GEEZUS, this chapter ended up being really long! But screw it, I don't want to split up the action and make another chapter. I'm sure nobody will have a problem with it, especially not my lovingly patient Dana1. Enjoy. This one's for you~ :)

He asked for this.

It was Punk's idea.

Not that Seth Rollins, nor Dean nor Roman, minded accepting the challenge.

At all.

The night after was somehow still too soon for a rematch against this bastard.

It was nearly time for the tag match. The Shield would be facing the Usos and CM Punk tonight on Raw. Simple. Sharp. Seth didn't see Punk worming out of this one as easily as he'd prevailed last night. He might have gotten lucky once, but oh so rarely did lightning strike the same place twice.

Not if his brothers had anything to say about it.

Brothers…

Seth glanced from side to side. Where were they? Here he stood alone awaiting the Shield's entrance theme, no sign of Roman or Dean anywhere. He knew Dean liked to be alone just before a match. Meditate or something. Seth never questioned it. Dean performed well night after night, so the deep-mind reflection was beneficial in some way. Seth and Roman had warmed up together, went their separate ways to prep for the match…they didn't need to be together all the time. It was hardly ever a problem.

Seth nearly left his spot to go searching for them, but a familiar narration blared over the screams of an ecstatic Universe.

"Sierra! Hotel! India! Echo! Lima! Delta! Shield."

Seth ran his hand over his mouth. Showtime, whether they were here or not. Someone had to step up on the Shield's behalf. Better for one member to stand as a representative than nobody turn up.

Dean and Roman were around here somewhere. They'd show.

Unless they'd gotten into another trivial dispute again. Dodging one another. That tended to happen from time to time in the team.

In which case, Seth would knock their heads together.

So Seth rolled out on his own, shuffling down the stairs, giving fist-bumps and quick high-fives to the surrounding wrestling zealots. Punk was in the ring with the Usos already. He looked normal, not smirking in iconic Punk fashion nor scowling like this was a decision he already regretted.

Looked like a normal guy.

Ready to fight.

Seth shouldn't have thought anything was off, save for one peculiar detail.

Where in the hell were Ambrose and Reigns?

Seth maintained contempt for the man he'd be facing. He pulled himself between the ropes and stood tall. Alone, but tall.

Punk registered the lack of Shield members in the ring. "Where's your boys?" he called.

The official asked Seth the same question with his eyes.

"Running a little late," Seth said. "They'll be here."

Punk scoffed. Ah, there it was—that disdain and scorn Seth knew him for. He couldn't hold up that cool-guy act for very long. "That's so professional."

"They'll be here," Seth growled.

"I will give them sixty seconds," the official stated. "Then I'll have no choice but to start the match, or call it off."

"Oh, there's no calling it off," Punk said. "I'm not canceling a rematch just because my opponents are too lazy—or scared—to show up." He upheld his stare at Rollins. This stare shed a little light on what Seth considered a mystery. Like Punk knew something. Almost like he expected Dean and Roman not to show.

But why?

"Sixty seconds," the official said again.

"They'll be here." Seth was sure of it. Perhaps the more times he said it, the longer he could hold his belief in the statement.

Where were they?

Dean's meditation was interrupted by the buzz of his phone. A text from Seth.

Ambush backstage. Really hurt. Find me in the trainer's room.

Dean glared at the words on the screen. Who the hell had done that to him? Punk? One of his little buddies? A member of the Authority? Conniving little snake, Dean thought. He broke off all thoughts of meditation, of the upcoming match, and darted out of his locker room towards the trainer's room on the other side of the arena. He jogged to make good time, and it left him huffy.

Hang on, brother. I'm coming.

Dean rounded a corner. It took him a little bit to locate the trainer's room. It was set up in different areas every night depending on the scheme of the arena.

There was a sign hanging on a door at the end of the corridor. "Trainer's Room", it read in bold letters. Dean loped towards the door and pushed it open.

And something was very wrong.

