"How you doin', Danny Boy?"

Was he ever tired of that nickname.

Daniel Bryan, hand on the door to the locker room, craned his neck to see CM Punk leaning against the wall, arms folded over his chest, ever-present smug smile on his lips like it had been pasted there.

"How do you think I'm doing?" Daniel scoffed. His head pounded from Bray Wyatt's late attack earlier on. The rest of his body burned with pain from the Sister Abigail that had done him in in the handicap match against the Wyatt family.

"Hey, you did well out there. It's not like you got your ass handed to you. You fought valiantly."

"Thanks. I just want to be alone, alright?"

Daniel pushed into the locker room. Incredibly, Punk followed him inside. He looked mighty pleased with himself. As he should have been. He won his handicap match tonight, against the Shield.

"Here's the deal, Bryan." Punk clasped his hands together like he was giving a lecture. "I can help you out. Do you a solid. Put in a good word for you…or just go above and beyond and aid you by my own hand."

"I have no idea what the hell you're talking about."

"Check it out. We have this new title, right? The WWE World Heavyweight Championship. Looks pretty good, don't you think? Well, not right now, 'cause it's on Randy Orton, but by itself…it's a big deal. A new title that's already historic. Must be one hell of a deal to hold that belt, right?"

"What are you getting at?" Daniel was tired. He just wanted to take a shower and sleep the night away. He'd earned it.

"Do you want that title, Bryan?"

Daniel stared at Punk with shifty eyes. "Of course I do. Everyone does. It's probably the most coveted belt in the company by now."

"I can get it for you. Help you get it."

Daniel snorted. He didn't see this running as smoothly as Punk was bragging. "Yeah? And what's in it for you?"

Punk pursed his lips. Moment of truth. "I need your help eliminating the Shield."

Daniel nearly laughed out loud at the petition. "Right. Okay. They're only the strongest faction in the company right now, but sure. Let's you and me team up and eliminate them." Daniel dropped the derision. "Seriously? What makes you think we're up for that?" As much as I'd love to break those 'Hounds of Justice'…

"Well, I beat them tonight, for one. By myself," Punk boasted.

"Yeah, but this was just a battle, you and them tonight. War's not over. They're probably plotting their retaliation right now." Daniel blinked, suddenly understanding something. "And you know this. Or else you wouldn't be asking for my help. Are you scared of them? Scared they're gonna come after you and destroy you after you beat them tonight? Is that why you need me?"

Punk's nostrils flared as he forced out a laugh. "Of course not. Those little bastards have been doing me favors all year long. I've better standings than they do. Especially now. I'm still the top dog, no matter what Reigns thinks."

"Okay," Daniel said, cocking his head. "So, what, you want my help just because—"

"Because two heads are better than one, Daniel. You hate them. I hate them. They've given us both grief this year. They're running around this place like they own the joint. It's aggravating. They need to be kicked down a notch. Or two. Or three. Or just taken care of altogether."

"Sure. You've got a point there. But how exactly did you want this to go down?"

"Animals can detect weakness. They sense everything from fear to aggression…to fragility. And I am the top dog. And I sense weakness in their pitiful little band."

"Yeah? Kink in the armor? Crack in the Shield?" Daniel taunted.

"More like a soft spot. Flesh and blood. A walking delicacy."

Punk had lost him again with vagueness, but if he was serious…if there was something they could use to bury those mutts, eradicate those vigilantes…Daniel was all for it.

Especially if he got a championship out of the deal.

He deserved it, after all.

"Here's my proposal. Tomorrow night, I have a match with the Usos against the Shield. I already worked it out with Vickie and the Authority. But it's just a setup. The Shield will be ready for a fight, but they won't see us coming. We have the advantage. The element of surprise. We'll have them by the balls. And you, you've got a match already scheduled against Orton for the World Heavyweight Championship."

"I do—?"

"Like I said. Already talked to Vickie. And got a little help from your boy Cena." Punk flashed him a beam. "You help me destroy the Shield, and I will make sure you win that title match. The Universe will scream yes! for their new World Heavyweight Champion, Daniel Bryan."

It was too good an offer to pass up. Daniel was willing. He had nothing to lose, everything to gain. "Okay."

The men shook hands, solidifying their covenant.

"Now, what do you need me to do?"

"It happens every once in a while, okay? It's not a big deal."

Roman Reigns rubbed his tender eye while listening to Seth Rollins somehow convince him that their loss against CM Punk tonight wasn't a "big deal." How did one of the top teams in the history of the WWE lose against one guy? How was that not a "big deal"?

"You don't need to be upset about it," Seth went on, "it's just—"

"Oh yeah," Dean interrupted, voice tainted with pique as he cradled his damaged ribcage. "Oh yeah, my best friend Spears me and I get a broken rib—"

"You act like I did it on purpose," Roman said, unable to believe Dean was actually throwing a mini-fit over that. It had been an accident. The Spear was meant for Punk, obviously, not Ambrose. Miscommunication, misplacement, something had caused Dean to stand in the path instead of Punk. "Things happen," Roman continued over Dean's groans. "You know I pull the trigger. I see a spot, I take it. I didn't mean to."

Dean was still whimpering. Roman thought he might have been overreacting now. He gave up trying to convince Dean it had been an accident. He was sorry he hurt the guy, but what did Roman need to do? Get on his knees and beg for forgiveness?

"I can't see anything right now!" Roman said, referring to his injured eye. Dean wasn't the only one who'd been hurt in the match. He didn't see Roman practically in tears.

