Post by Dominator / Mortimer on Dec 2, 2019 18:47:28 GMT -5
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"Once you have mastered time, you will understand how true it is that most people overestimate what they can accomplish in a year – and underestimate what they can achieve in a decade" - Tony Robbins
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Friday 9th August - 11.51pm
Location: Former Residence of Zachary Mortimer, Newton Toney, Wiltshire, England, United Kingdom
“Enjoying your stay?” Denzel snickers at the helplessness of his hostage’s predicament. One might label his dungeon as one of the most technologically advanced that the world has ever seen; more lavish and fulsome in décor than even the most modern of prison facilities. That is not to say that the detainee can enjoy his surroundings, what, given his lack of consciousness to do so. From the narrow slits that form as he opens his inflamed eyelids, Horacio is greeted by piercingly strong blue light from an array of monitors lined in multiple rows and columns. They span far beyond his hindered peripheral vision, although he can make out something of a silhouette between him and the displays; an unwelcome shadow.
“Wha…” Horacio huffs meekly, the simple act of breathing has been made agonising as a result of his persecution at the hands of Denzel. “Where… where am I?”
“Do you need any more tea and coffee for your room?” Denzel’s ignorance and insensitivity are two attributes that he seems to take great pride in; warning signs when it comes to spotting a sociopath. Horacio slowly lifts his head to reveal the extent of his injuries. They rival those sustained by Dolores at this very man’s hand. His eyes are swollen to the point that they can barely even open. Coagulated blood has scabbed in long streaks down his face. There is no way for him to nurture these wounds. His wrists and ankles remain spread far apart from each other, shackled to a rectangular metal table leaning at an eighty-something degree angle against the wall to remain somewhat vertical of its own accord. The whole set up is akin to a fictional spy being restrained by the villain. Indeed, so cerebral is Denzel’s ploy that he truly does act as the Blofeld to Horacio’s James Bond.
“Ugh. I suppose a glass of water is out of the question?” Even in his beaten state, Horacio refuses to surrender to this fate; a notion that Denzel appears to acknowledge.
“Resilient until the end,” Denzel shakes his head. “Just like your stupid grandfather and the rest of your despicable family.” The malnourished-looking technologist leans right in to Horacio’s face, examining every nook and cranny like a scientist forensically examining a rat that has become ensnared in a wicked labyrinth of his design. “The time has almost come to put my plan into action, Morty-Boy,” he grins, no teeth visible amongst his receded gumline. “In a little over eight minutes, twelve electro-magnetic pulse bombs will detonate across various points in Europe,” he gloats. “Power to some of the continent’s most major cities will be compromised. There will be complete anarchy! It will be the ‘Chrono Trigger.’ A reset button for time itself, or as near as ‘damn it’ is to swearing.” He takes a look at a clock that he has conveniently placed directly opposite from where Horacio is situated. “And in fact, my delightful daughter should be walking through that door any second now.”
As if on cue, Dolores pokes her head around the corner slowly. She checks her wristwatch one final time, calculating her movements down to the absolute microsecond. Upon gazing into the room, she gasps upon seeing the battered hostage.
“Horacio!” Dolores gasps, running to his side. “What have you done to him!?”
“Nothing that I wouldn’t do to you, you foolish girl,” Denzel mercilessly replies. “Your timing truly is impeccable for someone who does nothing.”
“You’ve gone too far, Dad,” Dolores protests. “When is this going to stop? What do I have to do to make you put an end to this?”
“Your loyalty has been somewhat questionable recently,” Denzel begrudgingly shakes his head, as if blaming himself as a father figure for his daughter’s transgressions. “But have no fear, Dolly,” he pips up. “You can make it all up to me here and now.” With that, he indicates a switch on his console. “All you have to do is put an end to the Mortimers once and for all. And all it takes in one simple flick of the switch.” Dolores is dumbstruck. She looks over her shoulder towards the helpless Horacio. So close to the brink of unconsciousness is he that the ominous words of Denzel do not register, perhaps accepting that death, at this point, is inevitable.
Dolores takes a step towards the console. The switch looks more like the thrusters of a jet plane; one that Dolores would have to wrap her fingers around in order to push forward. Denzel eggs her on, his smile growing wider and wider the closer Dolores gets to it.
“I…”
“Do it!” Denzel hisses with Palpatine-like levels of pitilessness. Dolores shudders as she looks towards Horacio’s helpless position.
