Disclaimer: All characters belong to the WWE. I do not own anything except my OC Faith, a few other secondary OCs, and my story.

Note: This takes inspiration from the Undertaker storyline from 1996 to 1999; from the end of the Deadman era to the Ministry of Darkness era. I tried to make it close, but it isn't entirely accurate to that same timeline of events. Some characters may appear before their original debut, story elements tweaked to fix continuity errors/accommodate the paranormal theme, etc. It's best to think of this like a canon divergent universe.

October 20th, 1996

The setting sun colored the world in a filter of dull orange that reminded Faith of old photographs. She watched the people on the streets as the Greyhound bus passed by, picking nervously as her nails. It was a habit she wanted to kick, but today she'd make an exception. Too much was happening to focus on such a little thing.

As Market Square stadium came into view, her heart dropped into her stomach. She wasn't sure if she was more excited or anxious, the two emotions bled so similarly at times, but she was mostly sure it was positive.

This is it.

It was the dream job of a lifetime to be an official hair and makeup artist for the World Wrestling Federation! True, it wasn't the dream she'd fantasized about as a child, but this was a close second. An old sports injury made her true wish impossible, and, as much as it pained her, she'd accepted the hand she'd been dealt. It was okay. Just to have the opportunity to work alongside these talented athletes she'd watched since she was a girl was enough. She could immerse herself in the culture, meet new people, and refine her skills as a cosmetologist—which she loved too. Who could ask for more? Others would kill to be where she was now.

Less pain on my first day would be nice. She thought, feeling the throb in her spine from the long bus ride. She couldn't wait to get up and walk. The tingling in her legs drove her crazy and no amount of stretching was helping.

The bus stop came up quicker than Faith anticipated and she scrambled to grab her belongings. She stepped onto the sidewalk with a light limp that eventually disappeared as she got the feeling back in her legs.

She wasn't late for her new job, but she wanted to get there early to make a good first impression. Plus, she had a knack for getting lost easily. Better to be safe than sorry. Those extra minutes were vital if she screwed up.

Faith doubled then triple checked that she had everything she needed before heading inside the busy arena. The event wasn't for several hours, but that didn't stop the fans from gathering early outside and exploring the local shops nearby to kill time. She shuffled through them, excusing herself as she looked for where to go. Nothing made itself obvious.

Now the hard part: asking for directions to the staging area. That involved talking to people. An easy task for most; not so much for an awkward and quiet sort like herself. Regardless, she put on a smile and approached one of the security guards.

"Um, hello. I'm here to—I just got hired—and I… I'm supposed to… " her mind stalled, a wrench thrown into the cogs of her thought process as social anxiety took over.

The man who worked as security remained straight faced, clearly not amused. Faith's cheeks and ears started to turn red. She hated this.

"That one's with me."

Relief filled her chest when she heard the voice of her boss. Faith hurried past the guard to follow the lanky woman down the winding corridors to where the WWF had set up for the evening.

"Why didn't you show him your badge?" Her boss asked.

Faith smiled, sheepishly. "Sorry. I froze up."

"Well, luckily for you, you weren't hired for your people skills. Are you excited?"

"Yeah! I mean, yes, ma'am. Very excited."

The woman threw her head back and laughed. "Ma'am? Hey, you passed the interview process, kid. Besides, you're more of a partner than anything. Just Cheryl is fine; so you can drop the etiquette. Makes people sound fake as hell, anyway. Trust me, you're not going to hear talk like that often. These guys aren't exactly gentlemen."

"Should I be worried?"

"Not really. Just crude, but you already knew that."

Cheryl glanced back over her shoulder to inspect the new girl, the tiny gap between her front teeth drawing the eye. She was a little worried it might be more than just teasing. Faith was no diva. Far from it. Some might even think that saying she was "average" was being too generous; and it wasn't beneath some superstars to be brutally honest if not downright cruel.

"They might tease you for being a newbie, but don't take it personally. McMahon makes it mandatory that they stay in character while on the clock."

Faith nodded. She wasn't naive and sadly familiar with such things. Sometimes people were mean for the sake of it.