"Look! Hey, hey! Come on!" Seth shouted over them. Seth, the architect. The brains of the operation. Always the logical thinker, the rational server. "CM Punk didn't beat the Shield, guys—"

Dean spoke over him. "What do I look like?" he asked Roman. "Do I look like a target?"

Roman kept his eyes closed. Kept rubbing his sore eye even though it wouldn't help the healing process, or the pain cease.

"Chill out! Calm down!" Seth barked as Dean asked, "Since when do you Spear me?"

You are such a child, Dean.

"Sit down and calm down!" Seth instructed. Playing father to the boys might have been one thing he did too often, too well. Dean finally perched himself on the seat, tugging his championship belt off his shoulder. His shirt was pulled up, exposing the broken rib. Roman didn't want to see it. He felt bad enough. He didn't need this.

"The Shield beat the Shield," Seth said, pointing out the painfully obvious, "but guess what? People win the lottery every single week. You know what? Even the Cubs win the World Series once a century." Seth playfully punched Roman's arm at his lame joke. Dean was still griping. "CM Punk is not the best in the world. Tonight, he's the luckiest man alive."

"Yeah, lucky you Speared the crap out of me," Dean muttered.

"Look, this thing's gonna heal up…" He lifted a finger to Roman's eye, then shifted his focus onto Dean. "These are gonna be alright." He now referred to Dean's ribs.

Roman glared at Dean for his remark. I didn't do it on purpose. Let. It. Go.

"We are still the most dominant force in this industry." Bless Seth for his optimism at a time like this. Roman sure wasn't feeling it. Dean lifted his shirt further up and stuck the area in Roman's line of sight, fingering where Roman had Speared him. Roman smacked the skin. Cry over that, Ambrose.

"Just—it's fine, you'll be fine, man. Take it easy." Seth was sounding mighty patient even now. Dean obeyed, backed off a bit.

"Nothing's gonna stop us," Seth said, staring into Roman's eyes. "Not tonight, not ever, alright?"

He paused, wanting them—needing them—to understand this.

"Watch where you're going next time, huh?" Dean tried.

Roman was about to Spear him again. This time it wouldn't be accidental. "I can't see anything," Roman defended. "I got all kinds of fluid floating out of my eye."

"It looks horrible," Dean barbed.

"Hey! Focus!" Seth yelled.

"It looks really bad."

Seth hit Dean's chest to get him to concentrate on his words.

"Don't touch me like that right now," Dean told him.

"Believe in the Shield, guys. Come on." He stuck out a fist, pleading with his eyes. This was just what Punk wanted. Fights. Arguments. Disputes. Civil war. Anything to break them. Punk wasn't going to break them. Seth was right. They were forged from iron. Unyielding. Unstoppable.

Roman could certainly believe it.

Dean tapped his fist against Seth's. Roman followed suit.

Seth seemed partially satisfied. "We run this joint. We'll be fine. Chill out. Geez, man. Look at my eye, for crying out loud." He thrust a finger towards an injury of his own. "Come on. I got busted in the face. Look at this."

Roman did. Didn't look much worse than Dean's injury, or his. No better, but no worse.

"Yeah, you did," Roman laughed. They'd all taken some damage tonight. It wasn't time to argue about it. Seth was right, like always. Petty crap belonged out back. The loss just hurt. They'd recover. They always did. They always would.

Seth wandered off, probably to preserve whatever patience he had left after dealing with Roman and Dean's little quarrel.

"I need some Visine," Roman said. His eye felt watery and puffy. He didn't need a mirror to know how horrible it probably looked.

"You should Spear him next time," Dean said, jerking a thumb in Seth's direction. "See how he likes it."

Roman glanced up at Dean. "You alright? Seriously."

Dean scoffed. "Sure. As alright as you can be with a broken rib."

"I said I was sorry." Roman pushed against the anger elevating in his blood, in his throat.

"I know, I know." Dean rubbed his neck. "I'm just being a punk right now. That was…" He scoffed again, shoving air through his teeth in disbelief at the entire night. "That was sorry, man. We're better than that. We should have had it."

"We should have. Nothing we can do about it now, though."

"Oh, there's plenty we can do about it, Roman. Punk ain't gonna get away with a victory that easy. He better know what's coming to him."

"Want to fight him again?" Roman didn't want to think of any matches in the near future. He just wanted to rest. And that Visine.

"Of course I do, man. It's all coming, we all see it. Vengeance is ours. We're the Hounds of Justice. And that, whatever crap that was back there, that was an injustice. And you know how we handle those."

"As the dominant."

"You're damn right. As aggressors." Dean made a fist and punched his own palm. "CM Punk will taste justice. I'll break his nose with the symbol of excellence. Probably as soon as tomorrow night on Raw."

"Careful. Don't get overconfident. We're still a little splintered over here."

"Then give me a pair of tweezers and get these splinters out of us. We're brothers, man, and he can't screw with family. He should know that by now. Shame that he doesn't. Shame he has to be shown the consequences of corruption."

"Now you're sounding like Seth."

Dean grinned in a way that reminded Roman of Rollins, too. "He rubs off on me sometimes. I just wanna kick some ass."

"We will," Roman promised. "But right now, let's do some damage control, alright? Let's get some ice on your ribs, and me some damn eyedrops already."

"Rub some dirt in it and you'll be fine."

Roman prodded the tender skin encircling Dean's injury with his finger, not actually making physical contact with the broken rib. "Rub, rub, rub."

"Jerk."

"Still brothers." Roman held out a fist.

Dean smacked it with his own. "Always."