Then, she sees it. Out the corner of her eye, a glimmer of hope is drawing nearer.
Denzel’s intense stare at the switch detracts him from noticing a tall shadowy figure navigating the ruined corridors. Dolores does her best not to draw any attention to what is happening on the screens. She knows that the only way out of this is to stall for time. She does then by yanking her arm away from the switch, taking several steps backwards towards the cast iron door behind her. Denzel shoots daggers into his daughter’s eyes, apparently instantly enraged by such rebellion.
“I’m sorry,” Dolores feigns sincerity towards her father, though speaking volumes towards her feelings towards Horacio. “I can’t do it, Dad.”
“You dare to beseech mercy?” Denzel scowls. “Everything I have done, I have done for us. Are you content just throwing away all of my hard work?”
“You can’t continue with this vendetta!” Dolores protests. “I know that the only reason you want Horacio out of the picture is so that you can rebuild The Chronological Order with your own visage.” Denzel instantly recoils. He does not care for such accusations, no matter how much truth there is behind them. “And you’ve used me every step of the way. But sending me to infiltrate The Order was your own undoing. I have learned to care so deeply for Horacio, yet all you care about is your own selfish ambitions. You don’t even care about the welfare of your own daughter. You sicken me!” Even Dolores herself seems stunned by the vigor and passion in which she had spoken. Her father is equally agog.
“At least I now know where I stand,” Denzel snarls, reaching for his cane. “There really is no getting through to you, is there? Can’t you see what we have to do? The Mortimers have oppressed the Aurelians for decades. Centuries even. Why would you throw away our one chance to get even with such scum?”
“Because I love him, Dad!” Dolores blurts out. Horacio’s head suddenly jerks upwards. Denzel looks appalled into shock. Dolores apparently cannot quite believe that those words fell out of her mouth so haphazardly. It is as though she experiences the five stages of grief in those split seconds. By the time the acceptance hits, she holds her ground more firmly. “That’s right,” Dolores reaffirms. “I love him. He’s looked after me. Sure, he has his own goals and sometimes he blocks out everything that is close to him, but that is a drop in the ocean compared to you."
“Well…” Denzel shrugs. “I suppose there’s nothing else for it.”
“Go ahead!” Dolores taunts. “Go and get your cane. Beat me senseless. See if I care!” By this point, Denzel has walked over to his console and picked something up. It is not his cane as Dolores had initially expected. This device is far smaller; about the size of a film case for a handheld camera.
What Denzel witnesses when he turns around it a sight that he had not envisioned. Where Dolores had been stood mere seconds earlier, a hulking beast stands in her place. It had been the saviour that Dolores had spotted amongst the multitude of surveillance camera screens scattered around her father’s console. It is as tall as a bear; resembling such a creature quite strikingly in fact despite not being indigenous to the region. Though he hated to admit it, Denzel could feel a shiver of intimidation surge through his already cold body, yet he remains stoic in his posture.
“Ah. The guest of honour arrives,” he claims with a smile.
“And I can only assume you are Denzel Aurelian?” Dominic replies somewhat warmly. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
“You’re just in time,” Denzel smirks. “The show’s about to start. Can I get anybody some popcorn? Some drinks?”
“I’ll have a glass of water,” Horacio goads Denzel weakly. Once again, he is ignored.
“I was starting to think you wouldn’t show, you know?” Denzel grimaces. “Do you know how hard it has been to track you down? There was a point where I thought you didn’t receive my invitation. Fortunately, I knew I just had to… ahem… send a clearer message.”
“You know full well I’ve been in Hangtown,” Dominic replies. “Even amidst all of your surveillance, research and renaissance, you thought that my visits to Hangtown were sporadic; a mere platonic agreement between myself and The Dillingers,” Dominic begins to explain. “Yes. You have no idea just how long I have been residing in Hangtown for, do you? Nor how I’ve managed to do so.”
Dolores and Horacio both listen intently. Denzel entertains the idea of depressing the detonator. With a roll of his wrist, he beckons Dominic to continue. As if daring him, interested to see what kind of strategy Dominic has to rectify the perils that everybody present finds themselves in.
