Chapter Text
Roman Reigns sat on the roof of the ruined tenement and looked out over the City. A storm front was rolling in from the wastelands to the southwest, already flickering with the promise of lightning. As he watched, he wrapped his fists and forearms with strips of cloth, the movements so practiced as to be unthinking, as sure as the inexorable trek of the clouds across the City.
He’d always liked the storms, liked the way the City felt a little cleaner, a little fresher in their wake. Even the slums of the Edges didn’t seem quite so run-down and ragged afterwards, some of their filth washed away in the rain.
Of course, he might well be dead by then.
Roman tugged the last strip of cloth tight, tucking the loose end securely into the weave he’d made, his eyes never leaving the skyline. Somewhere out in the Edges, The Beast was waiting. He could feel it in the air, heavy and oppressive in a way that had nothing to do with the oncoming storm.
Familiar, heavy footfalls sounded behind him. Roman turned his head and saw a dark figure wearing a leather jacket and jeans making its way up the fire escape. He turned his gaze back to the skyline, silently, trying and failing to ignore the presence at his back.
“It’s a trap, y’know.”
“I know, Dean.”
“It’s not even a subtle trap. It might as well have a giant neon sign on it that blinks in different colors saying ‘It’s a trap, stupid’.”
“I know , Dean.”
“They didn’t even bother to come up with a good cover story. ‘Urban renewal project,’ really? You don’t send Paul Heyman and his oversized pit bull out to tear down abandoned buildings.”
Roman clenched his jaw and stayed silent.
Dean ambled around in front of him, thumbs hooked into his belt loops. “More importantly, brother, it’s a trap custom-made for you. Authority’s trying to make you into a giant white-knight-shaped target.”
“And what do you want me to do?” Roman said, standing, stepping into Dean’s personal space, feeling the other man tense. “He’s been running rampant for two weeks. The body count has been rising for two weeks. Are we supposed to stand by and do nothing ?”
Dean’s eyes flicked up to his, then skittered away. He shrugged, hunching in on himself. “I don’t like it, Ro,” he said. “But I don’t like walking into the Authority’s noose either.”
Roman sighed and sat back down heavily, scrubbing his hands over his face. “I know it’s what they want us to do. But we’re damned if we do, and damned if we don’t. Given the choice, I’ll take the enemy I can punch.”
“Mm.” Dean inhaled deeply, exhaled slow. “So what’s the plan?”
“Well, I thought I’d hit him until he fell over. Seems like a good place to start.” Dean snorted, and Roman shot him a mock-indignant glare. “Unless you had a better plan?”
“Oh, definitely. I was going to let him smack me around until he got tired, then punch him a lot. Seemed more effective.”
Roman laughed and rolled his eyes. “Oh, so much better , Dean. I can see why I pay you the big money.”
“Well, someone’s got to do the thinking around here--” Dean’s sentence cut off sharply, an echo of old, vicious pain flashing across his face as his brain caught up to his mouth.
Damn you, Seth. Damn you for every bit of what you caused.
“Someone’s got to,” Roman said, quietly. “Sure as hell isn’t going to be me.”
Dean flashed him a smile, the expression affectionate and somehow...sad. “I’m always looking out for you, brother. Someone’s got to take care of you.”
Roman looked away, blinking the sudden sting out of his eyes. “I’m sorry, you know. For dragging you into this fight. Into all this mess.”
A hand hooked around the back of his neck, tugging him into a gentle headbutt, Dean’s forehead warm against his. “Hey. Don’t you apologize for a fucking thing, bro,” Dean growled. “This is my fight too. Always.”
“I know, I know.” Roman smiled, then sighed and pulled back a bit, Dean’s hand still reassuringly firm on the back of his neck. “I just know that the odds don’t look good on this one. Two against the Beast...we’re good, but I’m not sure we’re that good.”
Dean’s smile faded into something much grimmer. “Yeah. But you mean to go down fighting, don’t ya?”
Roman took a deep breath and nodded. “Not going to sit back here and hide.” He smiled wryly at his battle-brother. “We’ll give them a fight to remember, at least. Right?”
“Fight for the ages…” Strangely enough, Dean didn’t look resolute, or excited. He looked...regretful. Roman opened his mouth to ask what was wrong--and felt something sharp stab deep into the muscle of his thigh.
