Post by Dominator / Mortimer on Mar 13, 2018 18:27:08 GMT -5
Monday 5th March 2018 – 12.05am
Location: Rooftop of Sussex Heights, Saint Margaret’s Place, Brighton, East Sussex, England, United Kingdom
He gasps himself awake to the world.
For a split second, he has no idea where he is; the painful daydream had been so vivid that it had practically plucked him out of the real world, chewed him up and spat him back out. With a long, troubled sigh, Dominic runs his hands through his hair. It is cold and wet to the touch. He shakes his head like a canine that had just return from a walk in the rain. Droplets and crystals fly erratically to the ground. A sudden wind chill causes a momentary shudder to rumble through The Zenith’s shoulders. Whatever he had shaken off is almost immediately replenished by the ensuing blizzard.
It is as if Mother Nature herself has deployed a battalion to crusade in defiance against Father Time’s Mercenary. White cascades from the darkness above; symbolism of Dominic’s irrational fear. That same memory continues to play on a loop, a score engraved into a vinyl that skips on a turntable, spinning perpetually.
The height is dizzying. Dominic stares out across the residential area, daring himself to face his fear head on. Indeed, he stands atop the sixth tallest building in all of England; the highest outside of the more renowned and populated cities of London and Manchester. The one who had summoned him to such an elevated location must surely have been taking advantage of irrational fear of The Suzerain of Time.
“Glad to see you made it,” a voice caws acerbically from nearby, “and in good time too. The Chronological Order really is second to none when it comes to time management.” Dominic twists his head to look behind him. Rather than the man he had seen in the photograph that Horacio had presented to him upon learning of his existence, an unusual looking creature looms dangerously close to the lip of the roof that leads to oblivion. A top hat somehow manages to stay on his head in spite of the coastal gale. His face is shrouded by a pointed mask designed to resemble a beak of sorts, engulfing his nose, mouth and jaw line from Dominic’s view. He wears a thick coat, the same that Dominic had seen in the snapshot. It looks like an ample shield from the cold. Perhaps most portentously of all is the umbrella that he carries; aiming its metallic tip towards Dominic as if he were holding a gun in his outstretched hand. It possesses a Penguin-esque form of menace, as if it could turn into a helicopter blade or a flamethrower with a push of a button, but that is merely Dominic’s mind running wildly away from him.
“You must be the fabled ‘Bird Man’ that Amy keeps talking about?” Dominic remarks unexcitedly upon consulting his wristwatch. “You’re an hour and six minutes late,” he says, reprimanding the lateness of the man who had called him here in a manner near identical to how Horacio Mortimer would approach such a situation.
“Again with that moniker?” the Bird Man retorts, flicking his umbrella upwards so that it rests on his shoulder like a royal guard’s musket. “I guess it must have something to do with the way I dress.”
“Could be,” sarcasm rears its head for the first time in Dominic’s voice.
“I prefer my given name; Marcus Verreaux-Marx,“ he introduces himself before tackling the issue of his timeliness, “and given the weather conditions, I would say I did rather well.”
“I managed to get here on time,” Dominic rebuts as the two begin to slowly circle one another, their footprints leaving a path for the other to follow, “and it is only because you have besmirched the security and safety of my lover and our child, along with the integrity of The Chronological Order that I forced myself to remain.” This was partially a lie. While it was true that the welfare of Amy and Dawn truly stands paramount, combined with the initial threat that Marx himself had made via text message, the reality is that there is something above all else that Dominic is seeking to gain out of this confrontation.
Answers.
“So what business do you have with me?” he finally asks, trying to set the gears in motion. “I’ve been waiting for a long time. Don’t keep me waiting any fucking longer.” His aggression is stifled by a brief spasm of his lower jaw brought upon by the cold. This natural action is the source of newborn amusement within Marx.
“Now I understand why Horacio acts as your mouthpiece,” Marx judgingly smiles, “your mouth will get you into trouble one of these days.”
“At this point, I’m beyond caring,” Dominic refutes honestly, not wanting to deviate any further away from the conversation that he wants to have. “I can only assume that you want to talk, so let’s talk.”
“You are the one who wants to talk,” Marx chuckles. “Isn’t it amazing what people will do with a little provocation? They act without thinking. Here you stand as a shining example of what I am talking about.” he taunts. Dominic cannot help but believe that he is referring back to that fateful night, letting out a frown.
“Then what do you want?” Dominic addresses the question differently, still trying to obtain the same result.
“What I want,” the Bird Man cackles, “is for things to go back to the way they were. For me and Amy.” This numinous and translucent response is one the Dominic had somewhat expected. Of course things couldn’t be simpler. Marx clearly has some sort of infatuation for Amy. That much, Dominic could tell. Everything else is based on assumptions. Could he be an ex-boyfriend? A childhood sweetheart? Maybe not the latter. Shawn and Amy were childhood sweethearts and, unless he had severely misjudged the woman he now called his lover, it was unlikely that she would commit adultery in her primary teenage years.
“I know you’ve been watching her,” Dominic states. “You need a better seamstress. That getup that you have on has lost more feathers than a Thanksgiving turkey. Horacio has filled me in on the details; how you were one of Horacio’s four Watchmen. Yet you’ve made the foolish decision to desert and betray us. Why? Because you are jealous of the relationship I have with Amy?” Belligerence begins to take hold. To engage Marx in such extreme conditions as these is truly treacherous, but if he is to find any solace at all, he must extract as much information from Marx as he can.
“I’m not jealous, as you so eloquently put it,” Marx huffs. “I simply want to know that she is safe.”
“You’re the one threatening her safety,” Dominic counters with vituperation.
“Am I really, though?” he coos with a voice as smooth as silk. “She is safe now, is she not?” The air of malice that Marx exudes blows a gust of uncertainty into Dominic’s face. He motions to speak, but retracts his statement before he can even vocalise it.
“I have stood by her during the most difficult time in her life; what started as a simple instruction turned into burning ambition. I had a feeling that it could have been her, but I had to be certain. It wasn’t until she turned the knife on herself that I was able to discover the truth that had evaded me for so long. It was her medical records at the foot of her hospital bed that my quest was over. I finally found her; Amy Trenton-Metallinos. I was surprised that she had chosen to hyphenate and double-barrel her surname upon marrying Shawn, but…” Marx cuts himself off, letting out a sheepish chuckle to himself. “I’m rambling,” he states. Dominic motions to ask as to why he had been looking for Amy for any given length of time, but Marx suddenly wields his umbrella straight in Dominic’s direction, having taken a bold stride forward with enough distance covered to keep the sharp metal tip of the umbrella just centimetres away from the tip of The Zenith’s nose. “I have stood by her during the most difficult time in her life; what started as a simple instruction turned into burning ambition,” Marx states, his voice turning quieter as he reflects. “And yet she still opts to remain loyal to you,” Marx shrieks consumed by his disapproval, a far cry from the tranquility that he had synthesized into his words previously .
“You fell in love with a woman in a medically-induced coma?” Dominic frowns. He finds this difficult to believe, given the absurdity of how it sounds. Yet if Marx’ visible resentment is anything to go by, he can only hypothesise the accuracy of his inklings.
