Author's note: A quick thank you to everyone who reads this story still. Two years ago I posted the first chapter and, though it initially was supposed to end long ago, I still enjoy writing it so everyone who does read it means a lot to me..
He sighs, pushing his apartment door open. It feels like a lifetime has passed, but also like it'd happened just yesterday. He presses his forehead against the doorway, resting his hand against his neck. Most days he's too bitter to care but sometimes... like today... he misses the comradery of the business, always having someone who understood nearby to talk to, or be a phone call away. Now their schedules are all so different that he hasn't talked to anyone in a really long time. He takes a deep breath, finally feeling strong enough to pull away, lock his door and hide inside the living room for awhile, losing himself in TV and some equally mindnumbing alcohol, when a strong force rams the door, spilling him inside the hallway. He's just turned around in time to get a knee to the face. As he gasps and scrambles, a large hand tangles itself in his hair, pulling him up to his feet roughly.
"Well, hello there," a low voice greets him. "Remember me?"
He stares up at the large man who'd just forced his way into the apartment, shaking his head. "Of course I do-"
Visibly pleased, he releases the other man with a unceremonious thump onto the floor. "Well then. With that out of the way, it should be obvious what I'm here for. You're going to work with me."
"For what?"
"To get back at WWE, of course." There's a maddening smirk on the attacking man's face that slowly slips away when the somewhat taller man shakes his head, scrabbling for his doorknob. "What was that?"
"No, I won't," he forces out, overwhelmed by this monster in his apartment but still maintaining enough dignity to deny the order. "I'm done with that place, I don't want anything to do with it, especially anything to do with revenge. You're gonna have to do it yourself or find someone else."
Before he can take another step, there's a sudden, throbbing sort of pain on his jaw and he's out almost immediately, unable to fight back or stop the proceedings as his apartment door is shut ruthlessly behind his attacker.
Mike sighs, running his fingers through his hair. The past few months have sucked, no doubt about it. To be honest, it had started when Vince McMahon was about to fire John Cena a year ago almost to the day- the whole locker room had held their breath on that one, most looking forward to the decision with only Cena's closest friends sighing in relief when HHH interrupted and relieved Vince of his day to day responsibilities. It had been the catalyst, though, to a certain kind of change that had seen Laurinaitis take over when the power- surprise, surprise- had gone to HHH's head. From there, things had really spiraled. Alex Riley's career had become something of an afterthought, John Morrison had been fired, and Miz himself... well. Had a few moments of chance and luck where he'd thought things were about to turn around for him, become better, but in the end, everything would fall through and leave him feeling worse than he had previously.
He leans forward, resting his chin in his palms. "Dammit." It's July and he'd had hopes that things would turn around by now, especially with three hour Raws starting soon, but he's not even sure that that'll help, his matches barely accounting to anything more than his being a space filler in tag matches or... Biting his lips, he stares ahead blankly. "There has to be something..."
He stops talking to himself, flushing hotly, as someone drops down next to him on the bench. "Talking to yourself, Mike?"
He relaxes slightly, relieved that it's only Alex Riley. "Something like that," he mutters, tying his wrestling boots up viciously. He has another pointless match later in the evening, not even looking forward to leaving the locker room to compete. His bad luck before, and after, filming the Marine: Homefront makes it hard to get in the ring and try to gather together enough strength for a victory. He knows it's a self-defeatist attitude like that that gets none of them anywhere, but his lack of anything substantial to do is eating away at him more and more as time goes by.
Alex nods, stretching quietly. Their friendship had gone through some rocky points lately, mostly because of how off both of their careers had become compared to a year ago. Things had been better since Mike's time in Canada but they were still all so busy with their own things, there hadn't been much time to talk about anything serious. "Other than that, you doing alright?"
It's his turn to nod, taking in a deep breath. "Yeah, I'm hanging in there." He roughly pulls his tangled up wristbands apart, rolling his eyes as they snap loudly against his skin. "You?"
"Same here." They fall silent once more as Mike leans forward to stuff his street clothes into the duffel bag at his feet, ready to leave for his match. "Good luck, Mike."
He pauses at the door, not looking back. "Thanks, A-Ri." With that, he's gone, heading for the ring to see what nonsense could befall him this week.
"Mr. Laurinaitis," Eve hisses, glancing around. No cameras are around so she enters the office with hurried footsteps. As she approaches the General Manager of both Raw and Smackdown, she shuts and locks the door behind her. "Sir." When he turns to look at her, she stands at attention, hands tight on the edge of a clipboard to keep him from seeing how they'd been trembling just seconds earlier. "We have a problem."
