- a tentative beginning to something that's out of my comfort zone, a post apocalyptic and illegal cage fighting AU where nothing is like anything we know. kinda inspired from watching the Lost River. depending on the reception i.e. reviews, i'll continue this.

The road was wet, slick with the drizzle that was pouring from the heavy clouds. He couldn't remember the last time he saw the sun rise over the horizon, couldn't remember the last time he watched it set, just knew that when he got behind the wheel, it was eyes on the road and no where else. He'd had too many close calls to start being stupid now.

There was one car in front of him, none behind. The road less travelled.

Never stayed in one place too long to get comfortable, always moving from town to town. He'd taken a risk with Vancouver, stayed for a month, long enough to fight for a couple of thousand and then disappeared into the darkness of the night.

But the underbelly of this country knew his name. Or, at least, part of it. He'd had so many he didn't know which one was the real him anymore, too many punches that caught him in the head and rattled his brain.

They never lasted long though, not once they saw the smile curl across his lips and the empty look in his eyes, not once they realised that the man who stepped into the cage with them fought for nothing more than the pleasure of pain. Locked inside the devil's playground. All that steel. All that danger. Nowhere to run.

He wasn't a sadist. He just thought he was the one good man living in a world of bad people. He just knew that he had nothing to lose — and that made him dangerous.

He didn't lack emotion. In fact, his heart was big… he just had nothing to fill the empty space with. So he took the money and he searched. Maybe for himself, maybe for a reason to stay somewhere, maybe for something more than he could ever hope for.

Hope.

Who was he?

Was he Jon Moxley, the man who had carved a name for himself with blood, sweat, tears, a man who craved the burn of smoke in his lungs, the man who fucked ordinary woman at some shady bar? Was he the man that had to stitch his own nipple back on?

Perhaps he was Dean Ambrose, the man who had fought through hell and back with his brothers? The man who walked the thin line of insanity and eccentricity, the very same man who was stabbed in the back when he thought he'd found a reason to make his life better, the man who ruled the chaotic heart of the city for close to a year before being thrown to the wolves. Was he a hound? Did he fight for justice?

Or was he just Jonathan Good, the kid who had grown up in the wrong end of the block and watched his mother overdose on a dangerous concoction of drugs and alcohol? The kid turned man who had to pull himself away from the edge before he toppled over?

If he was quiet, if he stayed in the shadows, they wouldn't notice him. He wouldn't have to fight to survive like he did currently. If he had something to fight for, maybe he could win against the system, win against the Authority. But he had nothing.

And the Authority had everything.

Somewhere along the long road to which ever town he was headed, smoke began to fizzle under the hood of his truck. It wasn't the first time something had happened to his old girl, probably wouldn't be the last; he pulled off the highway and followed some home-made signs towards a shed that stood out against the dark of the day — Waters Car Repairs.

The engine chugged and not healthily, and by the time he'd managed to open the hood and inspect the damage he'd never understand, there was a scuffle of feet behind him. Blue eyes gazed over his shoulders, squinting, trying to make out the figure that was shrouded in light.

When he focused, he saw the grease smudged across her left cheek and natural brown hair up in a messy top knot. His eyes trailed across the black crop top, the dark khaki mechanic jumpsuit tied at the arms around her waist.

He wanted to run. Right then and there, he wanted to leave; something about the way watching her twisted his stomach, something about the way her warm brown eyes smiled at him without there being a curve to her lips. His home was his car but he suddenly he needed to be in the cage, slam his fist into a face.

"What can I do for you, stranger?" She asked softly, finally rolling her eyes past his tired figure and onto the beat up truck.

He motioned out, helpless. "Radiators done for, was kinda hoping someone would be able to repair it."

The honey brown in her eyes shone as she picked up a tool box that rested near the entrance, and then she was walking towards him but not even looking at him.

"How old's she?"

"Uh…" he paused, ran a hand across his stubbled chin. "Don't really know. She's getting old, though."

"Can I have a look?"

Move. He should move. He finally managed to put one foot behind the other, backing away from the mechanic and rubbing the back of his neck with a trembling hand. It was cold outside, white breath falling from between his lips as he exhaled. There was some clunking and groaning as she fiddled with a couple of the interior parts and he thought that her fingers were working black magic, swallowed the billowing white smoke like it was vapour.

He watched the taut muscles ripple across her arms, watched the curly brown hair bob on her head as she moved back and forth. She bit her lip and placed her hands on the lid of the car.

"You messed with this before you came, didn't you?"

When she caught the look of guilt in his eyes, the woman nodded and pursed her lips. "You didn't put that radiator fan back in properly, so all this heat that's building up while your car's running can't get out."

Her gaze went right back to the car and she fiddled a bit more, shoving her hands right into the heart and pulling more than a few components of the machine out. "The first thing you do when you want to remove everything is take note of how they reattach, otherwise the hard work you do is gonna come undone."

