Legend Killer 7
Warnings: Swearing.
"US Marshal John Cena, meet Randy Orton."
John's eyes widened in surprise but he didn't hesitate as he went for his gun. However Seth was ready for him and beat him to the draw. Seeing Seth's gun pointed at him and the hard resolve in his eyes, John froze. Despite the mixture of anger and betrayal he felt at Seth's deception, he had been trained analyze a situation objectively before acting. John slowly removed his hand from the butt of his revolver and held both of his hands out safely away from his weapon. "I trusted you Rollins," he said mildly. The room darkened as the storm moved directly overhead.
Shrugging, Seth answered, "Sorry John." Not that he sounded particularly sorry. "But I can't let you kill him."
Behind Seth, Randy finished wrapping the unconscious Dean in his jacket and picked him up in his arms like a child. Dean's feverish head lay against Randy's shoulder. Randy turned to Seth, not seeming to notice the tense standoff between the two men. "We need to get moving, Rollins. Gabriel got away as Reigns was taking down those two." Randy kicked at Young's body to indicate him and Sheffield. "You better believe he's going to run straight to Barrett. They'll be back soon with the rest of Nexus. You got Reigns?" he asked.
John glanced away from Seth to Randy, startled at the difference in Randy's voice. Now it was smooth and almost pleasant, a human's voice. Not the gravelly, ghostly voice which had made John's hair stand up on end earlier. In fact, his whole stature seemed different. And he didn't seem interested in killing John despite him being a representative of the law and had just witnessed Randy murdering a man in cold blood. In fact, aside from the earlier examination which had him feeling like an insect, Randy didn't take notice John at all. For some reason it bothered John more than he cared to admit.
Not taking his eyes or his gun off of John, Seth nodded. "Right behind you," he promised as Randy left the cell, carrying Dean in his arms. Seth backed toward Roman, keeping his eyes and revolver trained on John. John just stood there, not moving. Seth crouched down and took one of Roman's arms and draped it over his shoulder, wrapping his free arm around Roman's waist. He grunted with effort as he strained to lift his unconscious friend's body. Fuck, Roman was almost too heavy to lift with one arm.
Watching Seth struggle, John made a decision. "Let me help you," he offered. Obviously there was something going on he didn't understand, but Randy's words made him nervous. Right now all he knew was he really didn't want to be there when Barrett came back.
Seth hesitated, torn. He needed help with Roman, but he wasn't sure he trusted John and it showed on his face.
"Look, I don't know what's going on but I do know you can't get your friend out of here without my help. I'll help you get him out of here if you tell me what's going on."
"What about Orton?" Seth asked.
John shook his head. "I promise I won't try to kill him right now, or arrest him either," he added quickly seeing Seth open his mouth. "You have my word."
Glancing at the door, knowing Orton was waiting for him and time was running out before Barrett and his goons returned, Seth made a leap of faith. "Very well. You help us get out of here, and I'll tell you as much as I know," he agreed.
"You have yourself a deal."
Seth put his revolver back in its holster. John moved to Roman's other side, taking half of his weight. Together they carried Roman outside where Randy already had Dean in the saddle of his big roan and was mounting up behind him. With one arm around Dean's chest to hold him upright, he raised an eyebrow at John's presence but said nothing as Seth and John slung Roman's body like a sack over the saddle of his black. Roman's long ponytail fluttered in the freshening breeze. Seth swung up on the black in the saddle behind Roman, keeping one hand on Roman's back to hold him in place as the black horse danced uneasily at the extra weight and unfamiliar rider. John stepped back, looking around for a horse he could use. He didn't want to get left behind.
"That one," Seth pointed to Dean's sorrel. John put a foot in the stirrup and had barely got up into the saddle when Randy kicked his horse into a ground-eating lope and headed straight out of town with Seth right behind him. The first few icy drops of rain raised puffs of dust in the street. Thunder rumbled overhead.
At first, it took all of John's skill and concentration just to stay on the horse. The wiry mustang knew immediately John wasn't its usual rider, and unlike the sturdy bay mare John had ridden into town, Dean's sorrel seemed to be making a concerted effort to slip out from underneath him. It was all John could do to stay in the saddle. Thankfully though, the horse seemed to be more interested in following Roman's than unloading its rider, so after a few minutes of clutching the saddle like a greenhorn, John managed to get his feet into the stirrups and find his balance. He decided his best bet was to let the horse have its head and follow the others. Lightning flashed across the livid sky.