“You fail to realise,” Marx shakes his head solemnly, “I’ve known Amy a lot longer than what you have. Longer than Shawn for that matter.” Even through the torrential snowfall, a cloud of warm exhaled air seeps through his mask before being carried off into the wind, dispersing and weaving through the falling snowflakes. “Of course, they probably haven’t figured out it’s me.”
This last statement peaks Dominic’s curiosity. He had believed this man to be a former associate to Shawn during his tenure as a career criminal, yet now he claims to have an affiliation to Amy? What gives?
Yet again, he is not given the opportunity for a rebuttal or an interruption. The further Marx delivers his own contemplations, aggravation begins to rise like the bubbles in a pot of boiling water with every syllable.
“I only want what is best for Amy, while all you give a damn about is your own image and maintaining the so-called ‘integrity’ of what is, in essence, a time-worshipping cult! Even though you are supposed to be so in touch with time, you can barely spare any for your fucking child, never mind her mother!”
“You helped Shawn abduct his own daughter!” Dominic critically testifies.
“Shawn’s heart is broken,” Marx says. A remorseless cackle ruptures from between his lips.
“Some friend…” Dominic snorts at the volume of a whisper. Such heartlessness in his newfound amusement had caught Dominic unawares.
“He has no interest in what happens to Amy,” he states, as if judging the man known in the wrestling business as ‘Steel’ for his thought process. “All he wants is baby Hope back in his arms.”
“Her name is Dawn,” Dominic angrily corrects, still irate that Marx would refer to the innocent Dawn with such defamation, “and don’t you forget it!” he adds warningly.
“Shawn says otherwise,” he mocks with a caw. “Despite the responsibility for rekindling a mutual relationship with Amy being in his own hands, I have too much respect for Shawn, as well as myself, rather than to go behind his back and steal his girl from him. And yet, when someone is trying to make things right and introduce some sort of justice to this whole situation, you have the gall and the audacity to complain how ‘hard done by’ you are in spite of the fact that the leader of The Chronological Order has a raging hard-on for you, you wake up to the most beautiful girl in the world next to you, you travel the world with your career; a profession that anybody who was 12 back in 1997 could still only dream of being a part of…” By this point, Marx is not shouting so much as he is screeching; like nails on a chalkboard, it is personified amongst his intonations. His breathing has turned heavy to the point where he is practically panting. His secretive thoughts had held such weight for such a great period of time that it was as though this declaration was like throwing the bar to the ground.
And all the while, Dominic fights against two different angles; one being the bitter eastern wind, the second being the overwhelming urge to punch this man with such force that it sends him over the edge of the roof’s balcony into an arctic oblivion.
“You make it sound like I am some sort of villain,” Dominic chuckles, amused only by the sheer ridiculousness of everything that has happened as of late, “but how can I be in the wrong for protecting my child and the woman that I love?”
“Because everything that has happened to Amy has been because of your engrossment with The Order and your unquenchable thirst for revenge on Shawn,” Marx crows firmly. “How could Amy ever fall in love with a man so narcissistic that he genuinely believed him to be a God for an extended period of his life?” Marx coos wickedly.
“She’s more likely to go for a man who dresses as a diseased turkey, is she?” Dominic lashes back silver-tongued towards The Bird Man.
“At least I’m not a seven foot tall ‘meathead’ is scared of heights!” Marx snaps in response, irritated by Dominic’s quick quip. Irrespective of the onslaught of insults aimed at him, Dominic seems to have spotted a glimmer of hope. “That’s like a vampire being squeamish at the sight of blood,” Marx continues, baiting another retort. It doesn’t materialize in the way he perhaps would have hoped.
“And there it is,” Dominic bobs his head, coming to his own conclusion. “You can try to hide behind the excuse that you care for Amy all you want, but when it comes down to it, all you’re really focused on is taking me down.”
“I just don’t want you to hurt her any more than you already have!” Marx shrieks, almost hysterical by this point.
“I would NEVER hurt Amy,” Dominic quickly refutes his claims.
“Maybe not physically,” replies Marx, “but you have no idea of the emotional toll that she is going through. While her baby had been taken from her, you still had to go off and travel the world and compete in PCW. How do you think that makes her feel? Prioritising your career over the safety of your own daughter?”
“I still need to provide for my family, don’t I?” comes the excuse, although he could not deny that The Bird Man did raise a valid point. Of course, if things could have been any different, he would have done everything in his power to return Dawn to her mother’s arms so much sooner. But the duties of a reigning champion cannot be ignored.
“You make me sick,” Marx scathes, swiping his umbrella directly at Dominator’s face, the metallic tip impacting the side of his cheek. Dominic glares venomously towards Marx, that competitive look he gets in his eye when he is about to wade into battle flashes. Marx takes another wild swing with his umbrella, but Dominator catches it with one hand, yanking it firmly towards him, dragging Marx along with it. With a thunderous right hand, he grounds Marx with one punch before planting his boot on his torso, applying significant weight to his chest to prevent any sort of counter or bid to escape.
What was once pristine white snow is now tarnished by blotches of oozing red running centrally between foot-shaped crevices. The trickle from Marx’s nose runs over the edge of his lip.
“I want you to listen. And listen well,” Dominic spits warningly. “If I ever… EVER see you again, or if Amy says she ever sees you again, I will shove your tongue so far down your throat, you’ll be able to give yourself a rim job. Do I make myself clear?”
“You’re not going to stop me from seeing her,” Marx refuses to acknowledge the threat that has been made. “I need her in my life, Dominic. I can’t let you or anyone else get in my way.” With that, Dominic sees red; a blinding rage consumes him; the level of anger that he has not felt in years. Horacio had taught him various meditative techniques to suppress and eliminate anything that might cloud his judgement. With as much force as he can muster, he sends another closed fist Marx’ way. Such force convenes in his strike that his foot pivots in the snow, his own momentum spins him one hundred and eighty degrees. Marx lets out a disgruntled squawk as the punch lands, but a lengthened version follows.
As Dominic looks back, Marx has vanished.
Could The Bird Man have taken flight?
“Help me!” comes a frantic cry from nearby.
Following the scrape-marks within the snow, they suddenly stop at what Dominic has only just noticed is a sheer drop just behind a large snowdrift. The balcony of this building is not secured by any safety railing of any sort. It was only the slight elevation of the brickwork that provides a perimeter perhaps two or three feet high, yet so deep are the drifts of snow that they have been buried and hidden from view. Amidst the blizzard, the snow deceptively looks as though it expands for mile after mile.
It is by sheer luck that Marx is able to hook the lip of the balcony with his umbrella, practically impaling himself on the spindly arms that sprout when it is in full bloom. Marx wails in distress. Only the grip of the man that he had been antagonizing makes the difference between sparing or potentially ending his life. His legs thrash wildly as he tries to gain some sort of purchase against the brickwork, yet so vast are the levels of his affliction that the functions being given by his brain seem to be overridden by the very sensation that Marx had tried to implant into The Zenith. Karma could not be demonstrated more efficaciously than within this moment.
“Pull me up!” he cries desperately. “Please! Pull me up!”
Recalcitrantly, the plea is not followed. Deep in thought, a thousand or more scenarios play through Dominic’s mind like a multiversal montage. The ramifications of every eventuality merge into a bulbous cloud of confusion, yet his eyes remain locked on the man whose life literally hangs in the balance.