Despite his face remaining blank and unreadable, she can see a gleam of worry in his eyes. "Now what, Eve?" As he reaches out for the phone she's holding out to him, she considers how much of a toll the job has already taken on him. He had eaked out a by-the-fingertips victory against John Cena a month and a half ago, only made possible by the Big Show's desperate attempt at getting his job back, but since then things had only gotten worse for him, HHH breathing down all of their necks since Brock Lesnar's attack against him that broke his arm. Whatever control they'd had over the business had gone down the drain with both HHH and the shareholders watching so close, adding to John Laurinaitis' aggravation.
He listens for a moment to the person on the other end, his face slowly paling under his tan. As he presses the phone against his forehead, looking even more tired than he had when she first entered, she rests a comforting hand on his arm, just as lost as he is to fix all that had gone wrong. HHH isn't going to like this, she thinks bitterly.
The two are just leaving a modeling gig during which they had, of course, been encouraged to set up more in the future, when a menacing shadow stops before them, causing them to pull up short. As they squint up through their sunglasses, both drop their purses in concert. "Oh God," the quieter of the two mumble.
"What do you want?" the other demands, trying to hide her fright.
"Just to talk, girls. Just to talk." The smirk across the large man's face grows as he takes in their badly hidden fear. "Let's go somewhere less out in the open, hmm?"
Mike sits outside, staring up at the dark sky. His match, of course, had resulted in a loss but there's something else- in the ten minutes he'd been out in the ring, a change had come over the back. Tech hands suddenly look tense and anxious, Eve and Otunga both marching around, yelling at the smallest thing they don't approve of or think need to be changed. Laurinaitis hadn't been seen but, after stopping in to talk with him, one of the road agents look unsettled, his lips pulled tight as he rushes to the techs and start yelling too, motioning angrily to the nearby monitor screens.
After a few minutes of this drama and headache inducing yelling, Mike had come out here to relax and decompress after his match. Whatever's going on inside, he figures, can resolve itself on its own. He'll find out what happened eventually, for now he just needs to be alone. It's peaceful and quiet out here, with only muffled sounds of people wandering around the arena talking, and he remembers many times in the past when he and Alex and Morrison had all sat out here, attempting to get away from whatever hardtimes they were all going through, or just enjoying the weather. He misses it more than anything else sometimes.
He's still sitting out there, not even minding how cold the concrete is beneath his legs, when the exit door slams open and Alex storms outside. "Mike!"
Looking up, startled at the sound of his former protege's voice, he quickly stands and walks out from behind a trunk, gripping the younger man by the arms before he can rush headlong into him. "Alex! What the hell, man?"
"You're missing everything," he gasps, looking troubled. "I can't even explain it, come inside, now!"
"Fine, fine," he says reluctantly, rolling his eyes as he trails after Alex. "What-" His words die in his mouth as he peers over at the nearest monitor, realizing immediately. "Brock Lesnar."
The sandy haired man is glaring at them all from the screen, his large arms crossed over his chest. "Until I get what I want, you all aren't going anywhere. Every week, it's going to be the same thing. And I'm not alone." As he pulls away, the Bella Twins saunter up from either side of him.
"Where the hell are they?" one of Brodus Clay's "Funkadactyls" ask, sounding a bit fearful.
"It looks like one of the production trucks," Alex observes, taking in the wall of screens and keyboards behind the three sneering former superstars.
"We told you you would regret firing us, Eve. Not that we need the WWE, far from it, but Brock Lesnar here is very persuasive. We never should've just accepted that. We brought eyes to the WWE for years, and you treat us like that?" Nikki demands, leaning closer to the screen. "You never deserved us. Now, we're going to make you all pay."
Mike and Alex share troubled glances, neither liking the sound of this. As the minutes tick by, the screen remains black, only sometimes interrupted by an appearance from Brock or one of the twins. Anytime someone tries bravely- or stupidly- to get into the truck, they return a few minutes later, supported by someone else, hanging on the precipice of unconsciousness. The tension of the backstage area grows with each passing second.
"What do we do?"
"I don't think there's anything we can do," Mike mutters, pulling Alex away from the scene before someone suggests one of them try to stop Brock's madness.
"You were one of the most respected agents out there," Brock says, his face belying his words. "WWE never deserved you either. You should join us, gain some revenge against the company who threw you away without a second thought." When the older man doesn't seem interested, he tries one more track. "You should want this, if anything just to prove to your... son... that standing your ground has its own merits."
"No," Fit Finlay says simply, his accent dull and bored as he snaps his ever-present shilleghlae against his wrist in a silent warning. "Not interested."
"Oh, I'll give you some time. You might come around," Brock sneers, rolling his eyes at the Irish weapon. "See you soon."