For one, this was like no trainer's room he'd ever been in. This was a conference room, complete with two long oak tables, surrounding chairs, and three whiteboards on the back wall. Nope. Definitely not a trainer's room.

He was not surrounded by the medical staff and standby EMTs. He was surrounded by superstars. Daniel Bryan, Kane, Ryback, Randy Orton.

Seth was not among them.

And they all looked very cross.

"Hello, Ambrose," Daniel Bryan said darkly.

"Uh, sorry. Wrong room." Dean started to back towards the door.

"Oh, you came for Seth, though, didn't you?"

Dean went rigid. What was he doing speaking of Seth? Of course he had something to do with these unusual circumstances. Dean made himself turn around to face all the wrestlers. Daniel seemed to lead the brigade despite standing more towards the back of the mob.

"Where is he?" Dean growled, teeth clenched in a lock. He took a brave few steps towards Daniel.

Daniel's bottom lip jutted out. "I thought he was out there with you and Reigns, fighting Punk and Jimmy and Jey Uso." From behind his back—Dean hadn't even realized his hands were hiding back there, hiding something—Daniel held up an iPhone. He pressed the Lock button, summoning light to the screen, revealing the wallpaper: a picture of Seth with his Yorkie.

Proof it was Seth's phone.

"Guess there must have been a misunderstanding."

The shock and fury paralyzed Dean. He swallowed hard. A trap.

There was an ambush, alright.

But it hadn't been for Seth. It had been for him. Was for him.

Dean whirled around, aiming for the door, but Ryback had already blocked his one way out. He moved towards Dean, and Dean shifted backwards away from him. He bumped into someone and circled around once more. Randy Orton was staring him down with black eyes and a vein bulging from his forehead.

He was encompassed by the wrestlers.

Trapped.

Randy kicked him in the gut. Dean bent over, stumbling backwards, now finding himself in the unbreakable hold of Ryback. Rebuke pried his arms apart, bolting them behind his back, leaving his chest and stomach open for attack.

An opening both Orton and Kane took advantage of. Taking turns. One by one. Blow after blow. Punches following kicks following elbows. Kane also flung a couple of cheap shots into Dean's jaw, making his neck nearly twist all the way around.

Daniel Bryan watched on, not looking remorseful or thrilled about this either way.

"ROMAN!" Dean screamed, writhing in Ryback's grip.

"Yeah, scream a little louder for him, Ambrose," Daniel jeered. "Any minute now, I bet he'll come crashing through the walls to save the day."

Kane struck him again, this time in his upper chest above his heart. Pain blossomed in the center of his form and spread like a blaze to every muscle. He cried out in frustration, thrashing as much as this restraint would allow him.

"Save your strength, Dean," Kane said. He lifted Dean's chin with his fingers in a jerking motion, readying his fist for another blow. "It's gonna be a long night."

Kane pummeled him again. Dean slumped forward, coughing. He felt blood in his throat. The Big Red Monster stepped back to give Randy Orton another go.

Roman. Seth. Please. Now more than ever, I need you…

Roman was met with the same text message on his phone. This one, allegedly, from Dean.

Ambush backstage. Really hurt. Find me in the trainer's room.

"Oh, no," he whispered, feeing his chest constricting. Dammit, no. No, no, no.

He knew where the trainer's room was. Not more than a short walk from the locker rooms. Even though someone had removed the sign from the blue door, Roman knew he was in the right place.

He pushed the door open.

A few wrestlers were being tended to in here. Roman didn't see Dean on any of the beds, waiting on any benches. He approached one of the medics and asked, "You see Ambrose come in here?"

"No?" the medic asked like it had been a ludicrous question.

Perhaps Roman had beaten him here.

But that didn't seem likely…the message had clearly stated: "find me in the trainer's room."

So where was he?

It was almost time for the match. Roman considered going out there and asking for a slight delay while he checked up on Dean. But he felt time was up already. Dean needed him.

Roman decided to retrace what were potentially Dean's steps. Starting from his locker room.

Empty. Of course.