As they left town, Randy was happy to see the rain coming in hard and fast. It would cover their tracks nicely. Still, he set a fast pace, well aware Roman's horse, while a big-hearted animal, was carrying double and struggling to keep up with Randy's roan, especially after climbing around on the steep sides of the mountain. But he didn't dare slow down, even as they slipped and skidded up and down various ravines, the rain turning the dirt to slick mud.
Despite carrying double, the roan jumped easily over a fast-flowing creek, running high with rainwater. He stopped the horse on the other side and turned to wait for Seth to catch up; unconsciously he tightened his hold on Dean as the rain and wind picked up. When they were all together, he set out again. By now even the big roan was starting to feel the effects of carrying two grown men over the rough terrain at the swift pace Randy demanded. But Randy knew the horse would drop in its tracks before it would quit. Finally, they came to the small cabin, well hidden in the woods. The trees sheltered them from the worst of the rain and wind howled overhead.
By the time John and Seth pulled Roman off the black and maneuvered him into the cabin, Randy had Dean inside and lying on the table top. "What's wrong with him?" John asked Seth, indicating Roman. "I don't see any injuries."
"Soul shock," Randy answered for Seth as he peeled away his bloody, wet jacket from Dean's body, finally giving it a name. "The guns' recoil blasts a hole right through your soul and you go into spiritual shock. Just like your body does when you get shot physically. " John glanced at Randy's weapons, noting immediately they were Smith and Wesson's, not those huge Colt Walkers. He was honestly starting to doubt his sanity.
After the two of them laid Roman onto a dry bedroll in the corner, Randy pointed to the fireplace that had some dry logs stacked next to it. "Get a fire going and some water boiling," he ordered. "I need to find something." As he went left, Seth watched him go thoughtfully. Randy himself didn't seem to be affected by the Colts and Seth wondered why.
Outside, thunder cracked like a rifle-shot right overhead and suddenly the heavens really opened up and the rain came down in torrents. Swearing to himself, Randy managed to catch the boys' horses before they could spook and run off. He led them to the lean-to on the side of the cabin and removed their saddles. Hobbling them to ensure they couldn't go far, he glanced around noting the foliage. He was sure he had seen some snakeweed nearby. He just needed to find it in the deluge.
Inside the cabin, John and Seth stripped out of their wet jackets and Seth set to work on the fire.
"OK, Rollins. What's going on?" John asked over the roar of the rain on the roof. He had been patient up until now. "Why are you helping Orton when we had orders to kill him? What the hell is up with Barrett and his goons? And who are these guys?" he gestured to Roman and Dean.
Rubbing tiredly at his forehead, Seth gave John a very brief rundown of events from the time Hunter had ordered him, Dean, and Roman to bring in the Wyatts, Glenn and the Saint of Killers, Abigail and Carcosa, and the decisions made in the aftermath.
"So, Barrett and his deputies are demons too?" John asked again, trying to wrap his head around it. "And you knew?"
Seth shook his head. "Not until after we got here and Dean told me, otherwise I would have never let either of us get near them."
"The Saint of Killers?" John asked as he started cleaning up Dean's wounds with a wet cloth. "Is all that for real? The Sword of the Angel of Death? You're not bullshitting me?"
"You were in the room with him," Seth said as he poked at the infant fire, trying to coax more warmth and heat from the burning logs. "Both Roman and Randy were possessed by him as they killed the Nexus. That was his voice you heard. Those were his guns that killed those men."
John shuddered at the memory. "And you think Hunter set you guys up?" he asked, greatly disturbed.
Giving John a steady look, Seth nodded then turned his attention back to the fire. He placed a small pot of water in the fire to start heating. "We do. It was too much like what happened to Orton and his crew. It would be a hell of a coincidence otherwise."
"And you don't believe in coincidences." Considering that, John asked hesitantly. "Do you think he set you and me up too?"
Worrying his lip with his teeth, Seth shook his head. "No, that was real. He intends for you to kill Orton." The fire was burning brightly by now so Seth stood up and faced John, deadly serious. "So what's your plan, John? Are you going to follow Hunter's orders and try to kill Randy? Or are you going to help us try to save the world?"
John's face hardened. "I don't take kindly to being used. And if Judge Hunter is really helping demons, I will do my best to help you guys, if you'll have me."
Relieved, Seth smiled and extended his hand which John shook, sealing their pact.
