Post by Dominator / Mortimer on Jul 1, 2019 18:47:17 GMT -5
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“There are moments when I wish I could roll back the clock and take all the sadness away, but I have the feeling that if I did, the joy would be gone as well.”
― Nicholas Sparks, A Walk to Remember
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Sunday 17th June 2019 - 10.27am
Location: Unknown
So deep within the bowels of the ruined building she finds herself in, natural light is unable to penetrate it. All is dark. Dolores is able to navigate through the darkness with relative ease in spite of her blackened surroundings by switching on a torch that she carries about her person. Even with the newfound light to help guide her, she assists herself by running her hand along any form of wall surface just ahead of her to plot her course through the corridors formed by the structure’s collapse. That is not to say that approaches without caution. She freezes as a loose piece of mortar crumbles behind her, crackling and hissing as it impacts fellow stone. She jerks the flashlight behind her, shining the light at the small dust cloud that has formed in its wake. Once the danger has sufficiently passed, she looks back towards where she is headed, continuing to traverse this treacherous terrain.
That is, until she reaches the outskirts to her ultimate destination. Somehow, someway, a thick iron door has been placed within a part of the wall that has been visibly reinforced. She reaches down the front of her cloak. Concealed beneath it is a large key composed of the same metal as the door that it is destined to unlock. Slowly and precisely, she slots the key into its hole. The door produces a heavy series of clicks and clunks as she twists the key. It opens with a high pitched screech that causes Dolores to wince upon experiencing.
Immediately, a flood of blue light pours from the newly revealed room. Tens upon tens of illuminated monitors stacked atop each other face her, each displaying different images serving a purpose of surveillance; street views, internal rooms and even the exterior from which she had entered. In spite of the delicacy deployed in order to close the door behind her, it still generates a heavy slam that thunders throughout the chamber, as if shaking loose even more cobbles from the dilapidated house. Once again, she winces at being subjected to such a horrific noise.
Uncharacteristically, she appears to tremble with uninhibited nervousness as the sound of the crashing door emanates through the room. She turns towards one who is unflinching upon such an arrival.
There, sat in front of the multiple screens, a separate hooded figure sits in a motorised wheelchair with their hands planted firmly on its arms. Wires extend from their body, connected to an array of different machines scattered throughout the room. The sound of an air pump accompanies the occupant’s heavy wheezing. Consistently separated blips and beeps of a heart rate monitor only confirm the individual’s undaunted condition. His cloak is virtually identical to Dolores with the exception that it looks considerably more fatigued and worn over the course of time.
Over one hand; a solitary, tattered black glove.
“My Dolly,” the immobile being heaves with deep, strained joyous recognition in their voice; the depth of which denotes that he is obviously a much older male. With a mechanical hum, the wheelchair pivots one hundred and eighty degrees. The man now faces Dolores, slowly lift his head in order to make eye contact with her. His skin is mostly obscured as a silhouette amidst the blue light from the observation screens, yet his face appears to be masked by some form of white material; bandages or some form of mask, perhaps? “My dear, sweet Dolly,” he professes his croakily copious levels of limited exhilaration once again, “it has been so long since I last saw you, my sweet.”
Dolores refuses to exchange an analogous reaction. Her attention had been diverted instead to an array of machines to the far side of the room; ones of a more industrial purpose than the computerised gadgets ensconced amidst the man’s vicinity. Blueprints lay out across a desk tarnished by droplets of oil, grease and, perhaps more worryingly, dried blood. A lathe hosts metal splinters across it’s bed. Off-cuts of electrical wiring are scattered across the floor at a separate bench.
“It’s been a while,” Dolores says for the sake of speaking. It would have been awkward for her to remain silent any longer. “How have you been?”
“How does it look like I’ve been?” the shrivelled man suddenly raises his voice, gasping for air as he does so.
“Alright, alright, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking,” Dolores quickly ties to make amends. “Quite the set-up you have in here now,” she fires a rapid compliment to diffuse the tension. “I remember a time when you only have a couple of computers running. Looking at it now, it looks like some sort of supervillain’s evil lair.”
