Chapter Text
The rain pounded against the roof of the house, lightning flickering all over the sky. Strange… There weren’t any storms forecasted that morning. It was mid-summer, after all… the dog days, when everything became hot and dry and rain wasn’t common.
Sherri hummed softly as she put her dark curls into a tight bun, watching out the window. Her and Ted were supposed to head to a lunch party- he had just won a match and wanted to show off to his friends- so they were up fairly early. Of course, Ted had been in his office talking with Irwin Schuyster- probably the usual boring financial talk, nothing Miss Martel was interested in.
Thunder boomed ominously, causing the windows to rattle.
“I’m tellin’ ya, Irwin, I don’t think we’ve got anything to worry about,” drawled DiBiase, leaning back in his leather chair. “You’ve heard the rumors, haven’t you?”, said Irwin, who sat across from the other man, hands nervously fidgeting with his tie. “The other men are saying they’ve seen him again. Undertaker, I mean. Now- I’m not exactly superstitious, but- well, you know how closely he’s tied to… the Dark Side, he calls it. Something could decide to bring him back , Mr DiBiase,” he continued.
Ted cackled, slapping the armrest. “ Pah! I think that’s all a load of horseshit, Irwin. Somethin’ tells me that’s part of the whole gimmick. No way in hell he can do that- none of us can.” He stood, straightening his jacket. “I’m not exactly inclined to believe his manager can do it, either.”
The other man sighed, pushing up his glasses. “I understand, sir. Part of me thinks that could be… y’know, real . I mean- you saw what happened at the Royal Rumble when he was thrown in the casket, right? That green mist coming out of the urn… It could just be special effects, but he did appear in the Titantron to give that warning. Something tells me that mist… could be his spirit. ”
“Have you been watchin’ Ghostbusters again, Irwin? I doubt that’s what that was,” Ted snarked, patting the brass urn on the shelf proudly. “After all… if that’s his spirit, wouldn’t this urn still keep it inside? Seemed pretty empty when we had the guy.”
Irwin simply smirked, rolling his eyes. “Aw, come on Ted, that was one time- and either way, we better start getting ready to leave. Lunch party is at noon, after all.”
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A massive, shaggy black dog loped over to the garage, her tail wagging happily in the air.
The Undertaker stood from his motorcycle, glancing at the dog with a smirk. “Hey, Saoirse, baby. You been a good girl while I was gone?”, he murmured gently, kneeling down to scratch her behind her ears. She licked at his face excitedly, her tail wagging even faster. “ Yeahh , you’re always a good girl, aren’t ya?”
The Hellhounds stuck close to the Valley, but occasionally they’d visit the Deadman at his home. Saoirse- one of the smaller hounds- was one of the oldest, and the most respected. He’d known her since he was around 14, when he started seeing her as a puppy- one of the first signs of his magic inclination. Thankfully, the hounds were effectively immortal… he didn’t know what he’d do if he lost any of them.
“I’ve gotta go tend to some business, ol’ girl. You keep an eye on the house, okay?”, he said as he patted her head gently, standing up straight. “I’ll come visit ya later, I promise.” Almost like following an order, she trotted over to the front porch, sitting on the step like a big gargoyle. Taker chuckled softly, and threw on a denim jacket.
He was gonna get revenge on the Million Dollar Man for what he’d done. And he’d take back what was rightfully his.
The Harley’s engine roared to life, and he sighed heavily. It was going to be a fairly long ride ahead- thank goodness he’d put gas in that morning. (The fact that he didn’t have to sleep probably wouldn’t hurt, either)
Time for retribution.
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The DiBiase house was sound asleep. A peaceful silence filled the air, only broken by the steady tick-tock of the old grandfather clock. (That was an heirloom from the old house- Ted was attached to it, as it had been gifted to him by his great-grandmother- bless her, she wanted him to have it even if he didn't have much room for it)
Irwin had elected to stay for the night; after all, it was raining fairly hard, and it could be dangerous to drive at night in such a storm. More importantly, he had work to do- and it just so happened that 1-3am were the perfect hours to work uninterrupted.
Now, if a man were superstitious in any way, he’d know that 3:33am is the 'witching hour,' as they call it.
Weird things tended to happen during that time… whether it was paranormal activity or just an old house settling was anyone’s guess, but it was certainly an odd time of night.