“It took me a while to figure out,” The Zenith admits, slowly starting to pace back and forth in front of Denzel. “It should be common knowledge by now that Hangtown doesn’t appear to just anybody. You need to meet a certain criteria in order to find it. Retaining the knowledge of your time there though; that is a completely different matter. You can only recall events of what had happened in Hangtown if you are of the town’s descent; by harbouring the blood of those that the town had welcomed.” Denzel looks puzzled. He, himself, knows this as factual. Yet the notion that Dominic could be connected to Hangtown was one that had not even crossed Denzel’s mind up to now.
“So which of the Bloodlines do you belong to?” Denzel hisses. Dominic answers only with a sly, knowing smile. His silence permits the proverbial penny to drop.
“No…” Denzel gasps. “You can’t! You’re not!”
“Ever since I was born, I had taken my father’s surname; Atkinson,” Dominic begins to explain to a dumbfounded Denzel. Seeing a window of opportunity, Dolores begins to shimmy herself behind Dominic’s gargantuan frame until she is completely hidden from her father. “Little did I realise that my mother’s maiden name was Aurelian. Stacey Jane Aurelian, more specifically. You didn’t have much of a chance to bond with your little sister, did you? What, with your devotion to The Black Hand and all. Stacey had no interest in remaining in Hangtown. She wanted to go out and see the world. Hangtown is very quick to expel what it doesn’t want, but by that logic it does have some difficultly keeping hold of what it has. Maybe that is why the likes of Phinehas and myself are able to come and go so freely.”
Behind Denzel’s back, Dolores checks her wristwatch once again. She looks more apprehensive than ever. Her attention is split between the actual time and the console, as well as the distance that she is making between herself and her father. Her head subtly bobs as if she were subconsciously counting. The closer to the end of her countdown, the more stricken with anxiety she appears. Finally, she looks towards the console. A series of lights that had been illuminated on the console suddenly go out. An electronic alarm begins to blare throughout the chamber. Denzel pivots immediately, throwing himself at the desk to ascertain where the error lies.
“What!?” Denzel cries out. “The EMPs have been disarmed! All at once!? That’s impossible!”
“Not impossible, Father,” Dolores quickly seeks sanctuary beside the towering figure of Dominic. “It is a simple case of good coordination. Several Chronological Order operatives were dispatched to the locations of your bombs and, thanks to synchronised watches, were able to disarm them in unison.”
“Your biggest mistake was waiting for me to show up,” Dominic smirks. “That was surprisingly easy,” he mutters to Dolores. “I didn’t even have to raise a finger.
“You don’t have a say in the matter,” Denzel smirks toothlessly. “I’m going to blow us all to kingdom come,” he begins to giggle maniacally. “And there’s nothing you can do to stop me.” Dominic stands his ground, apparently unfazed by the threat of death. Denzel’s finger hovers tantalisingly over the top of the button, gauging Dominic’s movements. He is somewhat annoyed by The Zenith’s lack of emotion, save for a brief grin that accompanies a small chuckle.
“You’re right,” Dominic says, folding his arms. “There’s nothing I can say that will change your mind. Because, Denzel, we both know that you have no intention of pressing that button.”
“Try me!” Denzel warns, his amusement dissipated in an instant. “It may be just a prototype, but it will still have enough firepower to blow even a big lug like you half way to the moon!”
“What is it that you want from all of this?” Dominic frowns. “Surely you’re not such a fool that you would throw your life away, after so much careful planning and having near completed your goal. A life dedicated to revenge is time that has been wasted. After all, it isn’t just The Mortimers that you hold a grudge against, is it?”
“You clever shrew!” Denzel applauds half-heartedly, before quickly capturing the plunger in his hand once more and sets his thumb over the detonator. “But even I know my own limits. Do you really think I’d stand a chance against… them?” Dominic knowingly raises a smirk.
“I can give you what you want,” Dominic grins. Denzel’s interest is peaked. “In exchange for Horacio and Dolores. Let them both go. And I will be at your beg and call.”
“Dominic, no!” Dolores pleadingly gasps.
“SHUT UP!” The Zenith snaps. “You’re as good as dead regardless. You might as well enjoy what little time you have left.” Dolores is stunned into immobility. Uncertain as to what The Zenith truly means, or whether his intentions match her own. Without questioning the matter further, she begins to uncouple Horacio from the table that he is bound to.
“Can you walk?” Dolores trembles, stroking Horacio’s swollen cheek as she uses her shoulder as a lever to help lower Horacio so that his feet touch the ground/.