As soon as he's gone, Finlay sighs, well aware that Lesnar could probably break his one line of defense as easily as he could one of his bones. "Don't come back."
"Is there even a point to going to Raw tonight?" Alex asks Mike, leaning against the doorway of the hotel room. A week had passed and so far Brock Lesnar had maintained his control, quickly overpowering the security Vince had tried placing at both the Superstars and Smackdown production trucks, leaving both of those shows black as well.
"I doubt it," Mike grumbles, throwing a couple of other things in his bag. "At least we might as well go, show some unity. If anything, maybe it'll gain some notice and get us some worthwhile matches down the road whenever things go back to normal, or something."
"That'd be good," Alex responds doubtfully, echoing how the other man feels. Things are so up in the air, it's impossible to even guess when if ever things will become normal.
"Have you heard of me?"
"Who hasn't?" the large man rumbles, peering across at the other man. "You're Brock Lesnar."
"And you're the overlooked member of the original Nexus," he returns smoothly, undisturbed as the dark skinned man bristles. "Michael Tarver. How'd you like some payback?"
There's a long, tense staredown between the two intense men, before Michael stands up, hands curling into fists at his side. "What do you have in mind?"
That Monday, of course, things are more of the same, heightened security and holding the production crew and equipment in another location still not enough to keep Brock and the Bellas- this time with Michael Tarver- away from holding it hostage. USA Network execs are understandably angry, constantly on the phone with Laurinaitis demanding that he do something, regain control of the show, do anything to fix the television feed so there's actual action and not two more hours of darkness, their ratings average already taking a sizeable hit from the week before. Big Johnny looks like he's about to lose it completely, especially when one of the execs adds in the little dig that no such thing had ever happened when Vince McMahon was in charge.
Fans had been refunded ticket prices, kept from the arena just in case Brock's madness should spread further and cause them to be targetted by his growing army of bitter former superstars. On the flip side of that, the locker rooms are full of superstars with nothing to do and nowhere to go who still feel obligated to be there, especially if they're needed or wanted in the struggle to regain control of the business they loved. Mike is in one with Zack, Alex, Cody and a handful of others, the silence tense and depressed. Most of them love competing, and even when morale is at its lowest, it's nothing like this.
Heath Slater sighs loudly, jumping up to his feet. "This sucks, man," he exclaims, sitting around twiddling his thumbs doing absolutely nothing for his usually hyper persona. As he paces around, his co-competitors watch him with something between disdain and agreement.
"So do something about it," Miz snaps at the younger man, glancing around as some of the others nods.
"Why don't we?" Alex asks, surprising most of the people in the room. Being one of the newer WWE superstars, he generally keeps his mouth shut out of respect to the much more seasoned veterans around him, but this seems to have been his breaking point. "Take the company back? Get our careers back?"
"How do you suggest we do that?" a derisive Cody Rhodes sneers from the back of the room, Mike's glare fixing on him warningly. He doesn't back down, however.
"Find out what Brock's endgame is, how he plans to get there... thwart it?"
"Like what?" Mike asks, interrupting the others before they can gang up on his former protege. "What are you thinking, Alex?"
As the younger man begins to talk, everyone grows from disdainful to cautiously intrigued. "That could work, I guess," Rhodes finally concedes reluctantly.
Knock... knock...
A dark haired woman looks up with a frown, her small dog lacing back and forth between her legs, barking excitedly. "Shhh, Charlie," she reprimands the little guy as she walks over to the door. Peering out of the small peep hole, she blanches angrily. Roughly wrenching the barrier open, she crosses her arms across her chest while glaring out at the two women waiting for her. "What are you two putas doing at my home?"
"Classy as ever, Melina," Brie Bella greets her coolly. "This is your home, hm?" She looks around in disdain before nudging a smirking Nikki. "Looks about what I expected for her to live in, right?"
"No, actually, I think it's even worse than what I pictured." The twins are obviously about to go on another one of their run-on rant fests against everything and everyone in the area, snapping out of it as Melina rolls her eyes and steps back, about to slam the door in their faces, beyond over the old WWE drama.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Brie says, blocking her by smacking a hand against the door. The two overwhelm her, entering the apartment and leaving the door wide open as they push her further into the kitchen. She has no choice but watch as Charlie scampers out of the apartment, biting her lip as the little puppy yaps his way down the hallway.
She's about to start laying punches when another voice enters the melee, Morrison entering their apartment with a curious, tense look on his face as he holds onto an excitedly squirming Charlie. "Mel, what's-" His voice dies away as he spots the twins. "What are you two doing here?"