Seth had given John a lot to think about. As the fire burned and the cabin started to warm up, a soaking wet Randy came back carrying a thick handful of large leaves, and some hair from his horse's tail. He threw the hair into the pot which was starting to steam as it neared its boiling point. "Hair stew?" John joked.
Ignoring him, Randy bent over Dean, examining the aftermath of the interrogation. Seth winced when he saw the wounds. Randy glanced up at Seth and beckoned him over. He picked up some of the leaves he had brought in, still dripping from the rain. "Here, put these on the shallower cuts," he instructed.
"What is it?" Seth asked taking the leaves, which were about the size of his hand and looking at them closely. He had seen them before, they were from a weed.
"Snakeweed," Randy answered absently, his attention back on Dean's wounds. "A friend showed me this. They stop the bleeding." Satisfied, Randy went to stand by the fire as he stripped off his dripping shirt.
"Jesus Christ!" John swore in surprise, staring at Randy's back.
Seth followed John's gaze and nearly dropped the snakeweed. "God, what happened to you?" Seth asked.
In the light of the fire, Randy's skin glowed gold, setting off the intricatedesign over the back of his neck and shoulders that looked like it had been burned into his skin. The scars were a deep black, horrifying yet strangely beautiful.
"Some demons have very elaborate rituals they need to perform to gain their full power," Randy said, his tone indicating he did not want to talk about his scars. As he turned around they could clearly see the bullet scar on his stomach.
"Benoit?" Seth guessed.
Randy's jaw muscles clenched briefly, but he nodded. He pulled on a spare, dry shirt, covering himself. Rummaging around in his pack, he pulled a small leather container out and fished out a needle. He then took a stick and pulled the hair from the boiling pot of water. He threaded the needle with the softened horse hair. "Get that lantern over here," he ordered Seth. "I'll need more light."
Seth picked up the lantern and held it above Dean. Dean's face was flushed with fever, his skin hot and dry. When the light was positioned to his satisfaction, Randy calmly started stitching up Dean's deeper wounds.
"Where did you learn to do this?" John asked, coming over to watch.
"The war," Randy said. "Our unit lost its doctor, so as the one with the smallest hands and the best eyes; I was 'nominated' to be ours. I learned what I could by watching the surgeons on the battlefield. You know how it was, or you would have if you'd fought." He glanced up, his icy gaze sharp at John with a vague hint of disdain. Men who had fought in the war were scarred, always haunted in ways that another soldier could sense. John wasn't scarred. Curling his lip, Randy went back to work stitching up Dean.
Seeing Randy dismiss him like that, for the first time in his life John felt ashamed he had not fought in the war. His father had sent him overseas, ostensibly to attend university, but he had privately suspected that it was to avoid the possibility of him getting killed in the war. "I wanted to, but my father wouldn't let me," he said, a bit defensively. "Weren't you too young to fight?" he asked.
"My father wasn't around to stop me," Randy shrugged, for some reason glaring at the corner. He focused again on Dean, carefully pulling one of the gaping wounds on his back together and stitching it shut, gushes of fresh blood smearing his hands and running down Dean's sides. Dean involuntarily twitched at the stinging pain and Randy said to John in a crisp voice, "Hold him still." It was obvious he was used to giving orders.
John gently pressed Dean's shoulders to the table top. Dean struggled but didn't regain consciousness. Outside thunder rumbled again. In an effort to change the subject from his nonexistent war record, John asked again, "So what happened to your back?" In the corner, Roman stirred.
"Like I said, some demons have very elaborate rituals they need to perform to gain their full power," Randy said, his voice clipped. That was all he would say about it.
He remembered the smell of dew on the grass under his cheek; the sun was not yet above the horizon as Cody inhaled, filling his lungs with the cool air while Teddy prayed. He shook his head to get rid of the memory and tried to steady his hands again.
"You and your deputies were sent to be the last sacrifice to Benoit," Seth invited Randy to open up. "Just like Dean, Roman and myself with Abigail." He waited for Randy to either tell them what happened or to tell them to shut up.
Randy did neither. He just kept stitching Dean's wounds, flat out refusing to talk. Only his jaw muscles twitching, and a slight tremble in his hands gave away his mood. Seth and John exchanged looks. They could feel the tension radiating off of Randy and decided to drop the subject, as tantalizing as it was. Outside the rain slowed to a gentle shower, and then stopped. Finally, Randy finished with Dean's wounds. "Clean him up," he said to Seth. In the corner Roman was awake, leaning against the wall looking like he was nursing the mother of all hangovers. Wiping his bloody hands on a rag, Randy went over and crouched in front of him. "How're you feeling, kid?" he asked, looking at him closely.