“I think so,” he replies with a wobble, shaking the chains that Dolores had loosened so that they rattle against the floor. The air touching the previously covered skin is a relieving sensation; as if the air itself is composed of aloe vera, soothing everything that it touches. As Dolores begins to lead him to the exit, Horacio turns back towards Dominic, who he notices is glancing over his shoulder. “Be careful,” he warningly states, knowing that trying to talk Dominic out of such a situation would be a fruitless endeavour; a waste of his time.
“Just get a move on,” Dominic snorts cold-bloodedly. They do not need to be told twice. Dolores practically drags Horacio out of the door. Dominic and Denzel both wait to ensure that they have both vacated the scene, evident by the images on his closed circuit television system.
“So… you’d be at my beg and call, eh?” Denzel cackles. “What exactly do you think I have in mind?”
“Evidently, I know far more about you than you know about me,” Dominic returns a sinister chuckle of his own. “You’ve been exiled from Hangtown. And I know that you need to go back undetected. There’s no way that Horacio would take you. And it would be far too suspicious for Dolores to accompany you. You need somebody who is deep within The Black Order; somebody that they would not suspect.”
“Oh, you’re good! Denzel acknowledges. “You’ve got it all figured out, haven’t you Dom-Dom?”
“Don’t call me that,” Dominic grits his teeth. Of all the things that might irritate him in this scenario, a pet name should be the least of his worries.
“Except,” Denzel smirks, “I’m afraid you’re missing the bigger picture. Of course I can’t get surveillance on Hangtown. How else could I tempt The Chronological Order’s new muscle away from the prying eyes of The Black Hand aside from luring his leader here? You think I don’t know our family ties? I just didn’t want Horacio and my Dolly knowing.” If a nickname had irked The Zenith before, his temperamental tendencies are almost ready to boil over at this point. If there is one thing that The Temporal King cannot stand above all else, it is being outsmarted. Yet, rather than unleash a physical or verbal tirade, he remains unusually calm; as if he still has some form of leverage over Denzel.
“So you wanted me to come here. Why?” Dominic taps his feet impatiently.
“I guess you’re not as capable of putting two and two together as I thought, Dom-Dom,” Denzel chuckles. “It’s like you said, I need to return to Hangtown. And I need you to take me there. If I’d have known you were going to sacrifice yourself for that schmuck of a manager of yours and my useless daughter, I wouldn’t have dug up that body and…” he stops himself quickly, spinning on his heel with a smile on his face. His ramblings had not been unintentional. He seeks to gauge Dominic’s reaction by the tone of his voice.
“What?”
He expected something more.
Denzel clears his throat, hacking violently. Evidently, the shutdown of the machinery has caused a rapid decline in his wellbeing. Being reliant on electronic stimulus for so long has made his body practically worthless without it.
“I’ll explain everything once we get to Hangtown,” Denzel coughs. “We need to get going. I don’t have the strength to walk on my own, so you’ll have to carry me.”
“How the hell are you going to make it all the way to Hangtown?” Dominic huffs.
“I have an emergency pack under the console there,” he weakly points. With a grunt, Dominic retrieves it. The bag is oversized for the contents that are within it. It possesses a significant weight that The Zenith is surprised by when he attempts to lift it for the first time. The bag looks like it has been tailor made so that Denzel himself can fit inside. He cannot weigh more than a few stone in weight himself. Such an addition would not hinder The Zenith all that much.
To think that this ordeal would not end on this day. To think that there would be further months of turmoil until the truth could be uncovered.
It is difficult to put into words the headspace that one submerges themselves when confronted by such a looming presence as The Zenith. It had been evident to the man himself that the one which Brenna had chosen to persevere with yielded little fruit. Had she been attempting to conserve her energies and efforts for her fated confrontation with David Hunter? If this were the case, this idea had come back to bite her in the ass; The Zenith acting as the crocodile that would spiral it’s prey into submission with a death roll.
Ever since returning, there has always been something of a lack of urgency in Brenna’s demeanour; as if even she doesn’t really know why she had returned to PCW in the first place. This line of work has an addictive sense of magnesis about it. No matter how far one tries to distance themselves from something that they once loved, they cannot help but start thinking about what could have been. Only the most dedicated, or the most foolish, return to their past failures time and time again only to feel the same sense of despair that drove them away in the first place. Whether it is a relationship that did not go the distance, a foe that could not be toppled or an obstacle that remained unsurpassable, there are so many who are left to walk away dejectedly, only to hard-headedly seek retribution that would continue to elude them.