He paced the eerie halls with caution, on alert, in case whoever had attacked Dean—and Roman had a good idea who might have been responsible—was now after him or Seth. But Seth was nowhere to be found, either.

What the hell was going on?

Down another winding corridor, Roman thought he heard something.

A rather terrifying something.

Dean shouting. Over and over again.

"Dean?" Roman called. Panic charged his motions. "Dean!"

He sprinted down the hall towards the cries.

Roman was met at the end by the Big Show. He stepped out of seemingly nowhere and tackled Roman against the wall with a roar.

A dazed Roman had no time to process what was happening. Big Show slammed against him twice more. His head smacked against the wall. As Roman started to fall towards the ground, Big Show knocked him in the head, speeding the process of collapsing along. Roman couldn't even brace for the fall. His figure slapped the hard, cold floor. Pain erupted within him, strongest in his head, his wrists, his back.

Big Show hoisted Roman over his shoulders and carried him down the hall a bit. Before his sense of balance and awareness returned to him, Big Show had pulled open a door and shoved Roman into a small room—what turned out to be a maintenance closet. Roman stumbled over a mop bucket and met the floor once again.

What…the hell…is happening…

Big Show yanked the door closed. "Hey!" Roman hollered, shooting up to his feet. He must have landed on his ankle wrong, for the slightest bit of pressure on his left foot invited a sharp, stinging pain. Ignoring this as best he could, he threw himself against the door. Not just locked—trapped shut as though concreted in place. "Let me out of here!"

"I'm supposed to keep you in there until one of them breaks," Big Show said.

Random bit of information to pass along…unless the point was to make Roman question what he meant by "them" and "breaks."

The point had been reached.

Was "them" his brothers?

Was "break"…

Oh, God.

Roman could still hear the cries.

Dean was suffering.

Dean was in pain.

Close by, too.

Listening intently over his own unstable breathing, Roman made the sound out just past one of the four walls that now doubled as a prison for him. Dean was somewhere on the other side of this wall, outside this closet.

Hurting.

Roman could hear everything. Clear as day.

"DEAN!" Roman's voice thundered. He rammed his fists against the wall. "Stop it!" he ordered whoever was causing Dean such pain, forcing those shouts from his lungs—without knowing exactly whom he was addressing. "Leave him alone, you hear me!?"

That wasn't going to work.

He tried the door again.

"LET ME OUT OF HERE!" he screamed. "I SWEAR TO GOD! YOU BETTER LET ME OUT OF HERE!"

"Or what?" Big Show asked, sounding amused.

"I will kill you. You hear me? I will kill you!"

"Go for it, Roman. I'm right here. What are you waiting for? By the way, my bet's on Ambrose."

"Wha—"

"Seth's only got three guys to fight off. Ambrose has four. And one of 'em calls himself the Big Guy. I'd be worried if I was him."

Roman's entire face was dotted with beads of sweat. His muscles quaked with distress. He paced the floor of his tiny cell, running his hands over his face and through his hair, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do.

What am I supposed to do!?

Something—someone—crashed into the wall on Dean's side. Roman rushed to it, pressing his hands against the wall over a shelf of assorted cleaning products like the touch alone was going to get him to the other side.

"Dean!"

"Ro-Roman…"

"Dean, hold on. Please. I'm gonna get out of this, just—"

The wall vibrated again with another great collision. Roman's heart cracked as Dean cried out again.

He thrust both fists against the wall. He'd break it. He would. If he could. "LEAVE HIM ALONE!" he boomed. His throat was tender from the screaming. A single tear glided down his cheek, sinking into his ear. "I SWEAR TO GOD!" His weakness was winning him over. The strength was sapping away.

I have to get over there. Kick some ass and protect Dean…but how, goddammit, how!?

Seth was incredulous.

The official waved his hand. The bell tolled thrice. The match was on, and he was still without his brothers.

He tried to defend himself against Punk. Alone. That's the way it would have been even if Roman and Dean were here, right? Yet he was distracted. Concerned. What the hell was keeping them? Had something happened?

Were they in trouble?

Fighting again?

The fact Seth made that a possibility for himself twice was unsettling.