"I'll be okay."

They made it through the arena to the backstage hallway. "Here's your schedule for tonight. You'll be starting with Sunny and ending with…" Cheryl skimmed over the clipboard then frowned. "Oh. I can do the last one for you if you want."

"Why? Who is it?"

Faith stood closer to read the clipboard, her eyes scanning over the list of names until they reached the bottom. The Undertaker. She knew that name. Everyone knew that name.

"I didn't think I'd be working with a main event wrestler on my first day. Is he mean?" Faith said.

"No, no! Not really. Quiet. He's like a gentle giant—with us, at least—but he's an intense individual to be around. Might be too much on your first day. He's a great actor and really committed to the stay in character rule. Probably the best one here if I'm being honest."

She hated that her face was turning red as she thought about working with him. Intimidating or not, this man had become Faith's favorite wrestler since the first time she saw him on screen. Like so many others, she was fascinated by this giant of a man and how brutal and yet graceful he could be in the ring. He really sold that he was some otherworldly creature.

Faith shrugged. "I don't mind. I'd love to meet him."

"You're a fan of his, huh?" Cheryl added under her breath. "That checks out." Then, she cleared her throat. "Anyway, the doors are numbered so you shouldn't have any trouble finding who you need. Some you might have to wrangle from the hallway. God knows Shawn never stays in one place very long. Good luck!" The woman started down the hallway, leaving the rookie on her own. "You'll need it."

She watched her boss depart before looking down at the clipboard again. Sunny was first, followed by Hunter Hearst Helmsley and Chyna, and then a few others before she finished with Undertaker. Some of these she dreaded meeting; Like eating her vegetables before she got to dessert. Did that make the Undertaker a treat? What kind would he be? Ice cream—no Ice Scream, yeah! She giggled to herself and cringed inside.

This is the last place I'd ever tell a dad joke. Pretty sure that's a one way ticket to the hospital. Sad part is I wouldn't blame them either.

As she headed down the corridor, she heard someone snort like a pig then laugh. She didn't bother to see who did it. Maybe it was completely unrelated to her. Or maybe it was going to be a very long day…

She knocked softly on the door to room 14. No answer. The beautician waited and tried again. Still no answer. Hesitantly—she hated disturbing someone's privacy, but she did have a job to do—she cracked it open.

"Miss Sunny? I'm here to do your hair and makeup. W-whenever you're ready, I mean."

She caught the barest peek of the woman's back, topless and urgently whispering to someone Faith couldn't see. She quickly shut the door back.

"Just a second!"

After a minute of shuffling inside, the door finally swung open, and she came face to face with the Heartbreak Kid. Shawn Michaels stepped out of the room, pushing past the starstruck Faith none too delicately. She caught her balance against the concrete wall, apologizing to the man before slipping inside Sunny's dressing room.

"Hi. Sorry for bothering you." Faith said, setting out her things.

"He was just leaving." Sunny said, taking out a cigarette from her purse. "Who the hell are you?"

"I'm—"

"Right, right. Hair and makeup." The diva sat down in the styling chair, crossing her legs. "Hop to it, then."

"Yes, ma'am." The makeup artist said, moving to stand behind her chair. "What are we thinking of doing tonight?"

"The usual."

"The usual?" Faith wasn't sure what that was. "I'm new. Can you describe it to me?"

"You watch the show right?" Sunny asked, inspecting her nails.

"I never miss it!"

"Then you should know." She gave Faith a condescending smile.

Admittedly, Sunny wasn't the one Faith paid close attention to, but she had an idea of what she was talking about. Volume tended to be her go to when she saw the diva on television.

Faith took a peek in the mirror while she worked, comparing herself to Sunny. Man, she looked downright homely in comparison to the blonde bombshell. Dark brown hair with matching eyes, a pale complexion that could do with a nice tan but burned within fifteen minutes, broad shoulders, short, and a little overweight.

Every woman had their flaws, but Faith couldn't find any on Sunny. She thought it laughable that someone like her had the job of glamorizing others. Could a person as painfully average as her ever understand true beauty? She tried, studying her guts out to get to where she was. This was her passion. The only passion she could realistically pursue, anyway.