“Not by design, but for what it’s worth, you make a valid point,” he says more calmly, perhaps even sinisterly at such a comparison. “Let us not get into what I’ve been doing. It has been six months since I saw you last. Six whole months. I would have thought that, by now, you would have done as I asked of you.” Shamefacedly, Dolores tries to hide her guilt from the man by lowering her head.
“Things have been difficult as of late,” Dolores replies, a stammer forming in her voice. “I fear that Horacio’s most recent project could be The Black Hand’s downfall if trends continue as they are. Of course, I have tried everything in my power to sway Horacio’s attention away from this pet project to distract him into a more menial task. This has proven fruitless. So I’ve had to change tact.”
“And how exactly have you ‘changed tact,’ as you so put it?” the man asks incredulously, covering his nostrils with the webbing between his thumb and forefinger in an act of expectancy. Squinting her eyes to asphyxiate a sigh before it can form, Dolores prepares herself to unveil the truth.
“We’re in a romantic relationship,” she admits through closed eyes. She expects the worst, but as she opens her eyes, she simply sees the man fixed in the same pose that he had adopted prior to her delivery. “He is but a man, after all. I am using my womanly assets as a means of distraction. Unfortunately, as previously mention, Horacio is a man who is not so easily swayed. He is far too invested in running The Chronological Order and checking up on his little pet project that I haven’t had much of a chance to… talk to him.”
“Haven’t had much of a chance?” the man guffaws. “You’ve had over six months, Dolly.”
“The Order has managed to infiltrate Hangtown,” she vehemently retorts. “The man you know as Dominic Atkinson has become exceedingly close to The Dillingers.”
“Ah, yes,” he frowns. “Mortimer’s so-called [/I]’Zenith’[/I] running rampant is one thing, but for that buffoon Horacio to remain at Chronological’s helm is quite another.” He is visibly apprehensive not just over Horacio’s current position of power, but the complications that Dominic’s presence within the Order has caused him.
And rightfully so.
The Zenith had defeated both his upcoming adversaries consecutively in one night. Much like the consensus of the rest of the general public, she believes that the odds were truly stacked in Dominator’s favour. Not only that, but he had proven in the past that he and his selected partner, Sicko, the current Underground King, could somehow coexist, albeit begrudgingly. They share the same champion’s pride; a desire to triumph over all opposition as to continuously assert their dominance over all who dare to oppose them. Said desire exceeds that of their challenger’s greatly, for they, as champions, have far more to lose.
That being said, Dolores has seen firsthand just how much The Zenith relishes the opportunity to deflate an overgrown ego as if he were stamping one of his gargantuan feet down on a balloon; with a burst so sharp, so loud and so assertive that there is literally no chance of ever being repaired.
Take one David Hunter. He not only has to challenge Dominator and Sicko, but his must also overcome his own subconscious obstacles that he doesn’t even realise that he has created, yet wonders why his progress in this industry is constantly impeded. He is his own worst enemy; a greater threat to himself than any resident in the known, and indeed unknown, galaxies that he seems to find himself in.
“Who would have thought there could have been a poor man’s Derek Cosmos out there somewhere?” Dolores thought to herself with a chuckle.
It does not bode well for Hunter that both his opponents at this time are the ones that have delivered the crippling blows to his already damaged psyche. The Zenith and The Psycho Clown would circle him like vultures, ready to swoop down to feast on the carrion once he submits himself to inevitable defeat. But that is not to say that Hunter will not go down without a fight. Apparently, there are still members of society who remain hopeful that Hunter can live up to his own hype and fulfil the potential that they see in him.
How unfortunate it is for him then that he is staring down both barrels of a fully loaded shotgun with the gaping jaws of a cannon with it’s fuse burning directly behind. Whatever way you slice it, Hunter is going to have his head blown off.
This destructive tandem had already showcased their ability to defeat one half of the opposing team. That being said, Stormm is a significantly notorious substitute in place of Holden Ross. But is he? Truly? Perhaps not in the eyes of The Zenith. On the last two occasions that Justin had stood across the ring from The Temporal King, it had been The Force of Nature who had been looking abysmally toward the rafters when all was said and done in two of the most defining matches in The Zenith’s career.