Punk had the initial advantage. He went in fully offensively, hurling three punches, one behind the other behind the other, to Seth's face. Initially there was no response, no retaliation or defense, from Rollins, as his mind played catch-up with his body. Punk backed himself against the ropes and launched forward, knocking Seth to the ground in one fierce hit. He used his remaining momentum to hit the ropes on the other side and go in Seth's direction again. Seth, who'd sprung back to his feet in an instant, leaped up and used both feet to punt Punk. The impact brought both of them to the ground. Punk, the first to recover, flipped over onto his stomach and tried to grab hold of Seth's legs, likely going for a pin. Seth cast his legs up and forward again, hitting Punk in the nose. The stupefaction gave Seth enough time to stagger to his feet. He grabbed Punk by the shirt and, pinning his past "boss" in place, and struck him three times in the chest. Seth shoved Punk into the turnbuckle.

He prepared for another move when he was attacked from behind. Jey Uso had slithered into the ring and knocked Seth in the head, either by foot or a mighty, mighty fist. As Jey returned to his corner—you freakin' cheater, Seth thought, though he could admit he might have attempted the same thing if Dean or Roman were getting pummeled in the corner of the ring—Punk returned to the fight.

He got a couple of hits on Seth before Seth fought back again, knocking a punch into the side of Punk's head. If only he had hair for Seth to grab, hold his screwy head in place. Punk grabbed his shirt and tried to fling him out of the ring, but Seth held his ground, and both of them ended up spinning towards the ropes. One kick from Seth sent Punk under the ropes, onto the hard floor below, instead. Seth rushed across the mat, bounced himself off the ropes, and dove into the air over the top rope, landing on Punk. He felt powerful, but his energy was depleting. Wish I had a damn teammate to tag in, he thought.

The Usos didn't let Seth have an advantage on the ground. They targeted him from up above, dropping onto him together as he'd done to Punk. The force of both Usos crushed Seth to the floor. Something popped in his lower back. He grimaced, biting back a yelp. No advantages. No footholds. Don't give it to 'em…

Goddammit, Roman, Dean, where are you? I need your help!

Why would they make him fight this match alone?

Something must have happened. He was sure of it.

Jey and Jimmy Uso stomped Seth's back, his legs, his shoulder blades, over and over until Punk—not the official, but Punk—signaled for them to lay off. How much was Punk paying this ref? Was he even watching? Or was he turning a blind eye to the assault?

Seth heard Punk chuckling as he seized Seth and threw him back into the ring. Seth rolled towards the center, then stayed there, too pained to move. His back was on fire. He felt his face contorting with the pain. His vitality diminishing. His confidence strained.

"Where's your brothers, huh, Rollins?" Punk shouted in his ear. With another laugh, he propelled his foot into the back of Seth's head. Seth shouted out, his hands grabbing the area, covering his neck, shielding a tender area. "Where'd they run off to? Did they really just leave you behind to take me on alone?"

No. That was impossible. Roman, Dean, Seth, they were family. A team. Brothers, as Punk stated, even mockingly. There was no way they would ever, ever leave him behind.

"Wh-what did you do with them…" Seth tried.

"Oh, I didn't do anything with them. I was here the whole time, waiting on you. I was here when you arrived, remember?"

Seth made the mistake of trying to push up. Punk squashed him to the mat again with a jump and a charged kick down, drilling into his spine. Seth braced for another pop, but nothing happened. Not this time.

Punk captured a handful of Seth's long hair and forced his neck up, his face lifting towards the appalled audience. "You see, Rollins, if there's anything I've learned in this business, it's trust no one. This company isn't about companions. This job isn't about special bonds or teammates or 'family'. This company is about one thing and one thing only: winning."

Punk released his hair and jumped into the air, aiming his elbow for Seth's spine in his fall. The bone speared the fleshy area above Seth's scapula. He cried out again, combating against tears from the sheer agony. Don't you dare cry in front of the whole world, Rollins, no matter how much it hurts. He squeezed his eyes shut, which didn't help him much in the losing battle.