"I've been wondering the same-" Her voice cuts off in horror as a hulking form appears behind her boyfriend. "JOHN!" All her warning does is causes him to turn into the attack as Brock Lesnar smashes a ridiculously large arm against his face, sending him crashing to the ground. As the Bellas try to block Melina's exit, Charlie scampers out of Morrison's hands and straight to her, tripping the twins up with his spastic movements.
Still struggling to stand, bruises already forming across his cheek and jaw, John looks over at her, panting. She hates what he's visibly asking her to do at her first opportunity, to run, leave him here alone with this monster... but both of them stuck here does no one any good. They need help, and fast. She nods tightly, turning to face the twins while clinging to Charlie. How exactly she's going to get past Brock, she has no idea, but first things first. These two.
It happens at once- Morrison forces himself to his feet while using the counter to support himself, then swings out at Brock with a nearby can opener, dazing the larger man long enough to land a true hit that sends him stumbling back into the living room, unblocking the door. Taking her chance, Melina grabs an umbrella, snapping it open in the Bellas' faces. The two vapid things fall back, sputtering and whining about their hair and makeup, giving her the time to clutch little Charlie closer to her and dash for the empty doorway. She's out in the hall when she almost runs into Michael Tarver, but he simply stares at her as she stops short. Freaked out by his intense glare, she freezes until he jerks his head towards the elevator, an obvious sign he's letting her go.
"Thank you," she whispers, not sure why he's giving her this brief kindness, but she doesn't question it much further, quickly dashing for the escape. As soon as the doors close, giving her some shelter against the madness happening in her apartment, her chest seizes. John.
Mike and Alex are staring at each other, both looking uncomfortable and tense. Alex had taken the flight back with Miz, determined to help him figure out the way to end this Lesnar nonsense and so here he is, sitting on the edge of Mike's couch, listening to the others bickering via voice chat, which seemed the easiest and cheapest way to get them all to talk in one place without risking physical harm to those who hate each other. "Shut. UP!" Mike finally snaps at the laptop, his eyes blazing. "Do we really have time for you guys' little bitch fits or do we want to, oh I don't know, get our careers back?" He glances towards Alex, that ever present camaradery that never really fades away comforting them both slightly as Alex stares back at him, nodding in agreement when he mutters, "Such as they are for some of us."
"Arguing for hours won't help anyone," he speaks up while the others all glare at them, displeased with the interruption. "We've already worked out that Lesnar is targetting other former WWE employees who still may have beef with the company, now we just need to decide on our next move."
"I heard from David," Tyson Kidd says quietly, eyes gleaming with worry for his former tag partner. "He was just released from the hospital yesterday. Lesnar attacked him when he refused to help them."
Miz sucks on his lower lip thoughtfully. "When was this?"
"A couple weeks ago. He was kept so long due to a severe head injury they wanted to keep an eye on. As soon as he was released and heard what was going on, he called me." He leans forward. "We need to be really careful here, one wrong move and that could be any or all of us."
"Obviously," Mike says with an eyeroll. Whatever else he might want to say is interrupted as Hornswoggle yells over all of them, his voice trembling.
"My dad was approached too!"
"Was he attacked also?" Alex asks, frowning. Everyone, no matter how long with the business, has some level of respect for the legends and Finlay is one of the most liked men around the back, especially during his time as an agent before his firing. The thought that he, or any of the other legends, could be targetted in such a manner leaves them all on edge and uncomfortable.
"No!" the little guy says, flailing his arms slightly. "Lesnar let him go with a promise to return."
This causes the buzz to build once more and Miz lets it go on for a bit, lost in thought. "At the least," he says finally, "we need a list of everyone fired or released in the last year or two. It seems like Brock is starting with guys fired more recently." He and Alex exchange glances, both with worried looks on their faces. Morrison might've been approached already, he thinks with a grimace. I don't think he'd accept, he seems content enough with his life post-WWE but... what if Lesnar...? Unwilling to fully focus on the possibilities, he turns his attention back to the matter at hand.
Alex picks his cell phone up and wanders off as Mike starts scribbling down different names yelled out by the people staring at him from the webcam screens scattered across his laptop monitor. He has almost twenty names down when Alex rushes back in, eyes wide. "Mike!" he yells, the former WWE champion jerking in shock at how loud he sounds in the suddenly deathly silent room.
He knows what has Alex so upset before he even looks at his former protege, shaking his head. "No. Alex... Don't."
"Melina answered when I called to warn them. Mike, John's been attacked. She thinks it's bad."