Irwin Schuyster wasn’t exactly superstitious. Sure, he liked the occasional ghost story, but he firmly remained a skeptic. He didn’t fully believe the locker room rumors that the Deadman was really dead when the man debuted; after all, there were plenty of reasons why someone could have cold hands and pale skin. (An iron deficiency was a fair candidate for such a thing, he mused to himself, but Taker never seemed to be faint or unsteady on his feet, unless someone had just beaten the daylights out of him)
But… The Undertaker did scare I.R.S. just that tiny bit. All the talk of mortality, rigor mortis, graveyards… It was enough to make a grown man shudder. And the way he was so… quiet. When he wasn’t growling about corpses and death, he was silent as a statue. Yet he moved along the ropes like a jungle cat, springing from them at heights a man of his stature should not be achieving.
And when he wasn’t prowling the ring with an unflinching gaze on his prey, he was lunging at them, his massive gloved hand wrapping around their throat or onto their face like a vice grip. And if you met his gaze, it was the gaze of Death itself; a wide-eyed, unflinching, constant grimace. (And that was before he'd roll his eyes back.)
Even the bravest wrestlers in the company were wary of the Undertaker. Not many could say that they scared the living shit out of the Ultimate Warrior, after all. And Irwin was one of them, especially while the giant of a man was living in Ted’s house.
That was a particularly… uneasy time. Irwin could tell that Undertaker greatly disliked the two of them- particularly Ted, who paraded the other man around like a prize animal, keeping him on a figurative choke chain. He’d usually be in the living room while Ted and Irwin worked, sitting awkwardly on the couch with his hands folded in his lap, his unkempt hair a veil over his face. The man rarely- if ever - spoke more than a few words, and when he did, his voice was always so gruff and monotone.
At first, Irwin wondered if it was a choice… but after a bit, he realized that the brass urn was keeping the man silent. And it made him feel… uneasy. To have one’s free will and speech tied to an urn with unknown power… it was odd, to put it kindly.
Sherri took a liking to the Deadman, oddly enough. She’d make sure he was eating enough, and if he got injured in the ring, she’d often tend to his wounds. The boys thought it was insanity that she was able to get that close without being throttled, but Taker seemed to… appreciate it. His hard, cold gaze seemed to soften when he looked at her. One time, she got the faintest trace of a smirk from him.
Some days, he’d even allow her to do his hair- and she’d carefully brush through his hair, untangling it and brushing it out of his face. He’d always sit incredibly patiently while she did so; others would probably wriggle or move their head around. She’d be talking about whatever was happening that day, and he was a good listener.
But now Undertaker was dead. That, Irwin was sure of.
Something had been making him fall ill over the course of his partnership with Ted. He seemed unmotivated, depressed… and more listless than usual. He didn’t ever want to fight, and when he was in the ring, he began to take hits more often. Injuries would affect him more and more.
And then… when he was truly feeling his worst, his opponents at the Royal Rumble that year took him out. Buried him in the casket, but not before that green mist escaped from the spilled urn.
He promised he’d return. But, well, that wasn’t real, was it? Surely it was all for show…
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3:33am. Time to roll out.
Undertaker had been sitting in a parking lot for a few hours at least- his bike parked next to an old shed while he sat under its roof, passing the time by whittling at a stick he’d found with his pocket knife. (Truth be told, he’d gotten a little absorbed in it- he had no idea what time it was until he’d checked his watch.)
As he turned the plans over in his mind, he felt a familiar anger building in his chest. All the shit he’d had to deal with while he was with Ted… never mind the shit he usually dealt with… it was enough to make him growl in visible frustration, his heavy brow knitting and his lips pulled back into a deep scowl.
The streetlights nearby flickered and popped at the strain of power, a feeling of oppressive static filling the air as white-hot, deeply repressed rage seethed hotter and hotter.
He stood abruptly, pocketing the stick- before kicking a particularly large rock halfway across the pavement.
The lights flickered faster and faster… until they blacked out, plunging the sleeping street into an oppressive darkness- the only light being the Harley’s headlight as he drove to where he remembered Ted’s house to be.
His jaw clenched tightly as he rode, and he thought about how… horrid that time felt. He couldn’t ever seem to catch a break with bad times- between the whole deal with Paul Bearer and this recent deal with Ted, he was being passed around like some sort of hot potato. His free will was treated as an afterthought, being seen as just a tool for destruction and manipulation.
And he hated every second. Not because he already did… but because the others around him- the fans and his coworkers- saw what his managers did to him. Yanking his hair, tugging him around with the urn, barking orders… all of it was routine to him, but to one Shawn Michaels, it was utterly abhorrent.