Punk's voice rattled his eardrums. "Are they coming? Hmm? You see them? You hear them? I sure don't. Jey and Jimmy don't seem to. You're alone in this, Rollins. Sorry you had to learn your lesson this way. Wrestling isn't about friendship. It's about being the best of the best. And nobody can do that with two douche bags holding them back."

"Screw you!" Seth shouted.

Punk punished him for the remark with a shot to the head again. But he was still laughing. Seth was fading in and out, head swimming like he'd had a few drinks before his match.

He felt like giving up. Why carry on? He couldn't do it without Roman and Dean.

He'd failed.

They'd failed.

Tonight was somehow a greater loss for the Shield than last night.

"Go to sleep," Punk said...

Dean heard Roman shouting his name somewhere outside this hellhole.

"ROMAN!" Dean yelled. Hear me, dammit!

This prompted Kane to fling Dean over his shoulders. His figure struck the table, and it collapsed under his weight. His vision was blackening. His stomach seethed, on the verge of sloshing its contents all over the carpet. There was likely a concussion as a result of this.

He wanted to fight back. Tried to. Wasn't easy against so many burly opponents.

Kane straddled him. Dean's back muscles pressed against the splintered table. He thrust his fists forward, aiming for something, any part of Kane that would affect the Devil's Favorite Demon. It didn't do much good. Kane absorbed each blow and retaliated with two fists plunging into Dean's gut. Dean hacked against the pressure.

Where the hell was Roman? Was he coming?

Was he screwed?

"My turn," Orton rustled.

Kane pushed off Dean, thinking Dean would be down long enough for Randy Orton to take Kane's place. Instead Dean kicked both legs up, thrashing Kane in the nose. He rolled to the side and lifted to his knees, then his feet.

Before he was standing straight, Orton charged forward with an RKO. Dean's head clipped the edge of the other table. Blood surfaced from the resulting gash, gliding like a teardrop down his forehead into his eye.

Dean winced, drawing each painful breath in quick.

"DEAN!" Roman's voice emerged as though from the heavens. Something rattled with a bang. "Stop it!"

Where was he?

Could he hear all of this?

"Hear your boy calling out to you?" Orton asked, lifting a bruised Dean Ambrose into his arms like a baby. "Answer him. Go on."

"Go fuck yourself," Dean snarled.

Randy narrowed his eyes.

Then swung Dean like a baseball bat, ramming him into the wall. Dean hit the carpet with a weak groan. He spit out a clump of blood.

"Dean!"

Roman was on the other side of this wall. Wherever that was.

"Ro-Roman…" Dean pressed his hands against the wall and tried pulling himself up.

"Dean, hold on. Please. I'm gonna get out of this, just—"

Orton scooped Dean into his arms again and once more flung him into the wall. Dean's body screamed with pain. He'd been in some pretty brutal matches in his day, but nothing like this onslaught. He didn't want to risk moving, risk injuring himself again. Perhaps if he played dead—at the very least, unconscious—they'd stop.

"You like that, Roman?" Orton screamed at the wall. "There's nothing you can do about it!"

"That you, Randy!? I swear to God, I'll kill you! GET AWAY FROM HIM!"

"Come and get me, Roman!" Orton dared. "You want him? Come and get him! You can't, can you? There's nothing you can do!"

"Orton…" Roman's nature had altered. He sounded less angry now. Weary. Ailing. Vulnerable. "Please…don't hurt him anymore…please…he's my best friend…he's my brother…"

"That compassion crap ain't gonna work on me, just like it never works on the Shield."

"You've lost, Roman." Daniel Bryan walked to Randy Orton's side. "It can't go on, and it won't. The Shield cannot go on. You've got too much against you. Is this the way you want it to be, forever? Nothing but pain? Are you really so obsessed with power and list for false justice that you'd continue risking the lives of your brothers? Of Seth and Dean here?"

No answer. Was Roman…actually considering these words? Taking them to heart? If Dean wasn't so sure his fake-unconscious act was working, he'd scream at Roman not to buy into this crap.

