"US Marshal John Cena, and I need to talk to you about Randy Orton."

"Never heard of 'em," Dean mumbled, swaying.

"He's lying," The bartender said quickly, hoping to get even more money from John. "He was there at the saloon and left with Orton, I swear it. He was the one pushed into the card game!"

Seth desperately wished he could shut the guy up.

John was looking between Dean and the bartender. He looked at Dean. "What's your name, son?" he asked, his tone still friendly and he hadn't yet drawn his firearm.

Dean didn't break character at all. "Jon Moxley," he muttered, his eyes sliding between John and the bartender. "I wasn't there," he protested again. Suddenly Dean's expression changed and Seth thought that Dean looked almost nervous.

"Maybe you were, and maybe you weren't. But this man seems to think you know Randy Orton. Let's sit down here and talk about this," John suggested, still friendly-like, reaching out to take Dean by an arm.

Looking like he was about to be sick, Dean swayed and damned near fell over. John grabbed at his arm to help him stay up. For the first time, Seth got the impression that Dean was no longer acting.

"What seems to be the problem?" a voice asked and Seth turned around, his blood running cold.

Sheriff Wade Barrett was standing there with that shit-eating grin on his face. The deputies Justin Gabriel, Heath Slater and David Otunga were behind him was smirking as well. And Seth suddenly knew why Dean was looking like he was going to vomit his guts out.

"This man was with Orton," the bartender said, before John could say anything. Then the bartender saw who it was and tried to fade into the background. He didn't want to attract the attention of the sheriff again if he could possibly avoid it.

Wade's eyes lit up. "Oh really?" he murmured, walking closer and putting a hand on his gun. He shouldered John out of the way and grabbed Dean by the chin to look into his eyes. "You're not Orton," he sneered, then he looked speculative. "Are you another one of the Saint's men?"

"No…" Dean said, still feigning confusion. His eyes shifted desperately around, but there was no help in sight, and he would not risk Seth.

"What are you talking about Barrett?" John asked. He too was looking like he was about to keel over and Seth realized that the demons' proximity was affecting both Dean and John.

"Let's go downtown to the jail, where we can 'talk'," Wade said, and the deputy pulled his gun and stepped up to grab Dean's arm, the gun pressed firmly into Dean's side. Barrett looked over at John, his smile was pure predatory. "You too, Marshal Cena. We will need your presence as well."

As if in a daze, John followed the group down the street, clearly not happy but unable to resist.

And Seth could only watch in horror as the Nexus dragged one of his best friends away.

TBC

John's quote is from Hamlet.

Sorry this took longer to get out. I have not, nor will I abandon it. But real life must come first.

I have been mulling over boosting the rating for the next few chapters because all our boys are in for a very rough time, both physically and psychologically. I hope you all aren't afraid of a spot of torture.

Thanks for reading! ~Belle