He glared at Orton. "Like I've been kicked by a mule," Roman answered, his voice hoarse. "Don't call me kid." He looked over at the table, where Dean lay with Seth and John cleaning up the blood and bandaging his torso. "Is he going to make it?"
Randy grinned his disturbing, psychotic grin, his pale eyes were bright with suppressed rage. "Ambrose? Oh yeah, he'll be fine. He's probably going to be mad that he's going to miss taking down the Nexus. We took out three, which is a pretty good start. Just six more to go." Randy slapped Roman's knee. "Give it a few more minutes," he said as he rose to his feet. He glanced at John, his expression becoming flat. "Does the US Marshal know how to cook or did his father not let him do that either?" he asked, snide.
John glared. It seemed like Randy's special skill was to piss people off. "I can cook," he said shortly.
"Well then, there you go," Randy waved at some food on the shelf. "Make yourself useful," and went outside to put some distance between himself and the others' questions before he lost his temper completely. He lit a cigarette, exhaling furiously as he fought to control his rage. He would never talk about Benoit. Ever. To anybody. He knew he was overreacting, but them bringing it up was like prodding a gaping wound. Outside the cabin, crickets' chirping filled the still, cool air. The sun had gone down and the last glow of the sunset painted the jagged north western horizon. Everything was wet and the rich, sweet scent of pine trees filled the air. Drops of water dripped from the branches overhead. He was glad for it. There were no unpleasant memories associated with this. He was so caught up in his thoughts he missed the fact he was being watched.
"Hey Randal," a voice greeted from right next to him.
Randy's gun was out of its holster and pointing at the person who spoke before he could register who it was. "God dammit, Punk! That's a good way to get yourself killed," Randy snarled at the newcomer while mentally berating himself. It had been a long time since anyone had been able to sneak up on him, and that was unacceptable even if he knew the person.
"So is not paying attention to things around you," scoffed Punk. He moved so Randy could see him more clearly under the dark trees.
Randy had known Punk for several years. They had met while Randy was on the run from Hunter's posse. Randy had killed a demon which had been lurking near the native tribe's territory but had the bad luck to nearly get caught by Ric Flair and his men. Without Punk's help, Randy would have undoubtedly been captured and executed. Punk's straight black hair was a dead giveaway to his half breed parentage. His mother was a member of the Blackfoot tribe; his father was a white man. Randy never once asked about it.
"Grandfather asked for you," he said. 'Grandfather' was the affectionate term he used to describe the powerful old Blackfoot medicine man, Crowfoot.
"For fuck's sake," Randy groaned. "I can't come," he said to Punk's surprise. Randy had always been willing to drop everything for Crowfoot before. He knew the old medicine man wouldn't ask for him on a whim.
Punk became serious, "What's going on?" he asked, picking up on Randy's bad mood.
Exhaling, Randy said, "We just engaged the Nexus. They got hold of one of the new boys and cut him up pretty good, but he'll be back on his feet in a day or so. We managed to get three of them, but there is still six more, with luck. If not, there'll be more. But that's not the end of it. We need to get Nexus sorted out fast because according to the Saint, there's a new demon fresh from hell heading this way, called the Beast. And this one lives up to his name," Randy said. He lowered his voice, "And to top it off, Edge is dead. He was killed by US Marshal Dave Batista."
Muttering to himself in his native language, Punk shook his head. "I will tell the old man, but try not to delay too long. I think it's important you see him as soon as you can."
"See who?" Roman asked from a few feet away. He had followed Randy out of the cabin to get more information.
Neither Randy nor Punk jumped, they had been aware of his approach. Randy introduced them to each other. "Punk, this is former deputy US Marshal Roman Reigns, one of the Saint's latest recruits. Reigns, this is Punk, member of the Blackfoot tribe and all-around wise-ass."
The two men sized each other up. It appeared they mutually decided to treat each other neutrally for now. Shaking his head, Randy turned back to Punk. "Tell Crowfoot I'll be there when can I get there," he sighed, trying not to feel overwhelmed. It made him uneasy to blow off a summons from the old medicine man, but there was no way he would let his new charges face the Nexus without him. The last time that happened, Jack Swagger had died.