He could feel each superstar standing over him. Their shadows cast over him, chilling him. What more could he possibly expect from these brutes?

"Is it worth it, Roman?"

No hits. No fits. No answer.

"Reigns!"

Silence.

"He must really care about you, Ambrose," Daniel said. "What do you know? Big Dog has a heart after all. Punk was right. That's one hell of a weakness in the Shield. Ambrose is the heart."

Dean's eyes remained closed. Gravity did him a favor; with his head angled this way, there was little chance of tears spilling through the lids.

Suddenly the ceiling collapsed.

Roman wasn't listening to Daniel.

He'd thought of something else.

He fashioned himself a makeshift ladder out of buckets, boxes and a wooden shelf tipped on its side to reach the ceiling. He pushed his hand against a ceiling tile, shoving it out of place and aside. Roman grabbed the edges of the opening and hoisted himself into the ceiling. He didn't have much room to maneuver, not with the little space crowded with insulation and crisscross boards spiked with nails. The air was musty, pricking his eyes, grating his throat and nose. Didn't care. Ignored it.

Roman slithered through the cramped space in the direction of whatever room Dean was being tortured in. After crawling some distance—surely he didn't have to go far—he put his ear to the "floor" and listened.

He thought he heard voices. Daniel's nor Ryback's were discernible among them.

Had to take the chance. He'd fight his way through an army of a thousand to get to Dean.

Roman made sure there were no nails to puncture him when he did what he was about to attempt. He stood up as tall as he could, having to bend his neck far down to avoid smacking his head on the ceiling's ceiling.

He cocked his elbow, jumped as high as space would allow, and smashed into—through—the insulation.

The ceiling couldn't bear Roman's weight, especially with his diving elbow drop, and the entire panel gave way. Roman struck the floor in a cloud of rising dust. He wheezed and coughed forcibly, lungs seeking out any form of air around him.

The surprise collision caused Dean to jerk into a sitting position, arms supporting him from behind. "Roman?" he gasped.

Roman was on hands and knees, head down.

He lifted his black gaze like a wolf onto Randy Orton, a growl rumbling deep in his throat.

The predator was now the prey.

Roman lunged at the Viper, smashing both of them against the wall. Roman unleashed a profusion of emotions through the brandishing of his fists. The fury rain. Revenge beat down. Orton was a bloodied pulp after only a few critical hits, but Roman didn't stop, not until Ryback and Daniel attempted to lug Roman off Orton. Roman reacted by swinging around and knocking them both in the heads with a long, swift kick.

Kane was the next to target Roman. He grabbed Roman's throat. Roman couldn't escape the prompt Chokeslam, and the Demon slammed him against the hard "carpet."

Dean's throbbing body implored him to stay down, rest, but he'd had enough rest. A bit of a recharge between playing comatose and Roman's bombshell entrance. He scurried atop the second table, still standing, and leaped off of it with his left leg outstretched. The limb connected with Kane's skull on the way down, and Kane collapsed onto the floor. As he pushed himself up, Dean borrowed a move from his brother Seth and Curbstomped Kane to true unconsciousness.

Ryback and Daniel labored in unison to try to restrain Dean again. They each took his by an arm and yanked him into an outstretched cross position, aiming to perhaps dislocate both shoulders. Roman was on it. He nearly tripped over broken table fragments in his lunge, Spearing Daniel to the floor. Bryan was easier to take out with a Spear. Roman had a Superman punch on hold for Ryback.

Ryback didn't bother wrestling Dean into another hold—he was out for blood, more blood now. He lifted Dean up over his head and hurled him into the other table. Dean braced for impact, and he dropped through the long oak desk, splitting it in two near-perfect halves. Roman vaulted for the Superman punch, but Ryback was ready for it. He caught Roman's entire form in the air, then swung him as he'd done with Dean over his head. Roman was destined to land on top of Dean. Dean hadn't been down for long. Before Ryback could release Roman for the throw, Dean kicked the back of his skull in. The Big Guy's eyes rolled to the back of his head. He was out cold before he even slumped to the floor. Roman pulled out of his grip before Ryback brought him down, too.