Alex has never seen Mike move so fast; within minutes the laptop is shut down and unplugged, quickly tossed into a bag which is thrown into the backseat. "Get in!" he snaps, watching with a harsh glare as the younger man jumps into the passenger seat, just barely getting his seat belt clipped into place before Mike peels out of his driveway, ranting. "How could she leave him behind like that? I mean, seriously? Not even call for help or anything?"
"She was scared," he tries defending the former WWE diva, wincing away as Mike simultaneously snorts in his direction and turns a sharp right, ignoring opposing traffic's shrill beeping. The only thing that keeps him from deeming his life null and void is that Morrison's apartment is just a couple minutes away from where they're at currently and Mike had taken a short cut with somewhat slighter traffic, versus one of the always ludicrously busy freeways interlacing between their places of residence.
"Scared! Sure! Scared enough to run down to the lobby and just keep on running, probably!" he yells, changing gears to make the already maxed out car go even faster. "Dammit." He punches the wheel before skidding to a stop at a red light. "Come on, come on, come on."
Alex takes a deep breath, shaking his head. "Mike, I get you're pissed, I do. But getting us in a car accident isn't going to help Morrison."
Mike turns to glare at him, so much pain and disgust warring in his gaze that it leaves Alex breathless. "He's my best friend, Alex." It's said softly, trembling. "If... if something happens to him after... after all the arguments and stupid crap we've said and done to each other lately, I... I don't know what I'll do. I have to help him."
Alex's eyes begin prickling as he stares at Mike's destroyed gaze, the simple statement leaving them both broken emotionally. "I know, Mike," he whispers softly. "We've all let too much get in the way. I... I've missed the way things used to be."
"Me too," his former NXT pro mutters. "I don't know why we let it get this bad again."
"Look, it's getting better, right?" he whispers, tapping the back of Mike's hand with shaky fingers. "We're ok now. And we'll continue to be ok, after this. We just need to find Morrison and kick Brock's ass." Shaking his head, the younger man glances up. "Green, Mike."
A deep breath later, they take off quickly once more. As soon as John's apartment building comes into view, they both tense up. Melina is standing, pacing anxiously across the hard asphalt in front of the door. As soon as they park, not even caring that it's not a real designated spot, they're out of the car and rounding on her.
She meets them half way, her long nails digging into Mike's shirt as she grabs at him with her free hand, the other clinging to a fussing, yapping Charlie. "Please," she begs, dark eye makeup trailing down her cheeks as she sobs quietly. "He's inside, they haven't come out, I don't think. Please help him!"
"That's what we're here for," he snaps at her, quickly releasing himself from her grip. One quick glance at Alex and they're storming inside, ignoring the reaction of the other people who are scattered around the lobby as they rush for the stairs. Elevators take too long, with people getting off and on at all times, so it seems to take much less time as they take them at an all-out run. "Here!" Mike grunts, slamming through the third floor door. Alex follows him at a mad pace down the hallway until they reach Morrison's door, which is hanging haphazardly off of its frame, obviously broken. "Oh God," he breathes out.
Another exchanged glance and they venture into the trashed apartment, taking in how so many things are scattered around the usually impeccable kitchen, down the short hall and into the living room. "Holy crap," Alex mutters, almost tripping over a pan sticking out of a cabinet drawer. "John must've put up a hell of a fight."
Mike nods, disturbed and even more angry than he was ten minutes earlier. "Yeah. But... where the hell is he now?" He sinks bonelessly down onto the tile floor, staring around at all of the carnage around him. Michael Tarver and Brock Lesnar both targetting him, when he hasn't wrestled very much in months... You better be ok, John, or I'll kick your ass myself.
Alex texts Melina after a few minutes and she ventures back into the apartment, eyes wide as a bitter sob shakes her frame. "Oh, God. Jomo..." She holds Charlie close, shaking her head. "Where is he?"
"We don't know," A-Ri tells her quietly, helping her to the couch.
"We'll find him." Mike grimaces down at her. He doesn't like her much, tried in the past for Morrison's sake, but a lot of things about her had rubbed him wrong, still do. "He's going to be fine. I'll make sure of it."
She's too dazed to start their usual arguments, simply nodding. "I believe you." They're about to leave, to try to figure out the next step in their search, when she looks up, dark brown eyes gleaming. "Mike?"
"Yeah?"
"He... he was really in a bad mindset about things for awhile, and then he wasn't sure if things could be fixed- again- or if either of you would want them to be. But I... he said things were better recently, that you'd all been talking more lately." She sniffs. "He missed you. Both of you. I could tell." She's rocking back and forth, crying harder now, her words near impossible to decipher. "Please take care of him."