"Very well," Punk said, obviously not happy. "I'll keep an eye out for this Beast. Give you updates on its progress. You be careful," and then he said something in his native tongue to Randy and walked silently into the forest.
"Who was that?" Roman asked Randy after Punk disappeared from sight.
Randy stubbed out his cigarette. "Punk is a member of the Blackfoot Nation. He's saved my ass a few times and not just from the Marshals."
"What did he want?" Roman asked, genuinely interested. He never really had to deal with the native people and knew most of the civilized population looked down on them as heathens.
"The old medicine man Crowfoot wants to see me," Randy said as he turned to walk off his still-simmering rage. Roman strode along beside him, ignoring Randy's temper.
"How important is it that you go see this old man?" Roman asked.
Randy's shoulders slumped as he ran a hand over his neck, trying to ease the tension. "It's pretty important, but I just don't have the time right now. You didn't know this, but Edge is dead. He was killed by Batista."
Roman stopped in his tracks, staring at Randy's back in shock as older man kept walking. Then he hurried to catch up. "When did that happen?" he asked.
"This afternoon, the Saint told me," Randy said. He glanced around. "And it gets worse. Batista killed him before he could kill the demon he was hunting. So that one is still out there and it's heading this way. This wouldn't be so fucking annoying if there were more of us or if we could get some help." Mentally he cursed Hunter, again.
"What about your friend Punk?" Roman asked. "He seems to understand the situation."
"All the natives know about demons. They'd been dealing them off and on for centuries. They had ways to vanquish any demons stupid enough to show their faces in their territories, thanks to their connection to the earth spirits," Randy said.
"Why don't they help now?" Roman asked.
"You may not have noticed, or cared, but the United States army has been making it its mission to wipe out the native populations. And their people's faith is being converted to Christianity. The natives can't fight the demons with all their warriors and medicine men being slaughtered by the army," Randy said bitterly. "And thanks to missionaries, they are losing their connection to the earth spirits."
Roman, who had only vaguely kept up with the national events could only say "Fuck." Like Seth he did not believe in coincidences. "So do you think Hunter isn't the only one in the government helping the other side?"
Randy nodded. "Either deliberately or in ignorance," he said. "But the results are still the same. Anyone standing against the demons is being systematically destroyed. We're the last soldiers fighting this war. If there were more of us we might stand a chance, but as it is now it's just you, me and Ambrose."
As Roman stood there in the wet forest at night, he felt like he was catching a glimpse of the vast power struggle they were caught up in, with one side being hounded and losing by attrition, fear and neglect. As their numbers dwindled, the other side's grew in bloodthirst and hatred. The raw edge of terror ran its icy fingers up Roman's spine. Three soldiers, though wielding unimaginably powerful weapons, could not stand for long against demons, the Marshal Service and the United States' armies. It was like he could finally see how big the situation really was: one long chain of events that stretched back to the dawn of time. But the dominoes didn't start falling until one man, in an effort to avenge his slaughtered family had accidentally killed an innocent and was sent to hell. Roman's blindfold of ignorance had finally been torn away and he realized they were fighting a war in its final throes. "We can't win this can we?" he asked softly, almost sick.
Seeing Roman finally understood, Randy looked at him with something like compassion. "No," he said. He had accepted that fact a while ago. "But I will kill every last damned demon I come across before they take me down."
With all the shit he had lived through, and knowingly fighting a losing battle for the fate of the human race, it was no surprise the guy was a bitter asshole. And for the first time Roman felt he could truly understand Randy Orton.
Surprisingly, talking to Roman helped Randy's mood. For too long it had been like trying to struggle up a mountain with staggeringly heavy burden, and then Roman came along and took some of the weight. He was still carrying the burden, but now it was just a bit lighter. Feeling better, Randy started walking back towards the cabin, Roman beside him. The aroma of warm biscuits and stew greeted them. Right before they entered the cabin Roman asked, "What did Punk say to you right before he left?" Roman knew there was no chance in hell he could pronounce the words.
Randy glanced at him. "It's the name given to me by the Blackfoot tribe. It means One Who Destroys the Ancient Evils from the Old Tales. Or Legend Killer, if you prefer," he shrugged.
TBC
Snakeweed, also known as Plantain (not the bananas), stops bleeding when applied to wounds.
I did try to find a Peigan language translator, but unfortunately there are not many people left today who know the language of the Blackfoot people, and I could not find Peigan dictionaries available on the internet. So what the Peigan translation for Legend Killer is, I wouldn't dare even to guess.