Dean watched over Ryback's fallen body with a shaky breath. God, did everything hurt. God, was he tired.

Roman looked Dean over, up and down, never appreciating the sight of him more in his life.

"Stronger together," Dean said.

"Think that's the whole point," Roman answered.

Dean awkwardly stepped over Ryback's body to hug Roman. Roman embraced him in full, squeezing him tight. It probably hurt, but Dean didn't complain.

"Are you alright?" Roman asked, voice trembling.

"Peachy," Dean mumbled. "You?"

"Yeah, I've had better days myself."

Dean pulled out of the hug, face plunging from its bliss to crossness. "That douche bag's the one behind it all," Dean said, dark eyes locking onto Daniel Bryan.

"I figured."

Roman approached the struggling Daniel Bryan, took hold of him, and hurled him into the wall, pinning Daniel there with his shirt gripped in both of Roman's hands.

"Why did you do this?" Roman barked. Bits of saliva cast from his mouth onto Daniel's face. Usually the resolved warrior, Bryan looked terrified, truly terrified, being confronted by the Samoan like this. Dean stood close beside his brother, daggers for eyes, spearing Daniel in their own way.

"It was Punk!" Daniel blabbed. "He wanted to get rid of the Shield. Promised me a championship if I helped him. This is on him."

Roman drove his knuckles into Daniel's shoulders, still clenching the shirt. "Punk?"

"Shocker," Dean said.

"Why?"

"Because you're a powerhouse!" Daniel said, offering no truer explanation. "He's probably just jealous because you're the most dominant force in the company right now! Saw you as a threat! Wanted you gone."

"You're goddamn right, we are."

"Roman, I'm sorry, please don't hurt me. I—I do have a match later, and it's for that title, and all I want is to win. Please. I'm tired of being screwed over by this company. I want to know I'm working for something here."

"Yeah, that's why we're all here."

"Roman," Dean said. "As much as I'd love to watch you tear Daniel's beard right off his chin, we need to get moving."

Roman heard the unspoken reason in his words. Seth. Oh God, Seth was still out there. Had he attended the match alone? What was going on now?

But one problem still, quite literally, stood in their way.

"Call off the Big Show out there," Roman said to Daniel, "and I won't rip your spine out of your skin. Might still have a chance at that championship."

"Fine," Daniel spoke through gritted teeth.

Roman backed off of him, releasing Daniel at last. Daniel huffed, then pulled the door open. "Show. Get in here," he called. "Now!"

The Big Show poked his head into the room. His face blanched at the sight of Roman. "What the—"

"Nice guarding job there, princess. Now let them by."

Big Show blinked. "What? I—"

"Just let them by!" Daniel screamed.

Big Show could only uphold a baffled glare as Roman and Dean slinked past him.

Both were limping towards the main arena, but Roman was moving a bit faster than Dean. Ambrose couldn't even walk in a straight line; he nearly smashed into a wall every fifth or sixth step.

"Roman, it hurts," he groaned, keeling over. "Everything hurts so much. I won't be able to do anything."

"Dean, I know it hurts, I know it does. But we have to press on. That's our brother out there. And we can't let him down. Right?"

Dean winced. "Being part of a family's sure a pain in the ass sometimes."

Roman smiled grimly. He draped an arm over Dean's shoulder and towed him ahead. "Let's go."

"Go to sleep."

Seth lay helpless on the mat. It was a tempting offer CM Punk proposed. Perhaps he should go to sleep. He felt no pain in sleep. Felt no distress. No depletion, obviously.

Most of all, he was in his dreams when he slept.

And in his dreams, he was almost always with Roman and Dean.

He felt Punk lift him into his arms for the finisher. It was over. He'd decided that for himself long ago.

They needed a diversion.

Charging in at their (lack of) speed might have cost Seth a few hits on their behalf, in following Punk's constant mocking.

Roman knew what to do.