“The fuck--” Roman looked down at the syringe sticking out of his leg, Dean’s thumb already pressing the plunger down to the bottom.
Terror spiked through his belly as a cold weariness started to wash across him. “Dean, why…” Roman stumbled and fell to his knees as his legs buckled, clinging to Dean for support, fingers digging weakly into the leather of his jacket.
“The City needs you, brother, needs you a lot more than it needs me,” Dean said. He sank down to his knees, fingers hooked in the straps of Roman’s combat vest, keeping him upright as his world spun. “I’m not a hero, not a leader. Just a boy from the slums, y’know? Can’t let you throw your life away on one of Seth’s traps.”
“No, Dean...” He tried to blink the shadows out of his eyes, but they just wouldn’t go away. He fought against the tiredness, fought against the weight in his veins that was trying to drag him down into a dark well of sleep.
“Yeah, I know. But I told you, brother. Someone’s got to look out for you. Whether you want it or not.” Roman felt himself slump backwards, felt Dean’s hands guide him gently to the rooftop.
Felt Dean’s lips brush across his forehead, heard Dean say something from far away.
Felt the world go numb and black.
~*~
The Beast was definitely more terrifying in person.
Dean wasn’t sure whether it was the fact that it was, like, eight feet tall, or the inhuman bulges of muscle, or the general aura of “I will rip your head off and piss in your skull.” Probably a combination of the three.
He’d heard that the Beast had once been human. A man, name of Lessman, Lesnar, something like that. Beyond that, all the stories were fuzzy. Maybe he’d let the Authority experiment on him. Maybe he’d used some forbidden art and gotten fucked over by it. Maybe he’d just always been this way.
Origin aside, it--he was not dignifying that monstrosity with something so human as gender--was pacing around what probably had been a rust-splotched, makeshift playground before the monster had smashed it flat. Dean watched it from the shadows as it lumbered in around the clearing, making slow circles around a fixed point: Paul Heyman, the man who held the Beast’s leash.
He wondered, idly, how that short, pudgy little fuck had managed to bind such a monstrosity.
Story for another time, I guess. He checked his watch. If the guy who’d sold him the knock-out juice had been legit, Roman should be waking up right now. Sorry, bro.
Time to play.
Dean stepped forward, out of the shadows. The Beast’s head went up instantly, eyes fixing on him. Dean resisted the urge to flinch in horror--the thing’s body was grotesque, but its eyes were frighteningly, sickeningly human . There was something thinking in that misshapen skull.
It growled , lips pulling back off ragged, yellow teeth in a bestial grin.
“Sit, Fido,” Dean said, hooking his thumbs into his belt loops as he ambled forwards. “Heyman. Slumming again?”
Heyman jolted, head jerking around frantically until his eyes found Dean. “Haven’t you heard? We’re cleaning up the place. Don’t you think it looks better with its new paint job?”
Dean’s eyebrows went up in silent inquiry--and then it sank in.
The dark splotches covering the ramshackle monkey bars and slides weren’t rust.
He took a deep breath, and just a hint of copper settled in the back of his throat. And rust didn’t catch the fading light like that...
Blood , splattered like finger paint.
And that’s not rubble on the ground. Fuck...
Bile rose in the back of his throat, followed by a rush of hot, blinding rage. He bit it back, swallowed slowly, didn’t let a bit of it reach his face--he stored it, stoked it instead. He’d learned that from Seth, at least.
“How noble of you,” Dean drawled, when he could speak again. “And who’s gonna mop up your slime when you’re gone?”
“Har har har.” Heyman flashed him a humorless, sarcastic smile. “We’re doing this city a favor. Cleaning up the trash, stomping on some rats in the process. Like you, for instance.”
Fury rose, red behind his eyes, threatening to boil over. Soon, buddy boy, soon. He bared his teeth at the pudgy little fuck.
“I’m hurt, Paul, really. Careful, don’t let me bite ya. You might get rabies. Be an improvement, really, but what do I know?”
“I’ll give you points for bravery. Stupidity, too, but brave nonetheless.” Heyman’s eyes flicked around the clearing. “Where’s your backup, Ambrose? Reigns too scared to show?”
“Nah, he’s right behind you.” Dean barked a laugh as Heyman yelped and spun. “Oh god, your face is priceless.”