When in doubt, go with the latest trend. Faith's first recipient seemed pleased enough when she finished and had ushered the new hire out of the dressing room with barely a thank you. She hoped this wasn't a bad omen of things to come. They couldn't get worse, right?

Hunter Hearst Helmsley was in the second match of the night and would be on in about an hour with "Stone Cold" Steve Austin. This would be her first meeting with a superstar! It was nerve wracking, but she was determined. She went to the correct dressing room and knocked. When the door opened, Faith had to tilt her head to look up at the large woman standing in her way. If there was ever an Amazon warrior in the world, Chyna would most definitely be it.

Faith put on an anxious ridden smile. "H-hi, Miss Chyna."

"Get to the point."

"Hair and makeup." She quickly said, not wanting to test the woman's patience. "For you and Mr. Helmsley. If that's okay."

Chyna glanced back over her shoulder before widening the door for her to enter.

Hunter Hearst Helmsley, the well to-do snob of the WWF had only been around for a little over a year, but had quickly carved out a name for himself in the ring—or rather his bodyguard did. Chyna carried him through most of his matches by sabotaging Triple H's opponents so he could get an easy pin. As was to be expected of a heel.

The blue blood was sipping from a champagne glass when she entered the room, lounging in a plush armchair.

Faith smiled, feeling a burst of adrenaline meeting her first wrestler. "Hello, sir. My name is—"

He scoffed, cutting her off. "I don't care enough about riff-raff to be on a first name basis."

Right. The gimmick. He was a rich asshole and he played it well. "Oh. Well, it's an honor to meet you."

"I know." He eyed the squat woman up and down, judging every aspect he could see.

She composed herself and went on, "I'm… I-I'm here to get you two ready for tonight."

The man rolled his eyes and set his glass down on the side table. "Jesus Christ." He said, shaking his head. "This company must really be going down the shitter if McMahon is desperate enough to hire pigs."

That explained the snort from earlier. Faith was speechless for a moment, turning red in the face with embarrassment. That one kind of stung and she chastised herself for being sensitive.

Calm down. It's just an act.

Cheryl said it was mandatory for the wrestlers to stay in character. She couldn't get mad at him for doing his job. Besides, it wasn't like she hadn't heard similar insults in the past.

Let it slide like water off a duck's back. Her mother would say. Easier said than done. She still wasn't sure how to do that effectively.

"Ladies first." Hunter said, nodding at Chyna. "Seeing as you're the only one in the room."

The Amazon side eyed her as she sat down at the vanity.

Faith took out a color correcting primer and dabbed it on lightly with a sponge wedge. "I love your complexion." She said, trying to start some idle chit chat to fill the awkward silence. Not that she felt like she did a good job, but she made the effort for clients. "I'm practically a vampire. The sun never liked me much." She let out a nervous chuckle. "That's the only reason I have freckles."

Chyna shut her down. "Just be quiet and do your job."

The beautician hung her head. "Yes, ma'am. Sorry."

"She knows her place, at least." Triple H said.

The room became quiet as Faith worked which was fine with her. Having permission not to talk eased her nerves a little bit despite how rudely she'd been treated. It was hard to read people sometimes. Did they want to chat? Were her topics engaging enough? Did the interaction feel too fake? Silence did not have those stipulations. It let her perform in peace so she wasn't complaining.

She placed some hairspray on her ponytail to tame the flyaways. "How's that?"

"Adequate," Chyna said, getting up out of the chair.

Hunter took her place and Faith got to work on his hair, running a fine toothed comb through it. Things went well enough until they got to the eyeliner. The man kept blinking when she needed him to stay still which only added to the woman's frustration. It didn't help that he insulted her throughout the process.

"I wasn't aware that the Godwins had a sister-wife. Makes sense they'd marry a pig."

Faith tried to grin and bear it, but by the time she finished with Hunter, the snob act was getting stale. Despite her better judgment, she chose to play along.