But there is something different this time. The first time these two had faced, Dominator ripped the North American Title from his grasp, ending a record-breaker, and subsequently setting, reign. The second time around, he took something debatably far more dearer to his heart; the memory of the deceased Luis Malave. It did not even boil down to the championship opportunity that accompanied the accolade of winning the tournament named in his friend’s honour. Valuing his fallen friend held greater significance.
The fact remains. Stormm’s pride has dwindled to nothing but a pustule of bitter memories. And it is for that very reason that, in spite of his justifiable self-assurance and monstrous expertise between the ropes, The Zenith must hold a level of wariness about him.
For the first time since perhaps his greenhorn years as a rookie in this industry, Justin “Stormm” Micheals has nothing to lose. Not even pride. No. The Zenith had even torn that away from him. Of course, there is a vast variation between having nothing to lose and fighting purely out of desperation.
Just ask Kyle Shane.
It is why Dominator would make good on his fortnightly mission to mangle anybody and everybody who gets in his way inside the ring. Whether it is David Hunter, Stormm, Kyle Shane or, dare it be considered, even Phinehas Grimm, it does not matter who, when, or whatever circumstances are stipulated by the booking committee. It is just a matter of time.
“I’m sure Phinehas and Ruth have their own concerns as well,” Dolores says, “yet they are holding their cards exceedingly close to their chest.”
“And what of your cards, hmm?” the man hums, producing a deck of Tarot Cards from his pocket and withdrawing two with ease. Ironically, they are the most recent duo that Dolores had produced from her own deck. “The Seven of Swords and The Seven of Pentacles,” he proclaims. “The sign of putting a plan into action amidst a change of scenery; to escape a sinking ship. Destiny is telling you what you need to do and yet you still refuse it. As much as I hate to admit it, you may need to ask for assistance from The Dillingers.”
“Dominic is not at loggerheads with Phinehas Dillinger at this stage,” Dolores replies with a shake of her head. “Though I fear that his newfound opportunity will inevitably lead him down that path. Dare I say, this is one fight that Phinehas cannot win if Dominic so chooses to pick it.” The man audibly scowls at such a response; his anger mounting. “However, we are not yet at this stage,” Dolores reiterates in an effort to appease him. “He is pre-occupied holding on to a prize of his own.”
“I know that, you imbecilic ingrate,” the man snaps croakily, struggling for breath. Dolores recoils almost instantly upon being infected by the venom of his glare. Perhaps mercifully, his wheelchair spins back around so that he is facing the assortment of monitors, moving forwards slightly so that his fingertips are able to reach a waiting keyboard. “I’ve been observing this Dominic fellow for some time,” he remarks coldly. “In recent times, I have had to resort to solely viewing broadcasts from Pure Class Wrestling to truly appreciate his tenacity. Admittedly, trying to obtain footage within Hangtown has always been an issue. As such, Pure Class has been my only true source of Given the vast duration of his tenure there, it suggests that he could be a part of a certain Bloodline.”
“Whose Bloodline though?” Dolores replies in aggravation. “There is nothing to suggest that he is of Mortimer’s descent or even the Dillingers for that matter. Is there another Bloodline that I am missing?”
“Evidently,” the man replies with exasperation disguised as sarcasm. “From the intel that I have procured, Dominic is unearthing his own resources in order to confirm his heritage as we speak.”
“Do you know from where his Bloodline stems?” Dolores asks.
“If I could source information like that, I wouldn’t need you, would I?” he snidely snarls back to her. “That is not to say that I don’t have an inkling,” he admits, soothing quickly, “yet until I have concrete evidence, I would not like to hazard a guess.” Linking his fingers together to form a jagged pyramid, he nestles his chin gently between the ridges between his knuckles. “I thought my instructions were pretty simple to follow,” the man’s voice grows in agitation. “The Order needs to be eradicated by any means necessary. Here I am, denounced of the same level of ‘freedom’ that you possess, and it appears that I am still the one who is doing all the legwork.” His voices grows louder and louder to the point where he is fit to burst.
“Daddy… I…”
“You are a failure as a daughter and an even greater failure as a human being,” he seethes, pounding his fist against the plastic arm of his chair. Dolores hears his brittle finger bones crack on impact. Even his skin sounds like it is breaking away from beneath the leather glove over his hand; the wear of the cowhide over many years is almost symbolic of his own body’s state of decay. Slowly and excruciatingly, he releases the pressure from his fingers. They uncurl themselves like a piece of freshly crumpled paper or a wilted rose that still tries to bloom.
