((So this is my first ever fanfiction, so please be kind! The storyline and setting are mine. All the characters are based on those from the WWE and unfortunately I don't own any of them! Please leave comments and let me know if you think this is worth continuing, it's just a short scene which popped into my head!

UPDATE: This chapter has been revised! I hope you enjoy this updated version!))

KENNEDY

He'd never been afraid of the dark. In so many ways, it felt more natural than the day. What the hell was day anyway? Night, day, they were all the same in Kennedy. The sun never broke through the barrier of cloud, and he was pretty fucking sure he'd never seen the mythical ball of fire in the sky. Might not have even been real, but the thought of some warmth...that was a novelty. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of the tattered hoodie he wore; meagre protection against the endless cold, but like everything he wore and carried, it was all he had. The hood was pulled low. He should have stayed hidden, but there was only so long he could stay in the shadows. Soon someone would give him up or he'd be found. Testing his chances wasn't smart. But then, he'd never been fucking smart. He stepped through puddles, old and oily like everything in that part of town. The rain that splattered and pitched off rooftops and asphalt even smelled wrong. He sniffed, his head down, and passed by staring eyes and snide comments. He thought about stopping, cracking some teeth and blunting some jaws, but not no, not tonight.

His hair curled from the damp, jeans started to wet through. He knew these streets, these roads, and passed through shadow and lamplight to the roads where cars screamed by and other bodies hustled the streets. Here and there he was met with curious looks, people who might have known him, others who didn't give a flying fuck. Too many people were out in this rain. But there was nowhere else to go. He turned up Helier Street; narrow, deserted there was little light and fewer places to hide. He quickened his pace, body bent a little, eyes swung left and right, kept on top of it. Got to keep on top of it or they'll sneak up and stab you in the back the fucking cowards. Cowards! All of them...all those footsteps which followed him, those heavy feet. They wanted him to run. He didn't even need to look, but chanced a slight glance over his stooped shoulder. Never alone – trouble was his constant companion.

Water splashed from the sidewalk as he took his chances, and bolted. He was small, fast. He dodged round a corner and down into the darkness of an unfamiliar side street, too new, too clean. His breathing quickened and his arms swung fast. He didn't need to look to know: they were catching up.

'Fuck,' he hissed. Left. He turned at the last second and shot off down another street with no name. Dangerous move; he couldn't figure where he was headed. He didn't know where to go, where to hide, where to vault and where to turn. But it didn't matter, he could tell by the distance they kept that they weren't intending to catch him – they were herding him. Something, or someone was waiting in the dark. He looked back, too late, slammed face first into the stony chest of someone much bigger. He stumbled back, scrapped his hands and knocked the back of his head against the inky sidewalk. He blinked, once, twice, couldn't see anything but broken lights pretending to be stars.

'Get him up.'

He found himself hurled to his feet, strong arms, strong hands held him firm. His body was bent forward, arms taut behind him, hand in his hair to make him stare. He struggled, but they held on; amused at his efforts. His hood had fallen back, and new fingers curled into his dirty blond hair; forced him to confront the cruel sickle grin that welcomed him.

'You know you're a hard man to find Mr Ambrose. I dare say you've done well to hide from me for so long, but all games must have a winner, and this hand is mine.'

Smug bastard.

'Oh yeah? What makes you so sure?' defiance bled from his eyes down to his voice. He hawked and spat onto the shiny leather shoes below. 'You're getting nothing from me, so it's game over.'

A click of the fingers found two firsts knotted into his gut. He coughed, grunted from the dull pain, hissed as his head was pulled up once more.

'I will, eventually. Just two more to go Ambrose; your brothers may have thought leaving you behind was clever, that I wouldn't know, wouldn't find you. We're on their trail. No one steals from the Game, and even that, is the least of your crimes.'

No one steals from the Game. He made him fucking sick.

'It was never yours shit stick,' he snarled and tried to kick out. Instead he wound up on his knees, the asphalt prickled through the holes in his jeans and dented his skin. The Game chuckled darkly and released Ambrose's hair. In his hand, he held something Dean had been acquainted with many moneys before, and would rather not meet again. The Game levelled his weapon, an old sledgehammer with My Little Friend carved into the handle; he raised Ambrose's chin with the head.

'Don't test me Dean. Remember what happens to people who do.'

'They get the Hunter surprise? A long, slow fuck up the ass?'

The goon on the left, a smooth headed creature with viper like eyes and a sadistic smirk bent his arm back so far and so hard he heard the bones crunch and licked his lips with anticipation.

'Let's just fuck him up now. Leave the body for the others to find.'

'No.'

Dean tried to jerk his head away from the sledgehammer, but the Game jarred it into his throat, crushed his Adams apple.

'We have him, the other two will come to us.' He looked up at the rain and a distant rumble of thunder pushed a thick hand into the pocket of his smart woollen coat. His neck disappeared down beneath the collar, and he hefted the sledgehammer to his shoulder. He jerked his head northward. 'Come on, let's leave this shit hole. My shoes are spoiling. Drag him if you have to. The car is waiting and I advise you make his journey as uncomfortable as possible gentlemen.'

The look in his eye bothered Dean and he bucked wildly against those who held him back. He knew them both by name, fuck, he knew them better than their boss probably did. They'd all been bad guys once, before Randy Orton and Dave Batista got their shoes shined, bought fancy coats and Dean had run off into the dark. Their greed had brought the whole rebellion to its knees, with the help of the hounds. Men like the Game had too much power; corruption seeped through every pore of the screwed up city they called home.

The Game, Hunter Hearst Helmsley, heard Ambrose swear and growl behind him as he tried to escape.

'Shut him up. I don't want to hear another word out of the bastard's mouth until we return to North side, there he can scream all he wants. In fact, I'll encourage it.'

'Nighty night,' Randy snickered as Batista slammed a meaty fist straight across Dean's jaw. He caught the limp body and slung it over his shoulder. The two men nodded to each other and hurried after the Game. Dean, half dazed and blind, found the sidewalk disappear below him. His head swam and darkness ebbed into sight. They'd know – they'd find out, somehow they'd find out. He slumped back and forth between consciousness and in his short lucid moments, he felt the fear inside of what was in store for him, and if they too were caught, his brothers...