Mike is frozen, an uncomfortable sadness upon his overly expressive face while they stare at each other, equally as devestated for different reasons. The moment is broken when Alex rests a hand between his shoulder blades. "Come on, Mike. We need... we need to go."
"Yeah." He spares another quick glance back at John's miserable girlfriend once more before storming out of the apartment, glad to be away from the prevailing sense of hopelessness coming from her and the destroyed surroundings.
Alex mutters something to Melina, locking and shutting the door behind him before he joins Mike. "Now what?"
"Now we try to stop Lesnar at the pass," he sighs, pulling out the list of guys who'd been fired recently. He looks up, shaking his head. "Let's get to work."
"Lucky Cannon," Alex suggests, rubbing his eyes tiredly. It's nearly 2 AM now and they're still in Mike's car, having been at it for hours, scouring for information on why these guys would possibly be on Lesnar's radar... trying to make sure they haven't missed anything.
"Who?" Mike asks, slumping over the laptop, so relieved for wireless internet.
Alex rolls his eyes, scratching the name out. So far they've managed to eliminate most of the names, finding quite a few of them had asked for their releases or were commentators or ring announcers and thus would have no wish to approach the wrestlers in a physical sense out of a need for revenge. "So," he sighs. "We're left with Tarver and the Bellas, who we know accepted, Finlay and David, who refused... Morrison, who's missing, and Melina, who got away." He looks up. "That leaves Chris Masters."
Mike frowns, slightly more awake at the realization that, yes, he hadn't been heard from or checked in with. "Well, then. I think we know where we're going next."
After a long conversation about waiting or just going, no matter the hour, they decide to wait as long as they dare through the quiet nighttime hours, Alex dozing off slumped over in the passenger seat around 3. Mike follows shortly after 4, just barely remembering to set his alarm clock before sleep claims him. When the phone finally goes off at 6 AM, both men stir and flounder for the noise, desperate to shut it up so they can fall back asleep. While blindly fumbling around, they succeed only at knocking the phone off of the dashboard, sending it crashing against the laptop. Mumbling in annoyance, both men wake up a bit more and glance at each other, abruptly recalling what the alarm was set for in the first place. "Damn. We gotta move," Mike croaks tiredly, forcing himself to his sit straight.
"Yep." Alex yawns, stretching his legs out as well as he can without wasting time by getting out of the car. With Morrison still missing, they really, really need to get moving. "Do you have the address?"
"Yeah, hopefully he hasn't moved since..." It's luck that Masters even lives nearby, Mike not quite willing to push this off on the others, trust anyone but himself and Alex in putting enough effort into it to find John safely. The drive passes by quietly, not even the radio on to distract either man. The apartment building that the directions lead to is about as far away from the beach as one can get, in one of the cheaper districts. Alex peers once more at the paper as Mike slows, trying to memorize the numbers. As soon as they're parked, he pulls himself out of the car and looks up. "His apartment is #48," he says needlessly as Mike joins him.
"Let's go." Hypervigilant as they walk up to the building, Alex keeps an eye out for anything out of the ordinary. He grabs Mike's sleeve before they arrive, pointing towards a nearby car, parked carelessly in front of Masters' apartment. LESNAR1. "Crap," the Awesome One mumbles. "Look for something to use as a weapon just in case." They scout around a bit, Alex returning with a shovel and Mike with a spray bottle. Noticing Alex's strange glance, he shrugs. "It has insecticide in it. I'll blind 'em, and you can knock 'em out."
Somehow this works, the moderately small size of the apartment working in their favor as they crash inside, relieved to find the door partially open upon their arrival. Tarver rushes at them and Mike hits him with the spray right away, sending him reeling back as his eyes water and burn viciously. Alex follows it up with a solid strike from the shovel, forcing him down to his knees. Working together, they get him back up and push him out of the apartment and slam the door in his face, smirking at each other as he blindly rams into the wooden frame. It rattles but holds and they pause just long enough to thank whoever designed the cheap-appearing door to hold that well against Tarver's large body.
After locking it, they finally get a good look at the rest of the apartment, Mike's eyes narrowing as he takes in Lesnar, face to face for the first time since he'd returned to WWE last April, a tight grip around a fruitlessly struggling Master's throat. "Well, well, well. Looky here, Alex. It's Brock Lesnar. The guy Laurinaitis thought would save the company... but simply ended up quitting when things didn't go his way, after one loss."
Lesnar glowers at them, his grip tightening and sending Masters even closer to the brink of unconsciousness. "I didn't quit," he growls. "I simply... chose a different way to get everything I deserved." He pulls back, smirking over at Chris. "Isn't that right, Masters? To think if you had agreed to help, you could've been a part of something so much bigger than the WWE could ever hope to be."