Dolores’ head is dipped. Attempting to ignore the torrent of abuse the man shoots at her, what has caught her eye above all else is an unusual cylindrical-shaped device reminiscent of an oversized dumbbell; wider at both of it’s ends than the thinner, more central area of the appliance. It brings about an ominous atmosphere, at least from Dolores’ perspective.
“You appear to have been… busy,” Dolores remarks. “What exactly is that?” Dolores’ curiosity is peaked.
“Call it a failsafe,” the man replies with a malevolent chuckle which soon morphs into a bombardment of heaving coughs that sound as though his bronchia are being forced up into his oesophagus. With a gasp of her own, Dolores rushes to the man’s side, retrieving a face mask that is connected to an air hose. She presses the mask firmly so that it covers his mouth and nose, though his relentless choking endeavours to stifle her efforts. Only upon taking a sharp intake of breath does he cease his spasms.
“Are you alright?” she asks awkwardly as she rub him across his back. He winces, jerking forward. The sensation of her fingers across his back seems painful to him. He swats her away with a grunt.
“I’m fine,” he heaves, filling Dolores with anything but confidence. There is a momentary pause in their conversation as the decrepit man catches his next breath. Adequately oxygenised, he rips the breathing mask from his face and lets it hang over the arm of his chair. All the while, Dolores waits patiently, yet still maintains an essence of trepidation. “Have you ever heard of an ‘EMP,’ my dear?” he rasps decadently. Dolores feels a chill run through her.
“An electro-magnetic pulse, you mean?” she assumes before elaborating. “Electromagnetic radiation that interferes and couples with electronic systems and devices, causing damaging current and voltage surges?”
“Precisely,” he grins, stretching his hands out and tapping his fingertips against a series of keys in a particular sequence. The monitors suddenly change their images to an assortment of seemingly random locations; only some of which Dolores recognises. One of which is a room rarely used in Horacio’s house; a bedroom which is reserved for Dominic if and when he chooses to stay. As such, it has been relatively untouched in what feels like months. Another screen displays a map of Europe with various locations pinpointed across the landscape. “The Chronological Order are regaining some of their lost momentum. Too much momentum for my liking. Dare I say that The Dillingers share my levels of scepticism. I have tried to come up with ways to truly put an end to them once and for all.”
“I’m assuming you’ve had a brainwave?” Dolores taps her foot.
“When you pull a weed from the ground, it will retain it’s root and only grow back,” he says with distain. “But if you eliminate the root, there is no coming back for said weed. What then is the ’root’ of The Chronological Order, if not Horacio? Time itself, of course. Now naturally, eliminating time as a whole is an impossible undertaking. But maybe there is a way to momentarily make it feel as if time has stopped.”
“With an EMP!?” Dolores gasps.
“Not just one,” he tries to hold back a chuckle as to prevent another bout of heinous wheezing. “I have several spread out across the country and beyond.” He stops to cough only for a moment, reaching for his breathing apparatus as a precautionary measure. “By causing the failure of every electronic device in each of Europe’s major cities, pandemonium will spread. Should Horacio or this Dominic chap avoid the blast radius, the failures of electronics means that whatever might happen to them will be more difficult to investigate. It will feel like time has stopped!”
“How did you do this!?” Dolores yells in disbelief. “You mean to say that you’ve hand-made a series of EMP bombs and somehow managed to spread them internationally without suspicion!? You’re confined to a fucking wheelchair! Or is that something else that you’re not telling me?” With a snarl, the man enters some more instruction into his keyboard. “Another mechanical whir begins to fill the room; bars on some form of battery pack begin to light up green. He wraps his fingers around a cane at his side. Without warning, the man bolts upright, thrusting his cane outwards.
Dolores clatters to the floor immediately; the blow to her head catching her completely by surprise, yet not as much as the dexterity with which the once wizened man had moved.