Out of all of his recent oppressors, Marx had been the most enigmatic up to this point. While it is true that Shawn’s abduction of Dawn had been at the nucleus of his angst, Marx’ involvement and consequent ploy had splintered from the initial dispute. This, of course, was outside of the public eye for the most part. Yet there were many more eyes looking forward to a confrontation that would personify the event’s name; Mass Destruction.
The circumstances surrounding this confrontation emulate the scenarios that gave life to Dominator’s vertigo. It was Johnny himself who wanted to reveal his new identity by creating a grand enough platform to which people would pay him the attention that he so dearly craves; by attacking The Zenith after his match with Razor Blade at The Icey Award show back in December of last year.
That’s how long this shit has been going on for!? Since December!? It had felt like a mere few days ago, but yet we are already encroaching upon the mid-point of March.
It was Phinehas Grimm who decimated the man formerly known as Johnny Vivacious, morphing him into the man we know now as Johnny Matthews. There was a part of Dominator that wanted to ‘thank’ Grimm for breathing life into such a character, yet that opportunity was missed a mere fortnight ago. In order for Johnny to break in his newfound persona, he had cast his sight upon the Underground Title. Of course, he would set his sights on what could be considered as the lowest tiered title on the roster.
“RI DIC U LOUS!”
“SO RIDICULOUS!”
That presumption though is merited no longer, for the level of prestige and yearning for the Underground Championship is higher than ever.
And it is all thanks to the reign of its latest and greatest king; The Suzerain of Time. To dethrone the King on such a huge stage, with so many eyes watching, will jumpstart anybody’s career. At this point, anybody who can obtain a victory over Dominator would instantly be propelled into superstardom. THAT is the bittersweet pill that The Zenith must swallow alongside his success, but he has already accepted that one day, this scenario WILL happen.
But Mass Destruction will not be that day.
And what would then happen to Dominator? Would he be cast away into obscurity among the Pure Class Wrestling archives? Of course not. The possibilities are endless. A challenge to the North American Champion? Ascend to the ranks of World Champion? If he has proven one thing during his relatively short tenure in PCW is that he is capable of the impossible. There are so many avenues for him to travel down…
But for Matthews, it is a different story.
Could this be why Johnny wanted to challenge for a ‘lower’ tiered belt? His bond with his brother-in-law was too strong to lay a path beyond an otherwise instantaneous dead end, at least while the North American championship was around his waist, that is. Even Tyler Scott has shown more vim and vigor on occasion.
At least Tyler earned his spot to compete for a championship by defeating hardened and revered talent, despite being the man to wind up taking the pinfall at the last Trauma tapings. Meanwhile, the offer of a title shot had been thrust in front of Johnny as a result of multiple sneak attacks, mind games and general douchebaggery, these three ingredients were what provided Dominic and Horacio with food for thought.
Johnny would never become The Underground King while Dominator still had the belt in his possession.
Johnny would never become The North American Champion while Stormm carries it around.
Johnny would never become World Champion because, simply put, he is not on that level.
And he knows it.
Just how could The Chronological Order cause Matthews the ultimate setback? By proving to him that every endeavor he has made against them over the course of the last three months has been a complete waste of his time, furthering the idea that even Johnny Matthews doesn’t really know who Johnny Matthews is.
It could be argued that the stipulation of a Ladder Match would work in Johnny’s favour, given Dominator’s own phobias, but this is something that he has to overcome by design. Horacio Mortimer and Dominator alike want nothing to hold back The Zenith from being the most efficacious warrior he can be and not for it to be tarnished by an innate worry over something that he cannot control. THAT is the mark of a true champion; knocking down not only the barriers that other people put in front of you, but the ones that your own psyche throws up against you.
By defeating Johnny Matthews, under these conditions, it will eradicate any last shred of hope that he had of ever being relevant in PCW’s modern day. Though not a qualified psychiatrist or neurosurgeon, it is painfully apparent that Matthews exudes such charisma as a way of sticking out of the crowd, in spite of the fact that, compared to the likes of Dominator and Kyle Shane, or even his brother-in-law, all of whom hold championship, he has little monetary value to his name in comparison.
“HIL AR I OUS!”
“SO HILARIOUS!”
Johnny Matthews is the living incarnation of the alien from ‘American Dad,’ changing his persona every time he loses. Though he sells a lot of shirts, it is Dominator’s path of destruction that sells a lot more seats and home viewership. It is Dominator’s sincere intention to give Johnny the opportunity to take some time out to reinvent himself once again, after the plastic surgeons had finished reinventing his face.
It may not have been what the powers that be had envisioned when naming the supercard, but there would indeed be Mass Destruction, but not in the sense that Dominator would be destroying multiple individuals in one setting. Instead, there would be a different kind of Mass Destruction; the dissection and obliteration of every fiber that forms Johnny Matthews being;
His teeth.
His bones.
His flesh.
His psyche.
His hopes.
His dreams.
His balance.
His career.
His smile.
His vivaciousness.
His spirit.
His identity.
His chance.
The beauty of this whole debacle is that all Dominator knew what he had to do from the start. Johnny had disillusioned himself into believe he was trying to steal honey from a beehive without getting stung. In reality, he has been trying to steal honey from a hungry bear that already has the honey in its possession. Dominator simply had to bide his time and allow events to unravel themselves to him.
That is Johnny’s undoing. So invested he has been in his convoluted ploys to antagonize the Underground King that he has failed to foresee in how much detail it has been documented. From attacks with ladders to dropping championship belts on their heads, he has not managed to grasp that, unless he had killed Dominator, he stood no chance of victory. When he falls to The Zenith, he will come to understand how the last three months of his life have been nothing short of a waste of time.
Even with the inclusion of Stormm to raise the odds in their favour, Dominator had known exactly what to do when confronting NOTORIOUS, or Club V, or the Forces of Nature.
Weather the storm.
By the time the storm had passed, yes, there was destruction, but Dominator was still standing. On the last Trauma, what transpired at the end of the show was a mere spur of the moment, as if Dominic’s body was moving of its own accord. Despite the publicity of his phobia, Dominator had climbed near the top of the ladder voluntarily. He had thrown himself from it voluntarily. He took out five other men in a single blow… voluntarily.
And much like the tragedy of years long past, he is still standing to tell the tale. When all is said and done, Johnny Matthews won’t be standing… period.
“UN CONSC I OUS!”
“SO UNCONSCIOUS!”
“HELP ME, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!”
The wind howls, threatening to make the decision on Dominic’s behalf. Marx continues to cling to life, dangling like the last leaf left on the tree to survive the trials and tribulations of the autumn and the winter. Dominic looks down the length of the building, confronting his paranoia head on. It isn’t so much like staring down the barrel of a loaded gun as it is put one’s own head into a cannon with a lit fuse. He adjusts his focus back to Marx, whose skin has turned as white as the snow as if to camouflage the sheer scale of his dread. With absolute resolution displayed in his eyes, Dominic’s chosen option begins to settle in, yet The Zenith clenches his eyes closed as if already remorseful for what he is about to do.