Heyman flushed with anger. “Last chance, asshole. Authority wants you in one piece, with or without Reigns. Come quietly, and I won’t let the Beast play with you...too much.”
“Oh, c’mon, that wouldn’t be any fun.” Dean grinned and cracked his knuckles, pulling on his powers. He let his smile fade as the air around him lit up with flecks of twisted, shifting color, the air distorting faintly around his fists. “Besides. I don’t much think I like sons of bitches who murder little kids.”
Heyman smiled at him, an ugly, cruel thing. “Your funeral.” He stepped backwards towards the edge of the playground, clearing the field.
Dean felt a raindrop hit his arm, then another, and another, drops starting to patter against the concrete all around him. A cool gust of wind washed across him, filling his nose with the clean scent of rain.
“Beast? Kill him.”
The Beast reared up on its hind legs and roared , eyes flaring red, power flaring off of it like fire. Dean felt the pressure of it hit him like a shockwave, heard the concrete beneath the Beast crack and shatter under the force of that terrible, ravenous presence.
He looked into the Beast’s eyes, and saw his death written in those terrible, merciless eyes.
There was power in blood, in sacrifice. There was power in a good death.
I’m gonna need it.
Dean roared defiance in return, the rage-charged flare of his own power warping the air into a kaleidoscope of twisting colors.
He bared his teeth in a wolfish grin, and charged.
~*~
Roman woke to the sound of thunder and the wash of rain.
His head hurt. He was cold and soaked to the bone. Why was he laying on the roof in the middle of a thunderstorm--
Memory struck like a flash of lightning. Roman threw himself upright, staggering, nearly falling down again as black stars filled his vision. He forced himself to breathe, to clear his head enough to draw his power and chase the last of the drug away.
Dean!
He threw himself out across the rooftops, diving into the storm, leaping recklessly from building to building. He pulled on his strength with abandon, not caring that he must be lighting up like a flare to anyone in the Authority with even a drop of power-sense.
Thunder deafened him, lightning flashing ahead of him, driving back the darkness in waves. Except lightning didn’t flash from the ground up, didn’t burst like red and green fireworks up from the skyline of the Edges. Somewhere in front of him, two great powers were fighting, and he could feel the pulse of their power like accompaniment to the beat of his heart.
Roman picked up his pace and sped onward, towards his brother, his companion, his friend.
He could see a clearing ahead of him now, a gap in the sprawl of the Edges, lunged forwards, fist already cocked back to strike--
--and slammed hard into an unseen barrier, clear as glass and harder than steel, turning his world to black stars for a long moment.
Roman howled, lashing out at the barrier in frustrated rage--it sang like a bell as his fists slammed into it, a splash of power flaring out across the curve of a dome that stretched across the clearing. He punched it again and again, but it would not yield.
So this was how they were going to trap us…!
He could see Dean now, so close and yet so far. Roman cried out in shared pain as Dean took a strike from the Beast on his crossed forearms, the force of the blow throwing him through the air to land in a spray of dust and rubble ten feet away.
Dean staggered to his feet, shaking himself like a wet dog, blood spraying from his hair. His left eye was nearly swollen shut, the side of his face a mask of red. Crimson stained the shirt beneath the battered, torn leather of his jacket.
“ Dean! ” Roman roared as the Beast pounced, his fist slamming through Dean’s head--only for his brother’s image to shimmer and shatter in a spray of twisting lights. The Beast swiveled his head, mouth open to roar, as a two-by-four flashed out of nowhere and shattered itself across the monster’s head in a vicious, overhand strike.
Dean slammed the chunk of wood into the Beast’s head until there was nothing left but splinters, the purple-green warp of his power flaring with every blow. He tossed the ruined beam aside, chest heaving, swiping blood out of his eyes--
--and a backhand from the Beast caught him across the chest and sent him soaring across the clearing to land in a heap.
The Beast reared up on its back legs and roared, sledgehammer fists pounding against its own chest. Lightning flared suddenly, setting everything into stark relief--and Roman saw dark red stains splashed across the Beast’s pale skin.
The Beast was bleeding.
Movement, then, across the clearing, as Dean pushed himself up to one knee--then struggled, and slumped, going no further. A horrible leer stretched across the Beast’s face then, and its nostrils flared. The obscene cables of muscle bunched, as the thing began a slow stalk towards Roman’s fallen brother.