He'd need a little aid from some crewmen backstage.

And fast.

Punk pulled Seth over his shoulders. The crowd was losing its mind over this unjust match, some chanting for Seth to fight on, others screaming for Punk to finish him off.

Punk grinned at the Universe.

The lights went out.

The audience fell a bit hushed, whispers darting between the rows, spectating this twist of events.

The darkness lasted for several minutes while everyone, Punk and even the announcers included, wondered what the hell was going on.

The Shield's theme hit.

"Sierra! Hotel! India! Echo! Lima! Delta! Shield."

The booming music progressed in the dark.

CM Punk was unable to hold onto Seth. He couldn't execute the finisher in the dark. Irritated and baffled, he dropped Rollins instead, letting him thump against the hard mat. He took a couple of steps forward, arms swinging in front of him in a blind search for the ropes.

Seth felt a new pair of arms grab hold of him. Lift him. Escort him to the side.

"It's me."

Dean's voice, he could recognize even in a whisper.

His insides swelled with relief.

The music was loud enough to mute the grunts, groans and shouts from the side of the ring. Roman was handling the Usos. Dean's job was to get in the ring and get Seth to safety. They'd reunite for the finale after.

Dean set Seth on the ground beneath the ring. "Stay here," he said. His presence disappeared.

"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON!?" Punk demanded, screaming over the music.

It cut out mid-sentence.

The lights buzzed back alive.

Jimmy and Jey Uso were far outside the ring, fallen, unmoving.

CM Punk found himself standing in the corner, enclosed by a masked Roman Reigns and Dean Ambrose.

Taken aback by their appearance, especially under these procedures, he barely had time to think, let alone react to the sudden offensive. Two-thirds of the Shield grounded Punk with stomp after stomp after stomp. Punk's arms flew over his head to protect himself. That gave Dean the idea to grab hold of his arms and lug him to the center of the ring. Punk yanked back, drawing Dean close in, and he kicked Ambrose in the head. Too distracted targeting Dean to notice Roman charging up behind him for the Spear.

Dean grinned as Roman paced in front of the sprawled Punk, thrusting his arms out and in, roaring in pending victory.

Ambrose ascended the ropes, carefully balancing on the top rope with the grace of a ballerina. Roman stepped back away from Punk to give Dean the moment to strike.

Dean waited patiently for Punk to stagger to his feet, then executed the front missile dropkick, sending Punk spiraling down again with a flying boot to the face.

The official didn't know what to do except move in for the count when Dean pinned Punk, snakelike tongue gliding between his teeth, lips twisted up in a devious smile.

The announcers didn't know what to do except deem the Shield the winners of the unorthodox match.

The crowd didn't even know what to do. Nor did any of them care. To hell with rules and regulations—they were ecstatic about seeing such a barbaric match with twists every minute or so. They didn't know how real it was. Truly didn't.

Seth scuttled back into the ring, hand compressing his back where he'd felt the pop. Roman and Dean, gasping for breath, stared at him from their positions towering over Punk. Seth gave them a look. Roman gave him a nod.

The bell had rang but the battle wasn't quite over.

Seth and Dean gathered Punk into a hold on their aching shoulders. Roman would soon join them, and the Shield Triple Powerbombed CM Punk right back onto the mat.

Their music hit.

Each team member raised an arm, a symbol of justice, over his fallen body.

The arms then mashed over the shoulders of each brother, a tight hug in front of the whole Universe.

"Thought you guys wouldn't make it," Seth admitted in the embrace.

"We had complications backstage," Dean explained. "But we're fine."

"We'd never leave you behind," Roman said. "You know that, right?"

"I know," Seth said. He could believe it again. "I know."

The future might have been uncertain. Nothing could ever be spoken in certainty in a company like this. Daniel Bryan would win his match against Randy Orton via disqualification that night. CM Punk would set his sights on ending The Undertaker's WrestleMania streak. The Shield had their own uncertainties ahead of them, but in the moment they were ready to combat the world.

For now, they were still together.

For now, they were still the Shield.