He considered Shawn… a friend. Perhaps even a close friend. The two of them often hung out in the other’s dressing rooms together, either sitting in comfortable silence or conversing in sign language. Taker was… rather old-fashioned in terms of courting- both romantically and platonically- so their friendship had begun as a series of letters and flower arrangements to each other. (The blonde was always so excited to receive flowers… it was pretty cute, really, like a Golden Retriever)
The moments Undertaker remembered most vividly- at the moment, anyway, since his mind had been a bit scrambled following his return from death- were not of Shawn yapping about whatever seemed to be bothering him that day, or the moments where the two of them talked shit about the other guys, causing the smaller man to nearly bust a rib laughing (and get a very soft chuckle from the Deadman, much to Shawn’s delight)...
They were of Shawn being so incredibly, casually affectionate with Undertaker. He had no idea whether it was romantic or not, fuck knows if he could unpack a thing like that- but it always lingered in his mind. Holding his hand as if it were no big deal at all, carefully brushing and caring for his hair, absentmindedly tracing circles into the other man’s pale, freckled skin with his warm fingers… it all made Taker’s heart feel… so full. Like it hadn’t felt in so, so terribly long.
He’d had no idea of just how much he craved such gentleness for so long. Not until he met the Heartbreak Kid.
But now… he was afraid he’d scare Shawn off, if he made an appearance at the Fed building again. After all… he wasn’t exactly a pretty sight at the moment- his skin was marbled, pale and cold, and his hair was pitch-black and even more unkempt than it was before. On top of all that, the poor man had been told Undertaker had died… and there he’d be, standing in front of him, almost as if nothing had happened.
And that was a thought that made his cold, dead heart ache. A thought that made him… yearn.
Now, though, was not the time for heartache.
Now was the time for revenge.
He parked his bike in the yard behind a tree, making sure it would be unseen… before growling softly to himself, “Time for DiBiase to face the Reaper,” the last word spoken with such quiet, seething rage that it caused the generator nearby to audibly groan at the surge of electricity.
The rain was nonstop now, pattering against his cloaked shoulders and dripping down the brim of his hat. Lightning flashed across the sky, and the thunder rumbled loudly through the air.
His steps were quick, yet utterly silent. He’d gotten incredibly good at moving quietly… frighteningly good. Fists clenching tightly inside his gloves, he felt an electric tingling through his fingers- a sure sign of his powers, a sign he’d long forgotten in the time he’d been disallowed to use said powers.
The Deadman snarled quietly, before deftly shifting into the shadows- slipping through an opened window like smoke. That was a new one; teleportation wasn’t always something he could do easily, but now, it felt as natural as breathing. Good thing, too- it’s not exactly simple to be completely silent when you’re a nearly 7-foot, 320 lb man trying to slip through a window like a panther. (After all, he could fall and eat shit on the floor- that’d be damn embarrassing. And painful.)
He took shape in the foyer, small clouds of smoke dissipating around him. Lightning flashed again, causing a particularly loud boom of thunder.
The urn… it called to him now. He lifted a hand to his temple, wincing at the familiar ache. He had to find it. He began to prowl soundlessly down the hall, the wood floor barely even creaking under his boots. His anger was at an all-time high now, threatening to boil over and explode.
And then… he saw a shape in the dining room. The silhouette of… Sherri Martel. It had to be- her curly hair was unmistakable. Just as he turned to face her, a massive bolt of lightning tore the sky in half, causing the house to shake with a roar of thunder.
And as the light flashed through the windows, SherrI could see… him. The Undertaker. His hair hung lifelessly in front of his face, but one of his dull green eyes stared at her with an almost feral gaze. Like some sort of… creature.
This was not the Deadman she’d grown close to. She'd known him as a rather shy, quiet man who was, quite frankly, incredibly misunderstood and almost definitely lonely- and he was nothing but kind to her, just as she was kind to him.
She'd helped him with his stage makeup multiple times, and even helped him untangle that mane of firey red hair- she'd always gush about how lovely she found it, and how she never got to mess with Teddy's hair like this because it was just too short- and he'd sit so patiently in the chair (that he was obviously too big for, bless his heart) as she combed through it, his usually hard, forlorn gaze almost soft with gratitude.
This… this was someone else entirely. This was someone who came back from the dead… and they came back wrong. His skin was deathly pale and marbled- what skin she could see, anyway- and his clothes were soaked with rain and mud… almost like he’d just dug himself out of his own grave.
He stared at her like a raccoon who’d just been caught in a flashlight. Funny, since she always joked that he looked like one with his eye makeup.