So long has it taken him to reach this decision, the feelings in his fingertips are sucked out by the subzero temperature. So numb are they that he barely clasps the curved wooden handle of the umbrella in time as he notices Marx’ arm slip through his own failing grip. The Bird Man screams as he begins to fall, but only by a couple of inches. Practically diving over the balcony and into the snowdrift, Dominic’s thighs are all that anchor them both to the building, clamping both hands as firmly as he can around the circumference of one of Marx’ wrists.
The ruined umbrella plummets into the abyss.
Marx loops his free hand around Dominic’s elbow joint as Dominic shuffles backwards, deadlifting the man upwards and dragging him over the lip of the rooftop like a fisherman reeling in a marlin. With one final heave of strength, Marx is sent sailing over the top of Dominic, who falls flat on his back in the snow. He pants with exhaustion. Mother Nature had made this endeavor all the more arduous. Sliding his eyes to one side, he can barely make out Marx’ defeated, but thankful position amongst the snow.
“What’s your end game, here?” Dominic snarls, exasperated and exhausted by Marx’ defiance. Both men remain flat on their backs embedded in the snow. “You claim to have feelings for Amy, yet she only knows you as a figure from her dreams. She’s still rehabilitating. Her memory is still fading her. At the time that you’ve ‘visited’ her, she’s only been semi-conscious of what has happened.”
“Incorrect,” Marx calls back knowingly. “She is fully aware that I am not just some figment of her imagination. We have conversed in consciousness. In fact, she wants to learn more about me. She told me. To my face.”
“That may be,” Dominic grins, sitting up at last, “but Amy does not want to know more about you because of her interest in you as a person. She wants to know why you are stalking her, why you choose to work for her estranged husband and why you act with such stealth rather than being more direct. In fact, we would not even be here now if only you had the bollocks to approach us directly.”
“You don’t understand at all, do you?” the frustration returns to The Bird Man’s lips, growing as incensed as Dominic’s. “We have a connection that runs even deeper than whatever relationship you might think you have with her.”
“There’s no possible way that you could simply fall in love with an unconscious woman,” Dominic ripostes.
“Weren’t you listening to me?” Marx’ vociferous yells fill the air once more. “I’ve known Amy for longer than you could imagine.”
“How!?”
“…”
Once again, Marx motions in Dominic’s direction, scooping up the handle of his umbrella in his hand like a snowball, raising it high above his head with aggression in his eyes. Dominic braces himself, preparing himself mentally for yet another bout with his oppressor. Marx’ foot skids in the snow, not accidentally, but as if he is stopping himself of his own accord. He breathes heavily, the umbrella waving in the air like a daffodil dancing in the wind. Within seconds, Marx drops to his knees, the umbrella embeds itself in a snowy coffin. Marx buries his face into his hands. The aggression between both men immediately dissipates. Concern takes its place on the face of The Zenith.
“You could never love her the way that I do.”
His voice trembles. Not from the cold, but from despair. Marx’ hands run upside his face, removing the mask that he had been wearing all this time. He looks up at Dominic, his trauma manifests into redness spread across his entire face like a rash born out of embarrassment and anguish. His eyes are glazed from the tears that seem to freeze as they form.
There is something familiar about this man…
The photograph; the one Horacio had given to him. He remembered the way that he stared at the picture; it was almost like he somehow knew him in spite of never meeting before. He had made a mental photocopy. Comparing it to the original product knelt before him, the similarities between him and Amy were unquestionable. The contours of their faces. Their reactions to heartache…
“You could never love her the way that I do,“ Marx repeats himself, taking a deep breath.
“I am her brother.”
If time were ever to freeze, it would be at this precise moment. Almost out of sympathy, the wind reduces to a gentle breeze. The moon peers nosily from behind the last trailing stormcloud that lags behind its brethren. Snowflakes that continue to fall are but mere remnants of the blizzard. Only the tiniest fragments of ice flutter downwards, sparkling like stardust in the newly discovered moonlight. The night itself has turned eerily silent; a ghost town whose population had evacuated on account of the verbal shootout between The Zenith and The Bird Man.
“Her brother?” Dominic whispers to himself, putting the pieces of the puzzle together. There was bound to be some form of exposition looming, but Dominic has heard enough. He understands the situation more comprehensively than it may seem. Even with lack of any proof other than Marx’ word, Dominic believes him, accepting it as factual.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I should have told you sooner. I should have told her sooner,” Marx looks remorseful about his revelation. Dominic could not fathom why he would opt to yield such secrecy until now. It seemed to be a common attribute amongst those who are a part of The Chronological Order. Even Horacio himself had kept so much from Dominic recently that he had started to question his own involvement with the group. But now was not the time to query the Order’s drawbacks. In fact, this could be the ideal opportunity to rehabilitate the man, in the same way that they had done for his sister.
“I should thank you for inviting me here,” he smiles. “After all, exposure is the active ingredient in overcoming a phobia. Given the circumstances, I had to put it aside in order to save a life.” Dominic raises himself out of the snow. More falls from his clothing than it does from the sky. After briefly brushing himself off, he looks off into the distance.
“For over an hour, I have been waiting in the blistering cold with nothing but my clothes and my thoughts to keep me warm,” The Zenith says. “If you had simply arrived at the time you said you would, you would not have given me the opportunity to take such a great amount of time to deliberate and contemplate so many things that have been plaguing me recently.” He looks over toward the imprints within the snow over the lip of the balcony where he had thrown himself to save Amy’s brother just a few moments ago. “What happened there,” he gestures, “has made me realise something; as if I’ve just had an epiphany.” By now, Marx has sat upright, but is hunched over, nursing his forearm that had been crushed by The Zenith’s vice-like grip.
“An epiphany?” Marx repeats, now sounding calmer and more subdued. “What do you mean?”
“Vertigo is the fear of heights,” Dominator begins with a slow-developing grin. “but I have come to realise that it is not the measurement of distance between the ground and my own elevated position that fuels my trepidation. There was something that Horacio said to me not so long ago; the day that you sent the text message telling me to be here today. Having reflected on his words further, I finally understand what he meant.”
“Well?” Marx prompts, his interest only present due to the nervousness that has suddenly appeared in his voice. The confidence that he once wielded like a sword has been embedded by the shield of calmness in Dominic’s voice. Dominic trudges a few steps through the deepening snow until he tantalizes with the lip of the rooftop, staring out across the rooftops. He does not look ill at ease, seeing nothing but a sea of white, black and silver; like a winter wonderland in the midst of a power cut.
“It’s not the height that kills you. It’s not even the fall. It’s the sudden stop,” he reiterates Horacio’s sentiments. “If you are to fall, you are not guaranteed to come to harm,” he explains logically. “There are a number of factors that can affect the outcome; how high were you falling from? How fast were you falling? Did you hit anything on the way down? The anticipation looms like a shadow over the likelihood of such a tragedy from ever occurring, bringing with it the anxiety.”
“Everyone has anxiety towards something in their lives,” he continues. “Anybody who says that they do not is a liar. Anticipating the anxiety itself will make any unsettling situation more manageable. You can walk up a steady gradient for hours and hours and not even realise how high you are,” he continues. “It is only when you look back, or look down, that the fear hits you. By that logic, there is but one thing that you can do to prevent it.”
He takes a breath.
“Don’t look down. Keep looking up. Don’t look back. Look straight ahead. Whatever your destination, you will get there… in a matter of time.”