Mike glances over at Alex. "You notice how guys like Lesnar use that line too much? Bigger than the WWE... more important than titles... yada yada, on and on. Nothing will ever be bigger than the business, Brock. No success more important than the titles we all fight, bleed and sweat to earn and hold onto. If you still don't realize that, well... I feel sorry for you."
The large fighter laughs, rolling his eyes at Mike. "Keep telling yourself that." Pushing Masters away, he approaches the two younger men, smirk only growing as they both hold their various weapons up. "You should agree with me, especially with how badly managed your careers have been the past year. You should want change, should join sides with me. But if not, stay on your little righteous spiel about how important the business is."
Mike barely flinches as Brock stops only inches away from him, glancing from the shovel to him. "We've already had change, it wasn't that great. In fact, it really sucked. Where's Morrison?"
"Ah, is this why you're here? I thought it was odd you'd be here to play rescue for Masters over here." He sneers over at the still struggling man before turning to face Mike once more. "I have no idea where Morrison is. If you find him, make sure to tell him the invitation is open ended. Anyone who sees the light is welcome." Glancing from Mike to Alex, his smug grin only grows. "I do mean anyone."
Just like that, he pulls the door open and leaves, his voice rising as he stops Tarver from slamming into the apartment for a measure of revenge. Alex rushes to check on Chris, barely looking up as Mike sinks down onto the couch next to them.
"Do you think he was telling the truth?" Alex asks, pausing while trying to pull Masters into a sitting position.
Mike sighs, shaking his head. "I think so, yeah." He drops his hand into his palm, staring out at the windows. "Where are you, John?"
Once Alex is certain that Masters will be ok on his own, they leave, reluctantly driving back to Mike's house for the first time since hearing about the attack. "I need some air," the former world champion grumbles, leaving Alex with his keys as he walks away from the car. He circles his house, rubbing his hands aggravatedly through his hair. He's lurking around the backyard, kicking around some gravel in the shadows, when he hears something shift near his patio.
His senses already hyperactive, he stops moving immediately and listens. "Who's there?" he calls out, already searching for some weapon. Hopefully something better than some insecticide this go around. It could be Lesnar, or one of his goons, he thinks uncomfortably. His hand now resting on his portable grill's lid, he reaches over and flips a switch, drowning his whole backyard in a ridiculous amount of light that he uses whenever he has time for a party, or just feels like grilling out late at night. Trying to squint through it, he hears a sharp gasp from underneath his raised patio, quickly dropping to his knees to look underneath it. "Hey, you," he yells, seeing a shadow shift slowly between the wooden support beams. "Show yourself, dammit." As the form scrambles, its movements uncoordinated and painful looking, he gets a strange thought. "John?" He rests the metal lid on the ground nearby and inches under the patio, only slightly able to make out the various shapes better once he's away from the light, his eyes adjusting slowly to the shadows. "Morrison? Is that you?"
He's about to crawl back out, panicking that his suspicions may be wrong and wishing he hadn't dropped the lid so quickly, when a hissed breath is released from the person still crouched awkwardly against one of the wooden pillars. "Mi-Mike..."
His eyes widen, his trembling fingers reaching out immediately for the other man, cursing vehemently. "John! Dammit, man," he groans, pulling the trembling man out from under the patio and into the light, where he can see him easier. "What the hell were you doing down there? Why didn't you go inside? Don't you still have your key?"
"At home, I left it at home, I think," he manages roughly, his head sinking helplessly against Mike's arm. The former WWE champion's heart sinks as he takes in the dark bruises along Morrison's jaw, his clothes torn and stained with dirt, hiding who knows what else kind of injuries. "I... I... don't know. What happened?" He looks around dazedly, until something comes to him and he lunges forward, grabbing Mike's collar rough enough to stretch it, the strength behind the move surprising them both. "Melina. Meli- Melina..."
"She's fine," Mike soothes him. "Just fine. She called us when all of this went down." He looks up, lips twisting grimly. "ALEX! HEY ALEX!"
Sometimes having a big mouth can be a good thing as the back door slams open, Alex squinting in confusion against the spotlights gleaming across the grass. Before he can even open his mouth to ask anything, he spots Morrison supported in Mike's arms and rushes out of the house, dropping down by their sides within seconds. "Where was he?" he demands breathlessly, pressing his fingers to John's jaw carefully. "Holy hell, John, it's good to see you."
Morrison chuckles, before falling into a coughing fit. "Good to see you too, A-Ri," he forces out, reaching towards the kid with his free hand. Miz has a tight grip on the other one, as if he's afraid to let him go in case he'd disappear again.