It matters not what the circumstances might be. The Zenith always delivers on his word. This mantra is what makes him one of the cornerstones of Pure Class Wrestling today; a workhorse that can be called upon in the darkest times to put on a spectacle that will send the fans home happy, no matter how bad his own day might have been.
The Zenith sees no way back for Brenna. In a way, it is her fault that he has even been considered to be included in this contest. Although, Ms. Gordon cannot take all the credit. No matter how hard he has tried to move forward an ascertain himself as a legend of his craft, the irritation caused by the mere act of David Hunter existing is enough of an incentive to take action; to seek his revenge.
It took but a mere fortnight, if that, for the union between David Hunter and Kyle Shane to disintegrate.
Whilst Hunter, Holden and Gerard have each to wreak that which their collective name suggests, they are mere miscreants in comparison to the unbridled chaos inflicted by The Zenith. Pandæmonium seem oblivious to the fact that they are playing with fire. Do they not feel fortunate that Dominator has opted to exclude Phinehas Grimm from this debauchery? Do they not realise that with a mere snap of his fingers, Dominator could summon an army that will adhere to his every command? The sum of The Black Hand’s parts do not consist solely of the duo synonymous with destruction within Pure Class Wrestling. There are many components of such a well oiled machine that have been discarded over the years; some remnants still appearing within PCW in some capacity.
Does the name Billy Sadistic ring any bells? How about Mr. Showtime?
No?
What about Stormm?
How about Brenna Gordon?
David Hunter believes himself to be something of a master manipulator; one capable of bending another man’s will to suit his own nefarious ideals. And yet, how long will it be before he becomes jealous of Gerard’s ascension or Holden’s inevitable uprising? Holden will not be content at being the apex of the Underground Division for much longer. How long before he makes that bold leap into a fray where Hunter will also find himself, champion or not.
Pandæmonium can rage uncontrollably for prolonged periods of time. But much like the fire that they insist on playing with, it is only a matter of time before all of their energies are exhausted and tranquillity is restored. It is an inevitability that is dictated by the course of time. It is a universal law that everything, eventually, comes to an end; a notion that David Hunter shall become all too familiar with by the time Collision Course reaches it’s close.
The biggest mistake, of course, was Hunter’s incessant desire to rub salt into the open wound of a savage beast. Had he left The Zenith be, his task would be monumentally more achievable. Instead, he has backed himself onto the edge of a cliff with The Temporal King but all too happy to give him the shove that sends him hurtling towards the oblivion that so many want to see.
There are no more excuses. This is where David Hunter’s head is mounted on The Zenith’s wall, perhaps an even greater prize than the North American Championship; David Hunter’s obligatory and unrequited silence.
By this time, Dominic has managed to navigate the ruined corridors of the
From beneath the tartan rags, a decrepit hand limply jangles to the beats of Dominic’s heavy footsteps. Having traversed residential streets to country lanes and forest trails, The Temporal King remains focused on his next destination and reaching it at a reasonable hour.
“Hi-Ho, Dom-Dom! To Hangtown!”
“I will snap you like a fucking twig!” Dominic threatens, his words laced with savage sincerity, which prompts a chuckle from the instigator. “You think I’m joking?” he warns additionally. “I’ll turn you into dust.”
“Oh. Speaking of which…”
Pinching the frayed edges of the tattered material between its thumb and forefinger, it slowly lifts the fabric away from it’s skin. A skeletal head begins to protrude, emerging like that of a tortoise; equally as reptilian. A second hand slithers into view in a serpentine fashion. Still clutches around his bony fingers, the cylindrical plunger to the device that he had armed back in his lair is carried remotely. With a depression of his thumb, the ground thumps beneath them. A deep and sickening boom shoots through the air, rattling against their eardrums. The sky behind them lights up; a cloud of billowing smoke soon blots it out.
A toothless grin appears on the skull-like face of Denzel Aurelian. Dominic, meanwhile, refuses to recognize what has transpired behind him; the mental image in his head is enough of an indication.
“That wasn‘t an EMP, by the way,” Denzel cackles. ““That was just to get rid of the evidence to tie up all the loose ends.”
“Somehow, I feel like I have more questions than answers,” The Zenith replies begrudgingly as he continues to walk into the night.