By now. Marx is hanging his head, no longer able to bring himself to look Dominic in the eye. Something is thrust forward, stopping mere inches from Marx’ face. Lifting it back up to witness this object, a slight amount of surprise arrives upon viewing Dominic’s open, outstretched hand; an offering of comfort, peace and forgiveness. Dominic lets out a smile.
“Maybe we should go inside,” suggests Dominic with a grin. “We can help you, you know.” The only reason Marx hesitates in accepting stems from the disbelief that he has been pardoned for his crimes. “I can take you to see Amy once the snow clears, if you want?” he adds. The genuineness in his voice is heard loud and clear. Coming to terms with his wrongdoings and subsequent forgiveness, Marx nods. With a smile, he raises his own arm to parallel Dominic’s, latching on to one another’s wrists.
Location: Rooftop of Sussex Heights, Saint Margaret’s Place, Brighton, East Sussex, England, United Kingdom
He gasps himself awake to the world.
For a split second, he has no idea where he is; the painful daydream had been so vivid that it had practically plucked him out of the real world, chewed him up and spat him back out. With a long, troubled sigh, Dominic runs his hands through his hair. It is cold and wet to the touch. He shakes his head like a canine that had just return from a walk in the rain. Droplets and crystals fly erratically to the ground. A sudden wind chill causes a momentary shudder to rumble through The Zenith’s shoulders. Whatever he had shaken off is almost immediately replenished by the ensuing blizzard.
It is as if Mother Nature herself has deployed a battalion to crusade in defiance against Father Time’s Mercenary. White cascades from the darkness above; symbolism of Dominic’s irrational fear. That same memory continues to play on a loop, a score engraved into a vinyl that skips on a turntable, spinning perpetually.
The height is dizzying. Dominic stares out across the residential area, daring himself to face his fear head on. Indeed, he stands atop the sixth tallest building in all of England; the highest outside of the more renowned and populated cities of London and Manchester. The one who had summoned him to such an elevated location must surely have been taking advantage of irrational fear of The Suzerain of Time.
“Glad to see you made it,” a voice caws acerbically from nearby, “and in good time too. The Chronological Order really is second to none when it comes to time management.” Dominic twists his head to look behind him. Rather than the man he had seen in the photograph that Horacio had presented to him upon learning of his existence, an unusual looking creature looms dangerously close to the lip of the roof that leads to oblivion. A top hat somehow manages to stay on his head in spite of the coastal gale. His face is shrouded by a pointed mask designed to resemble a beak of sorts, engulfing his nose, mouth and jaw line from Dominic’s view. He wears a thick coat, the same that Dominic had seen in the snapshot. It looks like an ample shield from the cold. Perhaps most portentously of all is the umbrella that he carries; aiming its metallic tip towards Dominic as if he were holding a gun in his outstretched hand. It possesses a Penguin-esque form of menace, as if it could turn into a helicopter blade or a flamethrower with a push of a button, but that is merely Dominic’s mind running wildly away from him.
“You must be the fabled ‘Bird Man’ that Amy keeps talking about?” Dominic remarks unexcitedly upon consulting his wristwatch. “You’re an hour and six minutes late,” he says, reprimanding the lateness of the man who had called him here in a manner near identical to how Horacio Mortimer would approach such a situation.
“Again with that moniker?” the Bird Man retorts, flicking his umbrella upwards so that it rests on his shoulder like a royal guard’s musket. “I guess it must have something to do with the way I dress.”
“Could be,” sarcasm rears its head for the first time in Dominic’s voice.
“I prefer my given name; Marcus Verreaux-Marx,“ he introduces himself before tackling the issue of his timeliness, “and given the weather conditions, I would say I did rather well.”
“I managed to get here on time,” Dominic rebuts as the two begin to slowly circle one another, their footprints leaving a path for the other to follow, “and it is only because you have besmirched the security and safety of my lover and our child, along with the integrity of The Chronological Order that I forced myself to remain.” This was partially a lie. While it was true that the welfare of Amy and Dawn truly stands paramount, combined with the initial threat that Marx himself had made via text message, the reality is that there is something above all else that Dominic is seeking to gain out of this confrontation.
Answers.
“So what business do you have with me?” he finally asks, trying to set the gears in motion. “I’ve been waiting for a long time. Don’t keep me waiting any fucking longer.” His aggression is stifled by a brief spasm of his lower jaw brought upon by the cold. This natural action is the source of newborn amusement within Marx.
“Now I understand why Horacio acts as your mouthpiece,” Marx judgingly smiles, “your mouth will get you into trouble one of these days.”
“At this point, I’m beyond caring,” Dominic refutes honestly, not wanting to deviate any further away from the conversation that he wants to have. “I can only assume that you want to talk, so let’s talk.”
“You are the one who wants to talk,” Marx chuckles. “Isn’t it amazing what people will do with a little provocation? They act without thinking. Here you stand as a shining example of what I am talking about.” he taunts. Dominic cannot help but believe that he is referring back to that fateful night, letting out a frown.
“Then what do you want?” Dominic addresses the question differently, still trying to obtain the same result.
“What I want,” the Bird Man cackles, “is for things to go back to the way they were. For me and Amy.” This numinous and translucent response is one the Dominic had somewhat expected. Of course things couldn’t be simpler. Marx clearly has some sort of infatuation for Amy. That much, Dominic could tell. Everything else is based on assumptions. Could he be an ex-boyfriend? A childhood sweetheart? Maybe not the latter. Shawn and Amy were childhood sweethearts and, unless he had severely misjudged the woman he now called his lover, it was unlikely that she would commit adultery in her primary teenage years.
“I know you’ve been watching her,” Dominic states. “You need a better seamstress. That getup that you have on has lost more feathers than a Thanksgiving turkey. Horacio has filled me in on the details; how you were one of Horacio’s four Watchmen. Yet you’ve made the foolish decision to desert and betray us. Why? Because you are jealous of the relationship I have with Amy?” Belligerence begins to take hold. To engage Marx in such extreme conditions as these is truly treacherous, but if he is to find any solace at all, he must extract as much information from Marx as he can.
“I’m not jealous, as you so eloquently put it,” Marx huffs. “I simply want to know that she is safe.”
“You’re the one threatening her safety,” Dominic counters with vituperation.
“Am I really, though?” he coos with a voice as smooth as silk. “She is safe now, is she not?” The air of malice that Marx exudes blows a gust of uncertainty into Dominic’s face. He motions to speak, but retracts his statement before he can even vocalise it.
“I have stood by her during the most difficult time in her life; what started as a simple instruction turned into burning ambition. I had a feeling that it could have been her, but I had to be certain. It wasn’t until she turned the knife on herself that I was able to discover the truth that had evaded me for so long. It was her medical records at the foot of her hospital bed that my quest was over. I finally found her; Amy Trenton-Metallinos. I was surprised that she had chosen to hyphenate and double-barrel her surname upon marrying Shawn, but…” Marx cuts himself off, letting out a sheepish chuckle to himself. “I’m rambling,” he states. Dominic motions to ask as to why he had been looking for Amy for any given length of time, but Marx suddenly wields his umbrella straight in Dominic’s direction, having taken a bold stride forward with enough distance covered to keep the sharp metal tip of the umbrella just centimetres away from the tip of The Zenith’s nose. “I have stood by her during the most difficult time in her life; what started as a simple instruction turned into burning ambition,” Marx states, his voice turning quieter as he reflects. “And yet she still opts to remain loyal to you,” Marx shrieks consumed by his disapproval, a far cry from the tranquility that he had synthesized into his words previously .