“The audacity in you!” he scorns. “You don’t appreciate your heritage! A feeble mind like yours could never comprehend what The Black Hand is capable of. The Hand would be even more ashamed to know that I am resorting to such modern conventions merely to exist,” he grimaces. “And besides, just because I do not chose to return to Hangtown, it does not mean that there are still people willing to assist in such a noble cause. Naturally, I have kept this hidden from The Dillingers…” he slowly lowers his head, “although I would be a fool to believe that they don’t know.”
“This is too much, Daddy!” Dolores shouts in protest, fighting through her tears as she struggles to pick herself up. “This is tantamount to terrorism. Things aren’t the same as what they were twenty five years ago. The Black Hand doesn’t have the right to govern the world as it sees fit…” This warrants a second, more brutal strike from the man. Her hood flies over her head. Blood gushes from a freshly carved wound amidst her temple. This particular blow to the head has disorientated her. As she tries to get back to her feet, she stumbles backwards and crashes against the desk containing the blueprints for these explosive EMPs. She is barely able to turn and catch herself before her legs fail her. Though her vision is distorted, she can make out the a titular heading on the blueprint that says…
‘Chrono Trigger.’
Before she can make sense of the heading, she collapses on to the floor, most likely concussed.
“Do you know of the shame that I have lived with since that fool Zachary sought to rectify the plight he and his grandson faced?” the man’s anger boils over as he paces towards his daughter‘s fallen body. “Do you think I want to return to Hangtown? The fact that I’ve allowed The Chronological Order to exist this long is enough to see me hung, drawn and quartered. No. I’m going to put an end to the Order exactly the same way as that old duffer tried to finish me. It is the only way that Hangtown could ever revere me as a hero. Denzel Aurelian; the man who ended The Chronological Order.” he lets out a laugh, this time it is not croaky or impeded by ill health. His own adrenaline levels are working in conjunction with the machines around him. “I refuse to keep myself hidden any longer,” he decrees.
Personifying his intentions, he rigidly lifts his hands up to his hood and tosses it over the back of his head. It has been so long since Dolores had seen what is left of his face. It is virtually impossible to tell whether his face has any skin remaining on it. So white and hard is it, it resembles a skull devoid of flesh or even muscle. What had once been flowing locks of darkened greying hair had now been singed off at their very follicles. Even his eyes that once emanated an ember-like orange have blackened to the extent that only his pupils appear visible.
Though horrifically disfigured from the blast all those years ago, Denzel Aurelian had indeed somehow managed to survive whereby Zachary Mortimer, Horacio’s grandfather, had not. His skeletal frame leans forward as he turns his walking cane upside down, using the handle-shaped grip as a hook to lift his daughter’s head from the ground.
“I will finish what I started all those years ago,” Denzel hisses, practically spitting into Dolores‘ face. “The Black Hand assigned me to dismantle The Chronological Order and wipe every last trace of their existence from the pages of history. And that is precisely what we are going to do. Only then will I be able to rid myself of the shame bestowed upon by that fool Zachary and his bastard grandson.”
“I…” Dolores splutters for breath, incapable of stringing together even the most basic of coherent sentences. “You…” Whatever words she is trying to express, they elude her. Denzel simply shakes his head as he lowers her head back down onto the ground.
“Can you hear me?” he asks unsympathetically.
“Daddy…” she whines once more. This response is as good enough as ‘yes.’
“Clean yourself up,” he tuts, tossing a rag down to Dolores’ side. She whines agonisingly as she attempts to dust off the cobwebs from such a brutal attack. “You listen here,” Denzel says warningly. “I don’t care how you do it, but I need you to ensure that both Horacio and Dominic are within range of any of the EMPs at the time and date enclosed in this envelope,” he states as he produces said letter from atop his desk. He slides it across the concrete floor, landing just inches away from Dolores. “I will be watching you, Dolly,” he adds threateningly. “You’re not going to fail your father again, are you, sweetheart?”
A look of disgust, sadness and fear amalgamates amongst Dolores’ bloodstained tears as she finally regains her bearings. She hides them with her hood, throwing it back over her head so that her own face is now obscured from view.
“No, Daddy,” she whimpers.
“Good,” Denzel hisses. “Because if you do, I’ll see to it that you also become a victim of the ‘Chrono Trigger.’”