Everything seemed to slow. He saw Dean take a breath, eyes still closed. Saw the exhale, Dean going still and calm.
His brother lifted his hand, swiped it across slowly across his face--and then slammed his bloody palm down onto a patch of bare concrete.
A blood-red sigil exploded out from him along the ground, flaring into life. It flowed out from Dean’s hand like lava, glowing hotly, swirling with shifting lines that made Roman’s eyes hurt to look at them. The blood on his face and clothes began to burn with sullen light, and then, splashes of red across the entire clearing burst alight.
The Beast reared back as Dean lifted his head, a feral grin stretching across his face. Wind and rain rose up to whip in a frenzy across the clearing, lightning striking in blinding, deafening waves all around the barrier. But through it all, the bloody light burned bright, and brighter still, until it seemed to be reaching out towards the Beast, hemming him in, clawing at him with crimson hands.
No--it was reaching out to the Beast. It recoiled from the light, but everywhere it crept closer, stealing across that pale skin, flickering as the Beast lashed out with its fists and its power…
...until the smallest splash of light touched the blood dripping slowly from the Beast’s scalp.
Bloody chains exploded from every puddle of burning red light, lashing out, wrapping themselves around the Beast’s arms, his neck, his ankles. It thrashed and struggled, but for every chain it ripped free there were two more, coiling around its limbs, dragging it inexorably down. It howled in pain as its arms were pulled wide, its back arching painfully as every grotesque sinew corded and strained--
--and in the middle of the maelstrom was Dean, burning like a star, white-hot in his brilliance. Roman saw Dean reach out with his hand and with his power, gripping the Beast with all his might.
Dean looked up. Met Roman’s eyes somehow, even across the distance.
“DEAN!”
Blinding, bloody light flared across the clearing. Somewhere below him, the Beast screamed , an inhuman shriek of rage and pain.
I’m sorry, brother. Stay safe.
When his vision cleared, the barrier was gone.
Dean and the Beast were nowhere to be seen.
~*~
“...search teams will continue to comb the outer districts today, in search of notorious fugitives Dean Ambrose and Roman Reigns, in the wake of a vicious attack by Ambrose on members of the Authority engaged in an urban renewal project. Neither Reigns or Ambrose has been sighted in the two weeks following the attack, though Authority General Seth Rollins said that the populace should remain on alert…”
The ancient TV hanging above the diner counter went silent as the old cook reached up and twisted the volume knob to ‘mute’.
“Feh. Remain on alert, they say,” he grumbled, his English heavily tinged with the accent of the Kingdoms, far across the sea to the west. “When are we not on alert? They care so much for our health and safety when they want to catch those boys, but does anyone bother to keep the food shipments on time? The water pipes unclogged? Bah.”
“Careful, jiddo ,” said the diner’s only customer--though he flashed the old man a smile to soften his words. “I don’t want you to get in trouble.”
“Bah!” The old man waved a dismissive hand as he returned to his stove. “What are they going to do, haul me away? I’m an old man, nobody listens to me anyway. No respect.”
“I listen to you, jiddo .”
“That’s because you were raised right!” The old cook gave his young customer a sly look, then tossed another steaming sausage link onto the young man’s half-finished plate. “Come on, hurry up, don’t the tryouts for the Academy start this morning?”
The young man flushed underneath his ginger-tinged beard. “Sir!” He fumbled to try and pass the sausage back, and yelped when the old man smacked his hand with a spatula.
“Eat! If you’re going to be in the Academy, you’ll have to keep your strength up!” The old man’s weathered face softened. “Our heart and soul must do us proud today.”
The young man lowered his head in embarrassment, and hesitantly picked up the sausage on his fork. After a second’s thought, he stuffed it hungrily into his mouth, digging back into his breakfast with a vengeance.
“Good boy.” The old man reached out to ruffle the young man’s hair, laughing as the other man tried to duck and eat at the same time. “You will do us honor, young Sami…”
Above their heads, the television continued its silent broadcast of the morning news, headlines flashing garishly along the bottom of the screen.
VIGILANTE MENACE IN THE EDGES?
Sami Zayn looked up just in time to catch a flash of a sketch artist’s rendering, of a red mask with black edging, styled after the gear of the warriors of the Underground to the south.
He took another bite of breakfast and smiled.