“You fell in love with a woman in a medically-induced coma?” Dominic frowns. He finds this difficult to believe, given the absurdity of how it sounds. Yet if Marx’ visible resentment is anything to go by, he can only hypothesise the accuracy of his inklings.
“You fail to realise,” Marx shakes his head solemnly, “I’ve known Amy a lot longer than what you have. Longer than Shawn for that matter.” Even through the torrential snowfall, a cloud of warm exhaled air seeps through his mask before being carried off into the wind, dispersing and weaving through the falling snowflakes. “Of course, they probably haven’t figured out it’s me.”
This last statement peaks Dominic’s curiosity. He had believed this man to be a former associate to Shawn during his tenure as a career criminal, yet now he claims to have an affiliation to Amy? What gives?
Yet again, he is not given the opportunity for a rebuttal or an interruption. The further Marx delivers his own contemplations, aggravation begins to rise like the bubbles in a pot of boiling water with every syllable.
“I only want what is best for Amy, while all you give a damn about is your own image and maintaining the so-called ‘integrity’ of what is, in essence, a time-worshipping cult! Even though you are supposed to be so in touch with time, you can barely spare any for your fucking child, never mind her mother!”
“You helped Shawn abduct his own daughter!” Dominic critically testifies.
“Shawn’s heart is broken,” Marx says. A remorseless cackle ruptures from between his lips.
“Some friend…” Dominic snorts at the volume of a whisper. Such heartlessness in his newfound amusement had caught Dominic unawares.
“He has no interest in what happens to Amy,” he states, as if judging the man known in the wrestling business as ‘Steel’ for his thought process. “All he wants is baby Hope back in his arms.”
“Her name is Dawn,” Dominic angrily corrects, still irate that Marx would refer to the innocent Dawn with such defamation, “and don’t you forget it!” he adds warningly.
“Shawn says otherwise,” he mocks with a caw. “Despite the responsibility for rekindling a mutual relationship with Amy being in his own hands, I have too much respect for Shawn, as well as myself, rather than to go behind his back and steal his girl from him. And yet, when someone is trying to make things right and introduce some sort of justice to this whole situation, you have the gall and the audacity to complain how ‘hard done by’ you are in spite of the fact that the leader of The Chronological Order has a raging hard-on for you, you wake up to the most beautiful girl in the world next to you, you travel the world with your career; a profession that anybody who was 12 back in 1997 could still only dream of being a part of…” By this point, Marx is not shouting so much as he is screeching; like nails on a chalkboard, it is personified amongst his intonations. His breathing has turned heavy to the point where he is practically panting. His secretive thoughts had held such weight for such a great period of time that it was as though this declaration was like throwing the bar to the ground.
And all the while, Dominic fights against two different angles; one being the bitter eastern wind, the second being the overwhelming urge to punch this man with such force that it sends him over the edge of the roof’s balcony into an arctic oblivion.
“You make it sound like I am some sort of villain,” Dominic chuckles, amused only by the sheer ridiculousness of everything that has happened as of late, “but how can I be in the wrong for protecting my child and the woman that I love?”
“Because everything that has happened to Amy has been because of your engrossment with The Order and your unquenchable thirst for revenge on Shawn,” Marx crows firmly. “How could Amy ever fall in love with a man so narcissistic that he genuinely believed him to be a God for an extended period of his life?” Marx coos wickedly.
“She’s more likely to go for a man who dresses as a diseased turkey, is she?” Dominic lashes back silver-tongued towards The Bird Man.
“At least I’m not a seven foot tall ‘meathead’ is scared of heights!” Marx snaps in response, irritated by Dominic’s quick quip. Irrespective of the onslaught of insults aimed at him, Dominic seems to have spotted a glimmer of hope. “That’s like a vampire being squeamish at the sight of blood,” Marx continues, baiting another retort. It doesn’t materialize in the way he perhaps would have hoped.
“And there it is,” Dominic bobs his head, coming to his own conclusion. “You can try to hide behind the excuse that you care for Amy all you want, but when it comes down to it, all you’re really focused on is taking me down.”
“I just don’t want you to hurt her any more than you already have!” Marx shrieks, almost hysterical by this point.
“I would NEVER hurt Amy,” Dominic quickly refutes his claims.
“Maybe not physically,” replies Marx, “but you have no idea of the emotional toll that she is going through. While her baby had been taken from her, you still had to go off and travel the world and compete in PCW. How do you think that makes her feel? Prioritising your career over the safety of your own daughter?”
“I still need to provide for my family, don’t I?” comes the excuse, although he could not deny that The Bird Man did raise a valid point. Of course, if things could have been any different, he would have done everything in his power to return Dawn to her mother’s arms so much sooner. But the duties of a reigning champion cannot be ignored.
“You make me sick,” Marx scathes, swiping his umbrella directly at Dominator’s face, the metallic tip impacting the side of his cheek. Dominic glares venomously towards Marx, that competitive look he gets in his eye when he is about to wade into battle flashes. Marx takes another wild swing with his umbrella, but Dominator catches it with one hand, yanking it firmly towards him, dragging Marx along with it. With a thunderous right hand, he grounds Marx with one punch before planting his boot on his torso, applying significant weight to his chest to prevent any sort of counter or bid to escape.
What was once pristine white snow is now tarnished by blotches of oozing red running centrally between foot-shaped crevices. The trickle from Marx’s nose runs over the edge of his lip.
“I want you to listen. And listen well,” Dominic spits warningly. “If I ever… EVER see you again, or if Amy says she ever sees you again, I will shove your tongue so far down your throat, you’ll be able to give yourself a rim job. Do I make myself clear?”
“You’re not going to stop me from seeing her,” Marx refuses to acknowledge the threat that has been made. “I need her in my life, Dominic. I can’t let you or anyone else get in my way.” With that, Dominic sees red; a blinding rage consumes him; the level of anger that he has not felt in years. Horacio had taught him various meditative techniques to suppress and eliminate anything that might cloud his judgement. With as much force as he can muster, he sends another closed fist Marx’ way. Such force convenes in his strike that his foot pivots in the snow, his own momentum spins him one hundred and eighty degrees. Marx lets out a disgruntled squawk as the punch lands, but a lengthened version follows.
As Dominic looks back, Marx has vanished.
Could The Bird Man have taken flight?
“Help me!” comes a frantic cry from nearby.
Following the scrape-marks within the snow, they suddenly stop at what Dominic has only just noticed is a sheer drop just behind a large snowdrift. The balcony of this building is not secured by any safety railing of any sort. It was only the slight elevation of the brickwork that provides a perimeter perhaps two or three feet high, yet so deep are the drifts of snow that they have been buried and hidden from view. Amidst the blizzard, the snow deceptively looks as though it expands for mile after mile.