"Haha… yep. Sure am. Keeping it in the family. A blue blood like you would know all about that, right?" The man's smug grin dropped from his face. He hadn't expected that and frankly, Faith was surprised to hear herself say it. "Gotta keep that line pure no matter what. Can't have no commoners soiling it. It just leaves the gene pool a tad shallow. Kind of like your personality."

Without warning, Faith felt a fist dig into her hair and yank hard.

"The fuck did you just say to me, pig?" Triple H yelled in her face before Chyna flung the makeup artist across the room.

Her back struck the armrest on the lounge chair before she collapsed on the floor. She saw stars; both legs going numb as her spine throbbed with agony. Every disc felt as if they had burst and were rubbing bone on bone. The pain was bad enough that it left her dizzy and nauseated. For a solid minute, all she could hear was a ringing in her ears as Triple H chewed her out.

Faith gazed up at the two wrestlers towering over her, scared and confused. "W-w-wha…?"

Hunter laughed. "She sounds like Porky Pig."

"Take back what you said." Chyna growled.

Faith broke immediately. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean anything! I-I was just playing along! I swear! Don't hurt me!"

The Amazon grabbed her by the shirt collar and lifted her to her feet. "You shut your mouth when you're around. No one gives a flying fuck what you have to say. Got it?"

Faith couldn't find her voice which was probably for the best. She nodded. She'd do whatever to get out of this alive and avoid more pain.

"Now, get out." The diva shoved her out of the room and Faith landed on her knees, grasping at the wall to regain her feet.

"Goodbye, Porky!" Hunter called out before the door slammed shut.

A few of the other staff members spared her a glance before carrying on with whatever they were doing. They acted like none of this was out of the ordinary.

Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry. She silently pleaded to herself as hot tears welled up in her eyes.

Between the verbal abuse and the chronic pain, she was overwhelmed. Cheryl didn't warn her that the wrestlers might lay hands on her. That didn't feel like an act! Then again, they had to stay in character, right? Maybe she was overreacting, but she felt like a line had been crossed. She'd not told her employer of her condition for fear of discrimination and she didn't plan on changing that. If she wanted to stay here and follow her dream, she'd have to suck it up and pretend she didn't have chronic pain.

Limping to the water fountain, she decided to take her medicine an hour early considering the amount of pain she was in. It was either that or be unable to work the rest of the day, and that wouldn't be a good first impression. She found the little prescription bottle and took one. She hated she had to rely on it, but it was either that or having no quality of life. Her doctor had promised that Tramadol was a new pain medication that was completely non-addictive. Sounded too good to be true really. She sure as hell wasn't going to test that theory by popping more.

She took a few minutes to pull herself together before finding the willpower to limp to her next assignment. As long as no one asked about it, she'd be good. Her cover story was that she'd just stubbed her toe. If they knew she had back problems, she'd be fired in a heartbeat—illegal or not. It had happened to her before and lawyers weren't cheap. In the end, it was just burning money and a company like the WF would just drag out the court case until she went broke and was forced to drop it. She knew better.

After a few mostly uneventful sessions with more polite wrestlers, Faith reached the last person on the list. She stopped in front of the Undertaker's dressing room and heaved a sigh. The stress of her first day had worn on her. This was the wrestler she admired most and yet she didn't feel excitement. She wanted to be, but pain and fatigue hogged the attention.

She knocked on the door and said, "Makeup," in a tired voice before opening the door.

Faith peered inside the dark room. It was hard to see, but once her eyes adjusted, she found him. Like a streak of paint, the silver hues of the night stretched from the window and bathed the Undertaker in ethereal moonlight. The sight of him stole her breath away as she saw terror and beauty bound as one. It was mesmerizing. She bet she looked like an idiot standing there with her jaw hanging open.

From his expression, he looked as exhausted as she did. He sat in the styling chair that he could barely fit into, his hands gripping the armrests. His eyes were shut and his brow furrowed. Was he asleep?

Her hands shook, causing the doorknob to jiggle a little, but even that didn't break him from… whatever he was doing.

The woman took a deep breath. Keep it together. He's just a regular guy.