"He was under my patio," Mike whispers in disbelief, shaking his head."Leave it to him to make his search all dramatic like and then just be hiding on us a few feet away."
"It was gonna be a surprise, but you were late, as always," John mocks breathlessly, his eyes fluttering shut. Mike and Alex exchange worried glances when he doesn't move again, his breathing loud against Mike's arm.
"ER," Mike says, digging his phone out.
"Melina," Alex adds in, already dialing.
"If you insist." He adjusts his grip on Morrison so he can hold his phone with his right hand while cupping the back of John's head. "You're gonna be fine, man. We've got you." I'm so sorry. I should've been there sooner.
After a long few days spent keeping an eye on John as he slowly heals, the worst of the injuries thankfully only a moderate concussion, a couple bruised ribs and one broken one, getting a lot of fluids to counteract both sun stroke and dehydration that had set in long before Mike had even found him, they begin bouncing around theories on how best to run Lesnar, Tarver, and the Bellas off. Fueled by suggestions and ideas from everyone, some of them totally ridiculous and some actually halfway decent, the Raw and Smackdown locker rooms regroup outside of the arena hosting Raw that week, each and every one of them clinging to some sort of weapon- steel chairs had been collected and passed out till those ran out, trash can lids had followed until those too were all gone, and a wise thinking Beth Phoenix chased off the complaining caterers and collected as many cookie sheets, pots and pans to hold everyone else over.
Ordinarily Mike would feel uncomfortable with so many of his enemies around him with weapons but they all seem as determined as he is to see an end to this thing, not even the early morning heat and humidity scaring them off as they wait for something to happen. It's ridiculously early and they all look haggard and tired but every one of them is also determined to hold on to whatever they have left by now. Even Paul Heyman wouldn't suspect what's about to fall upon his client's head.
Mike is the first to see him as that tacky LESNAR 1 plate pulls up in front of the arena, Brock getting out first. Tarver follows, with the Bellas tagging along, and oh they look so smug. Even when they catch sight of all of the Raw and Smackdown talent standing between them and the production truck, weapons in hand, they don't lose a step.
"Well well, would you look at this," Brock yells mockingly, storming towards them. "Think y'all are going to stop us, do you? You haven't done so well up to this point."
Otunga hesitates, not encouraged despite the chair he's been clinging to like a security blanket, but finally, pushed and prodded by the various former Nexus members scattered in the crowd who Mike had rightfully depended on to force the obnoxious Harvard grad to do what he had agreed to do, stumbles forward and thrusts an envelope towards Lesnar. "You've been served," he says simply before melting back into the group.
"What is this?" he snaps, tearing into the manilla envelope. "Holding a company hostage... wrongful loss of revenue by a corporation..." The list goes on and on, compiled by both talent and stockholder alike, and when he looks up, glowering at them all, they slowly sink back, leaving Mike and Alex at the forefront.
"Oh, wait," Mike says, eyes widening in mock surprise. "We almost forgot something... Wanted to delivery these personally though." He smirks and storms forward. "One for you, one for you, and one for you two," he adds with a sneer, forcing envelopes on all four of them before stepping back out of reach.
"Civil and criminal cases by Chris Masters, David Hart Smith, Fit Finlay, Melina Perez and John Morrison for breaking and entering, assault, property damage." Lesnar rolls his eyes. "Oh, please. You think this scares us?"
"It should," Alex speaks up. "Courts may overlook one or two of these but you have five cases pending at once like that, not even to mention the case from WWE themselves and, yeah, I'd say you're screwed. Say bye bye to all that cash you got for signing with WWE in the first place."
Tarver looks like he wants to run roughshod over the group clustered around them but Lesnar grabs him by the neck before he can even take a step. "Get out of here. Now." He glares at the Bellas until they too backtrack, whispering angrily to themselves. "This isn't over."
"I'm pretty sure it is," Mike responds through gritted teeth. "Morrison says hi, by the way."
It really is far from over, of course, with the court cases pending. But it's a step in the right direction and for now, the production truck remains untampered with for the first time in weeks. A few of the guys not immediately needed for the show climb into the truck to keep an eye on things for awhile, just to make sure that Lesnar and his goons will stay away, Mike and Alex following the others into the arena to make sure everything there continues going smoothly.
"Do you think everything'll be fine now?" Alex asks with a frown, glancing back at the emptying parking lot as Mike drapes his arm over the younger man's shoulders, grinning as they enter the building together, the old familiar buzz that has always been present before an event enveloping them for the first time in weeks.
"Yeah, I really do." He squeezes A-Ri's arm before pulling away, reaching for his cell phone. "Let's go call John, give him the news."