It is by sheer luck that Marx is able to hook the lip of the balcony with his umbrella, practically impaling himself on the spindly arms that sprout when it is in full bloom. Marx wails in distress. Only the grip of the man that he had been antagonizing makes the difference between sparing or potentially ending his life. His legs thrash wildly as he tries to gain some sort of purchase against the brickwork, yet so vast are the levels of his affliction that the functions being given by his brain seem to be overridden by the very sensation that Marx had tried to implant into The Zenith. Karma could not be demonstrated more efficaciously than within this moment.
“Pull me up!” he cries desperately. “Please! Pull me up!”
Recalcitrantly, the plea is not followed. Deep in thought, a thousand or more scenarios play through Dominic’s mind like a multiversal montage. The ramifications of every eventuality merge into a bulbous cloud of confusion, yet his eyes remain locked on the man whose life literally hangs in the balance.
Out of all of his recent oppressors, Marx had been the most enigmatic up to this point. While it is true that Shawn’s abduction of Dawn had been at the nucleus of his angst, Marx’ involvement and consequent ploy had splintered from the initial dispute. This, of course, was outside of the public eye for the most part. Yet there were many more eyes looking forward to a confrontation that would personify the event’s name; Mass Destruction.
The circumstances surrounding this confrontation emulate the scenarios that gave life to Dominator’s vertigo. It was Johnny himself who wanted to reveal his new identity by creating a grand enough platform to which people would pay him the attention that he so dearly craves; by attacking The Zenith after his match with Razor Blade at The Icey Award show back in December of last year.
That’s how long this shit has been going on for!? Since December!? It had felt like a mere few days ago, but yet we are already encroaching upon the mid-point of March.
It was Phinehas Grimm who decimated the man formerly known as Johnny Vivacious, morphing him into the man we know now as Johnny Matthews. There was a part of Dominator that wanted to ‘thank’ Grimm for breathing life into such a character, yet that opportunity was missed a mere fortnight ago. In order for Johnny to break in his newfound persona, he had cast his sight upon the Underground Title. Of course, he would set his sights on what could be considered as the lowest tiered title on the roster.
“RI DIC U LOUS!”
“SO RIDICULOUS!”
That presumption though is merited no longer, for the level of prestige and yearning for the Underground Championship is higher than ever.
And it is all thanks to the reign of its latest and greatest king; The Suzerain of Time. To dethrone the King on such a huge stage, with so many eyes watching, will jumpstart anybody’s career. At this point, anybody who can obtain a victory over Dominator would instantly be propelled into superstardom. THAT is the bittersweet pill that The Zenith must swallow alongside his success, but he has already accepted that one day, this scenario WILL happen.
But Mass Destruction will not be that day.
And what would then happen to Dominator? Would he be cast away into obscurity among the Pure Class Wrestling archives? Of course not. The possibilities are endless. A challenge to the North American Champion? Ascend to the ranks of World Champion? If he has proven one thing during his relatively short tenure in PCW is that he is capable of the impossible. There are so many avenues for him to travel down…
But for Matthews, it is a different story.
Could this be why Johnny wanted to challenge for a ‘lower’ tiered belt? His bond with his brother-in-law was too strong to lay a path beyond an otherwise instantaneous dead end, at least while the North American championship was around his waist, that is. Even Tyler Scott has shown more vim and vigor on occasion.
At least Tyler earned his spot to compete for a championship by defeating hardened and revered talent, despite being the man to wind up taking the pinfall at the last Trauma tapings. Meanwhile, the offer of a title shot had been thrust in front of Johnny as a result of multiple sneak attacks, mind games and general douchebaggery, these three ingredients were what provided Dominic and Horacio with food for thought.
Johnny would never become The Underground King while Dominator still had the belt in his possession.
Johnny would never become The North American Champion while Stormm carries it around.
Johnny would never become World Champion because, simply put, he is not on that level.
And he knows it.
Just how could The Chronological Order cause Matthews the ultimate setback? By proving to him that every endeavor he has made against them over the course of the last three months has been a complete waste of his time, furthering the idea that even Johnny Matthews doesn’t really know who Johnny Matthews is.
It could be argued that the stipulation of a Ladder Match would work in Johnny’s favour, given Dominator’s own phobias, but this is something that he has to overcome by design. Horacio Mortimer and Dominator alike want nothing to hold back The Zenith from being the most efficacious warrior he can be and not for it to be tarnished by an innate worry over something that he cannot control. THAT is the mark of a true champion; knocking down not only the barriers that other people put in front of you, but the ones that your own psyche throws up against you.
By defeating Johnny Matthews, under these conditions, it will eradicate any last shred of hope that he had of ever being relevant in PCW’s modern day. Though not a qualified psychiatrist or neurosurgeon, it is painfully apparent that Matthews exudes such charisma as a way of sticking out of the crowd, in spite of the fact that, compared to the likes of Dominator and Kyle Shane, or even his brother-in-law, all of whom hold championship, he has little monetary value to his name in comparison.
“HIL AR I OUS!”
“SO HILARIOUS!”
Johnny Matthews is the living incarnation of the alien from ‘American Dad,’ changing his persona every time he loses. Though he sells a lot of shirts, it is Dominator’s path of destruction that sells a lot more seats and home viewership. It is Dominator’s sincere intention to give Johnny the opportunity to take some time out to reinvent himself once again, after the plastic surgeons had finished reinventing his face.
It may not have been what the powers that be had envisioned when naming the supercard, but there would indeed be Mass Destruction, but not in the sense that Dominator would be destroying multiple individuals in one setting. Instead, there would be a different kind of Mass Destruction; the dissection and obliteration of every fiber that forms Johnny Matthews being;
His teeth.
His bones.
His flesh.
His psyche.
His hopes.
His dreams.
His balance.
His career.
His smile.
His vivaciousness.
His spirit.
His identity.
His chance.
The beauty of this whole debacle is that all Dominator knew what he had to do from the start. Johnny had disillusioned himself into believe he was trying to steal honey from a beehive without getting stung. In reality, he has been trying to steal honey from a hungry bear that already has the honey in its possession. Dominator simply had to bide his time and allow events to unravel themselves to him.
That is Johnny’s undoing. So invested he has been in his convoluted ploys to antagonize the Underground King that he has failed to foresee in how much detail it has been documented. From attacks with ladders to dropping championship belts on their heads, he has not managed to grasp that, unless he had killed Dominator, he stood no chance of victory. When he falls to The Zenith, he will come to understand how the last three months of his life have been nothing short of a waste of time.
Even with the inclusion of Stormm to raise the odds in their favour, Dominator had known exactly what to do when confronting NOTORIOUS, or Club V, or the Forces of Nature.
Weather the storm.
By the time the storm had passed, yes, there was destruction, but Dominator was still standing. On the last Trauma, what transpired at the end of the show was a mere spur of the moment, as if Dominic’s body was moving of its own accord. Despite the publicity of his phobia, Dominator had climbed near the top of the ladder voluntarily. He had thrown himself from it voluntarily. He took out five other men in a single blow… voluntarily.
And much like the tragedy of years long past, he is still standing to tell the tale. When all is said and done, Johnny Matthews won’t be standing… period.
“UN CONSC I OUS!”
“SO UNCONSCIOUS!”
“HELP ME, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!”