"Undertaker, sir. I'm sorry. I need to turn a light on to work. Is that okay?" He said nothing, didn't even acknowledge her presence. Not knowing what else to do, she flicked the switch on, filling the room with fluorescent light.

The giant growled in annoyance and leveled a heated gaze at her reflection.

She bowed her head. "A-again, I'm sorry to disturb you. I'll be quick and get out of your hair. I promise."

Cheryl had said he was committed to his part, but it was kind of frustrating he was irritated with her presence too. Couldn't she just do her damn job in peace and leave? Did they have to remind her how beneath them she was? She was well aware. No nudge needed. It had already been a long night. She really wanted to get this over with.

She couldn't help but wonder. Am I that much of an eyesore?

She noticed a stool in the corner and sighed with relief, realizing she could do this while sitting. Her back was killing her and she hadn't had a chance to get off her feet. Not of her own free will, anyway.

"Can I use this, please?"

Unbeknownst to Faith, her pain and fatigue was etched onto her face; her body quivering from the effort of trying to appear like an able bodied person. She might be able to fool the average person, but not the Deadman. Living or deceased, he could read people like a book while being nearly impossible to decipher himself.

He gave her a single nod before returning to his meditation. Tonight was important. He had to end this. Mankind would be buried alive. Then the traitor was next…

"Thank you." she said, breathlessly as she set it up behind him. The pressure came slowly off her spine, but any relief was welcome.

She swiveled the Undertaker's chair around to face her. His eyes were unfocused, looking through her as if he were somewhere else.

A part of Faith wanted to gush, to tell him how much she admired him, but after what happened with Triple H she figured it was safer to keep her trap shut.

She noticed his eyes were already dark with eyeshadow, or so she assumed. They looked nice and smoky. Maybe her boss had stepped in and did a little? Whatever. Less for her to do.

Such pretty eyes. The tv doesn't do him justice at all. None of these guys, really. Mauve will really make that ghoulish green pop.

She took out the appropriate palette and brush. "Close your eyes for me, please."

The Undertaker did as he was told and Faith gently smoothed the violet hue onto his eyelids. As she attempted to blend the color with what he already had, she noticed it wasn't mixing like it was supposed to. In fact, it seemed more like his skin was naturally colored that way.

What is that?

"Hey, um…" Faith struggled with how to break this to him. She'd already been thrown across a room once that night and didn't want to make it two. "You've got some discoloration here. Is that normal for you?"

He said nothing. Okay. Not much of a talker. She swallowed, starting to feel really unnerved at this point. Cheryl was right. He was intense to be around, the very weight of his presence encompassing the entire room and sitting on her chest.

Faith wiped off the eyeshadow so she could start over. If he didn't have primer, he was going to sweat it off in the ring in no time. Once that was taken care of she went back to the eyeshadow, putting on a little gray to mix with the purple.

She grabbed a black eyeliner pencil, "Look up for me."

Faith leaned forward, reaching out to touch his chin and lightly tilt his head back. Ice cold skin met her fingertips and she let out a sharp gasp as she jerked her hand back like she'd been shocked. He didn't look surprised in the least at her reaction.

"Oh my God! You're freezing!" She gawked at him while she struggled to think of what to say next. That had to come off as rude and she quickly apologized. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have yelled. I was just—" Freaked out. "Surprised. Are you—should I turn a heater on? Get you a blanket? Coffee?"

The Undertaker shook his head.

"Are you sure?" She was genuinely worried, having never felt anyone so cold.

For the first time, he spoke. "I don't notice it anymore. It isn't a problem." His voice was low and rumbled like thunder. She'd heard him speak for promos, but nothing could convey the sheer intimidating power he possessed through a tv screen. It had to be felt.

Faith's brows knitted together. It wasn't a problem? Did he have some kind of circulatory issues? She nodded, accepting the information with no push back. His medical history wasn't any of her business. Dammit, if she wasn't curious as hell, though.

Is he actually… he really feels—

The beautician couldn't finish the thought, breaking into a chuckle. No. Of course not. She wouldn't entertain such a silly idea. This was all just a show. Some people took ice baths. Not a lot, but some! There was a reasonable explanation to all this, she was certain. He said it was fine; so it had to be fine.