Grabbing the pieces into her capable arms, she walked back into the repair shop and let the man relax in the overwhelming silence. The sky was too dark to be day but the clock read that it was half one and his stomach rumbled greedily.

There was a cluttering noise, some swearing, and he watched as a shadow passed through the entrance way before she was walking back out again, clutching her arm softly.

"So she can be fixed?" He broke the silence and she finally looked at him again.

"Gotta get her up on the lifts and have a look underneath, but yeah, should be fine."

"How long do you reckon?"

The warehouse parking lot was empty as she looked around, just a solitary, pulled apart car in the corner and a bunch of tools and two tarps lying around. Her brown eyes met his and she shrugged. "A day or two, if I can get the tweaking right and no parts need replacing."

He nodded his head but he was frowning. "And what if some parts need replacing?"

"We'll be pushing two weeks; we're in a small town in the middle of nowhere."

No. That couldn't happen. His eye twitched, lids sliding down, breath puffing around his face as he tried to control his tired emotions.

There was a gentle hand on his arm, the skin calloused but still soft, and the slate blue of his eyes fixated on her warm gaze as she tried to comfort him. "You look like you could do with a few hours sleep. While I check her over properly, why don't you head upstairs and catch some shut eye?"

It was definitely appealing, but how could he trust her?

"There's a bed up there and a bathroom as well if you want to freshen up, and I've got some left over food in the fridge…" The woman trailed off at the anxiety — or was is apprehension? — in his eyes and offered a little smile that was in every sense of the word reassuring. "My name's Meredith Waters. You don't have to tell me anything if you don't want to, but I can see the shadows under your eyes and I can hear your stomach."

Traitorous thing. His eyes dropped to the floor again and then he moved them to look at the car who had treated him so well for the better part of ten years. It wasn't like he could just leave. He wouldn't walk in this weather ten metres away, and as if the heavens had heard him, thunder crashed down upon them.

The woman — Meredith — flinched and his sturdy hands shot out. But he didn't touch her. Hovering just above her bare shoulder, feeling the radiating warmth, their eyes met again.

"Our little town here has wild storms just before winter rolls in," she provided. A tired grin played at her lips and she looked much wiser in that small movement alone. "I hate storms."

"And yet you stay," his voice was still husky with disuse and deep, but the tone was teasing. Almost.

Meredith lifted a shoulder. "Nowhere much to go anymore, is there?"

She was right.

Floods had ruined most of their cities. In the winters, they turned to ice and the rain became sludge. The ice towns had their advantages, though — where none thought to go, there was a gathering of men and women who had fought for the freedom of their lives and achieved it. They were the walking dead, those who survived but were thought gone.

So what was he doing here, then? Why was he fighting for the enemy?

Because he was still searching.

Those who stayed were ruled by a government that was more a small party of money-hungry power seekers than a government who wanted to better off what country they had left. They called themselves the Authority. Husband, wife, loyal soldiers who fought for them when people wouldn't obey. They owned the cage, owned his job, owned what made him money. They knew everything there was to know about him and they could use it against him if he wanted to leave.

He was inside the shed now, dim lights shining across the desolate work place. Over the side of the area was a car lift, an old Cadillac poised high and mighty, infrared ceiling heaters lining the roof. Understood now was the simple crop top that Meredith was wearing.

"It's nice and warm in here."

When he faced the small woman again, the smile was genuine. "I don't work well in the cold, I get the shakes, so my last worker built up some heaters to put on the ceiling and they haven't stopped going since."

He pursed his lips. "Can't remember the last time it was naturally warm. Can't remember the last time I saw the sun."

"Never get a chance, down here. Maybe once or twice every summer, but the sky is too hazy otherwise."

"God bless this country, right?"

He looked at her again, really looked at her. There was a gentle air around her, something that he hadn't seen for a very long time, and the soft tones of her olive skin didn't have one scar.

Pure. Innocent.

He couldn't stay here for long.

"So you know my name," Meredith teased as she dropped the tool kit, glided her hands along the khaki jumpsuit, met his gaze with a tentative smile. "What do I call you?"

What did she call him? Who was he? Was he Jon Good? Jon Moxley? Dean Ambrose?

That was always where he ended up. No matter where he was, who he was fighting… he never knew who he was. It was a name. But it was also an identity.

She seemed to sense his hesitation. "It's just a word. It doesn't have to define who you are as a person."

Staring deep into her honey brown eyes, hearing her words. Hearing what they meant… he could start over. With her, it was a blank slate. This woman didn't know who he was, or where he'd been, or what he'd done. He could rebuild himself.

So he chose the one that meant something more to him, the one that his only true friend knew him by.

"…Dean. Call me Dean."