For a moment, all they could do was stare wildly at each other, her mouth open in sheer terror, and his own lips curled into an almost wolfish snarl. Poor Sherri let out a shrill shriek - one that wouldn’t be out of place in a horror movie- and fainted, crumpling to the hardwood floor.
He frowned softly. She didn’t deserve that, the floor was too hard and cold. Slowly, he padded over to her- lifting her so gently, like she was made of glass- and laying her down onto the nearby loveseat, going so far as to carefully wrap a blanket around her. She’d be scared when she woke up… but at least it’d be more comfortable this way.
The urn tugged at his mind again, and he winced.
Unfortunately for the Deadman, not everyone was asleep.
Irwin Schuyster raced out of his office, his eyes wide in concern… before they locked onto the sight of the Undertaker. “Oh… Oh, God… Not you…,” was all he could manage, before he rolled up his sleeves. “Y-You’re supposed to be dead, Undertaker! What the hell are you doing here?!”
The Undertaker simply growled, and began to stalk towards the bespectacled man, his fists clenching in his gloves again. He watched Irwin like a hawk as the other man began to back away slowly, frantically.
“You…”, was the Deadman’s response. His voice was gravelly as ever… though this time, it seemed to come from Hell itself. It made Irwin shudder.
“Wh-What do you want, Deadman?! I- I thought we’d finished business with you,” he stammered anxiously, backing towards DiBiase’s office- before he stopped. “Wait… you’re… you’re here for the urn, aren’t you?”, he asked, wincing in anticipation for Taker’s response.
That response never came. The Deadman stalked closer, his eyes now visible- and they were wide with fury. A sight that frightened even the bravest and strongest of his opponents, that caused more cowardly folks to run for the hills like terrified dogs.
Thankfully, DiBiase staggered out of his bedroom- just in time. He was dressed in a t-shirt, hilariously… but that wouldn’t matter to Undertaker. All he saw was the man he wanted revenge on for treating him so terribly … among other misdeeds.
Poor Ted barely had any time to wake up or react before the huge -and undead- intruder lunged at him with a snarl, his massive hands pulling at the collar of his shirt and slamming the other man against the wall- causing him to cry out in both pain and terror.
He had never seen the man so enraged before… and quite frankly, if he never had to see it again, he’d be pretty damn happy. It was like looking into the eyes of Death himself.
“What the- what the fuck!?! How’d you get here?? You were supposed to be dead!” Ted cried, his gaze fixed on Taker’s hands pinning him to the wall so effortlessly, as if he were completely weightless.
“That… is none of YOUR concern, DiBiase,” the larger man growled, his deep voice seething with rage. “...Where did you put that damn urn?!”
Aw, hell. He should’ve known that Taker would come back for it. The man had an uncanny knack for finding it to return to its rightful place with Paul Bearer… almost as if he were bound to it. He didn’t want to give an answer- stupidly, of course- but he knew that if he didn’t… there would be Hell to pay.
Just then, Irwin- who had seemingly disappeared into the office- came racing out with a wooden chair, practically smashing it across the Deadman’s back with a yell. The chair exploded into pieces, and the shot caused Taker to drop Ted in surprise. Surely that would… at least distract the man, right?
He simply turned slowly to face the other man, even more pissed than he already was. Shit, shit, shit, Irwin thought to himself frantically as he picked up a chair leg and brandished it in front of him. What exactly do you think that’s gonna DO, Irwin?!, DiBiase thought briefly to himself as he watched the events unfold in front of him.
The Undertaker practically shoved Irwin out of the way, storming into the office like an enraged grizzly bear.
The two men looked at each other in horror. “What the fuck?!”, was all they could both say. It was never a good idea to piss off the Deadman- after all, he was nearly seven feet and 300lb of angry, nigh-unstoppable muscle, and he was nothing if not incredibly determined. DiBiase rubbed his shoulders, watching the larger man deftly make his way towards the shelf where the urn sat. “Christ on a bike ,” he muttered quietly. That was gonna hurt for a couple days.
Almost as soon as he’d arrived, the Undertaker soon disappeared in a wisp of dark fog. He had accomplished his mission- he’d whooped DiBiase’s ass, and re-obtained the urn.
Now it was time to head home… and maybe think about meeting back up with the other guys, to try and explain what in the holy hell just happened to him.
That is… if he didn’t scare the living shit out of them just by showing up.
He sighs softly to himself as he rides away. He’d promised Saoirse that he’d give her plenty of cuddles when he came back home. There was nothing better than spending some quality time with the big dog. (Until she started drooling on everything, of course…)