Ignoring the coldness of his skin, she applied the rest of the eyeliner. With his spooky theme, she had the pleasure of making the lines thicker and more dramatic than his fellow wrestlers. That made it more fun. She could actually experiment with different styles.

He was the complete opposite to Hunter Hearst Helmsley. He didn't flinch once. The mascara went on like a dream too.

"Blink for me. Blink… blink… and blink." She smiled, screwing the cap back onto the bottle. "You're a pro at this. The best by far."

Next, she wiped his face down before applying the ivory foundation. Not that he needed much. His skin was already so pale and flawless. As a finishing touch, she added in the subtle marks above his eyebrows with a brown pencil and blending brush, making him look more sinister.

Faith turned his chair back around to face the mirror and waited for his response. Surprise! There was none. Did she do the Deadman justice? If he liked it, he kept it to himself.

She spritzed his hair with a water bottle to get it damp before scrunching her fingers through it. "You want it in your eyes?"

A soft grunt was all she got out of him.

I hope that's a yes because that's what I'm going with.

That was fine with her. Honestly, she loved watching him flip his hair back in the ring over and over.

"How do you fight like that? I get a hair stuck in my mouth and feel like I'm gonna choke to death." She giggled.

Sne saw the slightest twitch at the corner of his lips, but it was gone quickly. Maybe she imagined it.

Faith took a round brush and ran it through his hair, stopping only to take out a tangle with a fine tooth comb. He definitely took very good care of it. There was some chemical damage, but she knew that wasn't his fault. "You'll probably need your roots done again soon. I like the red, personally. It's a beautiful color."

"McMahon doesn't."

The big man that called the shots. Figured that would be his decision.

"Hm. Maybe you could compromise with him? I know you don't have time tonight, but if you want, I can make it auburn. That's like a reddish brown. It'll mix better than a darker color. Also won't be so hard on your hair if I use mostly toner." No response. She guessed that was a solid no. "You look good—great! Absolutely great!"

Faith hurried over to the coat rack and folded his trench coat over her arm and his hat while he pulled on his signature purple gloves. He waved her away when she offered the items. He hadn't been wearing these lately and she wondered if it was because without his urn or Paul Bearer, he didn't feel complete.

There was no luxury to take his time and enjoy a good fight as the Phenom may have normally. He was tired of waiting. He'd get in there and take care of Mankind and then Paul Bearer quickly.

The makeup artist craned her neck to look up at the man as he stood up. The difference in their sizes was comical. She felt so tiny compared to him.

"You are dedicated, I'll give you that. I guess that's why everyone loves you so much." The fan girl in her would not be swayed to silence any longer. She swallowed nervously before blurting out. "I love it when you walk the rope! It's my favorite move of yours. It's so… so…" the next thing she knew, French was coming out of her mouth. "Élégant,"

The Undertaker cocked an eyebrow; which was the biggest expression he'd given her so far. The silence that stretched out between them was nigh unbearable for Faith, her face turning blood red.

Good Lord in heaven… That sounded so much better in my head.

"God, I'm rambling. I'm sorry. I'll get out of your way." She started to move towards the door.

"That's four." He said.

"Huh?" She stopped, looking back.

"Apologies."

"Oh. I'm uh… I-I didn't realize."

The monster stepped closer to her. "I'll do the move if you promise not to make it five."

A few rapid blinks later, she smiled. "Okay…"

With that he walked out of the room, leaving her bewildered.

What a strange man.

Faith dragged her feet to the lounge, looking for her boss. Several of the staff were huddled around a small tv watching the matches, including Cheryl who looked disappointed when she realized she'd arrived.

"You're still here? Goddammit, I was sure you'd run after meeting Helmsley."

The rookie beautician tilted her head in confusion. "What?"

"I'll take that 50 bucks now." She didn't see the speaker's face, but she did see a fume of smoke rise up from behind the couch.

"Yeah, yeah…" Cheryl said, reaching into her pocket.

Faith looked at her boss, hurt. "You bet against me? You wanted me to fail?"

"Don't take it personally. I didn't want you to fail. I just wanted the money and figured you were more likely to jump ship than stay. Can you blame me? You couldn't even talk to the security guard when I found you."

This was the straw that broke the camel's back. Faith was ready to break down and she bit down on her lower lip to hold back a sob. Was this all she had to look forward to? She started to walk away when she felt an arm around her shoulder.

"Come on! I didn't mean anything bad by it. You made it, kid. You're crying and a little beat up, but you made it. I'm glad I was wrong."

"Really?" She asked, sniffling.

"Yeah! They thought I was gonna run too five years ago. It's like an initiation."

Faith couldn't help but scoff. "So being flung across the room is just part of the welcome wagon?"

Cheryl shrugged. "Basically! It is called the WF for a reason."

"But t-that really hurt!"

"It sounded like it from outside. Learned your first lesson real quick. You fuck with Hunter Hearst Helmsley and you fuck with Chyna. So don't do either. Unless you want your spine broken."

Too late for that. Faith thought.

"The Buried Alive match starts in about an hour. I know you want to watch it."

"Which means I have to get ready." The person who had spoken earlier stood up. "Congratulations on your first day. It'll get better."

Without the gold dress, she didn't realize who this woman was at first.

"I'll be with you and Dusty in just a sec, Terri." Cheryl said before the diva left. She turned to Faith and guided her over to a chair. "Get comfortable, shoot the shit, and enjoy yourself a bit."

Backstage

Waiting in the Gorilla, Undertaker paced as he waited to make his entrance. The air was filled with Mankind's theme and his blood boiled.

His mind wandered back to that morning, standing in the makeshift executive office of the WWF.

"I've looked over yours and Mankind's terms for this match. What you want. What he wants. You settle this in the ring, but at the end of the day," Vince McMahon sat behind a desk and pointed at himself. "I am the judge, jury, and executioner for you freaks."

The Undertaker had snarled, but the man wasn't wrong either. As much as he loathed McMahon, he had taken him and many others in who had been touched by the paranormal. He was a warden that used them to make money, sure, but he'd also done everything to help a creature like himself retain his freedom. To some degree. This freak show hidden in plain sight was preferable to being dissected in a lab.

He nodded and McMahon continued. "If you win, you get the urn back and I leave Paul Bearer's fate in your hands. If Mankind wins, he has demanded you be locked away in your casket. Permanently."

Of course. He expected no less from Mankind. Not only did the psycho want the Undertaker to experience death again, but he wanted him to suffer, to feel the walls closing in around him as he fell into insanity. Usually, a casket was a safe place for him. That was where he recovered his strength, but to be locked in there forever? It would drive him mad. That's exactly what Mankind wanted.

And Paul… He'd use every advantage at his disposal to slip through his fingers. This might be his only chance to extract justice. Whatever it took, even if he had to destroy himself in the process, he was winning this match.

"You may be buried alive for the show but we both know that won't be enough to keep you down." McMahon said. "And so does Mankind and Paul Bearer."

Fire, gunshots, electricity, stabbings, evisceration, embalming, suffocation… No matter how bad the wound, the Deadman regenerated. While he could lay others to rest, he was damned to walk the earth till the end of time. A fitting punishment. Were it not for him his family would still be alive. His mother, his father, his little brother… The Undertaker could never rest in peace knowing what he had done.

McMahon pushed a black case engraved with gold across the table. He knew what to do. The Undertaker opened it and looked inside, delicately removing the items from the velvet lined box. There it was. He and Paul had used this ritual dagger and raven quill to settle feuds against other wrestlers on numerous occasions. Blood magic. It was the easiest way for Vince to keep some semblance of order among them. The Phenom just never imagined he'd be doing this against his adoptive father, the man he trusted most. The last person he expected to betray him.

"When you're ready," McMahon said.

The Undertaker unsheathed the dagger and like many times before cut his palm open. He coated the quill, using his blood as ink, and signed the contract.

The toll of the gong broke him from his thoughts. It was time. Shrouded by fog and the sound of thunder, he stepped through the curtains into the arena.