The wind howls, threatening to make the decision on Dominic’s behalf. Marx continues to cling to life, dangling like the last leaf left on the tree to survive the trials and tribulations of the autumn and the winter. Dominic looks down the length of the building, confronting his paranoia head on. It isn’t so much like staring down the barrel of a loaded gun as it is put one’s own head into a cannon with a lit fuse. He adjusts his focus back to Marx, whose skin has turned as white as the snow as if to camouflage the sheer scale of his dread. With absolute resolution displayed in his eyes, Dominic’s chosen option begins to settle in, yet The Zenith clenches his eyes closed as if already remorseful for what he is about to do.
So long has it taken him to reach this decision, the feelings in his fingertips are sucked out by the subzero temperature. So numb are they that he barely clasps the curved wooden handle of the umbrella in time as he notices Marx’ arm slip through his own failing grip. The Bird Man screams as he begins to fall, but only by a couple of inches. Practically diving over the balcony and into the snowdrift, Dominic’s thighs are all that anchor them both to the building, clamping both hands as firmly as he can around the circumference of one of Marx’ wrists.
The ruined umbrella plummets into the abyss.
Marx loops his free hand around Dominic’s elbow joint as Dominic shuffles backwards, deadlifting the man upwards and dragging him over the lip of the rooftop like a fisherman reeling in a marlin. With one final heave of strength, Marx is sent sailing over the top of Dominic, who falls flat on his back in the snow. He pants with exhaustion. Mother Nature had made this endeavor all the more arduous. Sliding his eyes to one side, he can barely make out Marx’ defeated, but thankful position amongst the snow.
“What’s your end game, here?” Dominic snarls, exasperated and exhausted by Marx’ defiance. Both men remain flat on their backs embedded in the snow. “You claim to have feelings for Amy, yet she only knows you as a figure from her dreams. She’s still rehabilitating. Her memory is still fading her. At the time that you’ve ‘visited’ her, she’s only been semi-conscious of what has happened.”
“Incorrect,” Marx calls back knowingly. “She is fully aware that I am not just some figment of her imagination. We have conversed in consciousness. In fact, she wants to learn more about me. She told me. To my face.”
“That may be,” Dominic grins, sitting up at last, “but Amy does not want to know more about you because of her interest in you as a person. She wants to know why you are stalking her, why you choose to work for her estranged husband and why you act with such stealth rather than being more direct. In fact, we would not even be here now if only you had the bollocks to approach us directly.”
“You don’t understand at all, do you?” the frustration returns to The Bird Man’s lips, growing as incensed as Dominic’s. “We have a connection that runs even deeper than whatever relationship you might think you have with her.”
“There’s no possible way that you could simply fall in love with an unconscious woman,” Dominic ripostes.
“Weren’t you listening to me?” Marx’ vociferous yells fill the air once more. “I’ve known Amy for longer than you could imagine.”
“How!?”
“…”
Once again, Marx motions in Dominic’s direction, scooping up the handle of his umbrella in his hand like a snowball, raising it high above his head with aggression in his eyes. Dominic braces himself, preparing himself mentally for yet another bout with his oppressor. Marx’ foot skids in the snow, not accidentally, but as if he is stopping himself of his own accord. He breathes heavily, the umbrella waving in the air like a daffodil dancing in the wind. Within seconds, Marx drops to his knees, the umbrella embeds itself in a snowy coffin. Marx buries his face into his hands. The aggression between both men immediately dissipates. Concern takes its place on the face of The Zenith.
“You could never love her the way that I do.”
His voice trembles. Not from the cold, but from despair. Marx’ hands run upside his face, removing the mask that he had been wearing all this time. He looks up at Dominic, his trauma manifests into redness spread across his entire face like a rash born out of embarrassment and anguish. His eyes are glazed from the tears that seem to freeze as they form.
There is something familiar about this man…
The photograph; the one Horacio had given to him. He remembered the way that he stared at the picture; it was almost like he somehow knew him in spite of never meeting before. He had made a mental photocopy. Comparing it to the original product knelt before him, the similarities between him and Amy were unquestionable. The contours of their faces. Their reactions to heartache…
“You could never love her the way that I do,“ Marx repeats himself, taking a deep breath.
“I am her brother.”
If time were ever to freeze, it would be at this precise moment. Almost out of sympathy, the wind reduces to a gentle breeze. The moon peers nosily from behind the last trailing stormcloud that lags behind its brethren. Snowflakes that continue to fall are but mere remnants of the blizzard. Only the tiniest fragments of ice flutter downwards, sparkling like stardust in the newly discovered moonlight. The night itself has turned eerily silent; a ghost town whose population had evacuated on account of the verbal shootout between The Zenith and The Bird Man.
“Her brother?” Dominic whispers to himself, putting the pieces of the puzzle together. There was bound to be some form of exposition looming, but Dominic has heard enough. He understands the situation more comprehensively than it may seem. Even with lack of any proof other than Marx’ word, Dominic believes him, accepting it as factual.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I should have told you sooner. I should have told her sooner,” Marx looks remorseful about his revelation. Dominic could not fathom why he would opt to yield such secrecy until now. It seemed to be a common attribute amongst those who are a part of The Chronological Order. Even Horacio himself had kept so much from Dominic recently that he had started to question his own involvement with the group. But now was not the time to query the Order’s drawbacks. In fact, this could be the ideal opportunity to rehabilitate the man, in the same way that they had done for his sister.
“I should thank you for inviting me here,” he smiles. “After all, exposure is the active ingredient in overcoming a phobia. Given the circumstances, I had to put it aside in order to save a life.” Dominic raises himself out of the snow. More falls from his clothing than it does from the sky. After briefly brushing himself off, he looks off into the distance.
“For over an hour, I have been waiting in the blistering cold with nothing but my clothes and my thoughts to keep me warm,” The Zenith says. “If you had simply arrived at the time you said you would, you would not have given me the opportunity to take such a great amount of time to deliberate and contemplate so many things that have been plaguing me recently.” He looks over toward the imprints within the snow over the lip of the balcony where he had thrown himself to save Amy’s brother just a few moments ago. “What happened there,” he gestures, “has made me realise something; as if I’ve just had an epiphany.” By now, Marx has sat upright, but is hunched over, nursing his forearm that had been crushed by The Zenith’s vice-like grip.
“An epiphany?” Marx repeats, now sounding calmer and more subdued. “What do you mean?”
“Vertigo is the fear of heights,” Dominator begins with a slow-developing grin. “but I have come to realise that it is not the measurement of distance between the ground and my own elevated position that fuels my trepidation. There was something that Horacio said to me not so long ago; the day that you sent the text message telling me to be here today. Having reflected on his words further, I finally understand what he meant.”
“Well?” Marx prompts, his interest only present due to the nervousness that has suddenly appeared in his voice. The confidence that he once wielded like a sword has been embedded by the shield of calmness in Dominic’s voice. Dominic trudges a few steps through the deepening snow until he tantalizes with the lip of the rooftop, staring out across the rooftops. He does not look ill at ease, seeing nothing but a sea of white, black and silver; like a winter wonderland in the midst of a power cut.
“It’s not the height that kills you. It’s not even the fall. It’s the sudden stop,” he reiterates Horacio’s sentiments. “If you are to fall, you are not guaranteed to come to harm,” he explains logically. “There are a number of factors that can affect the outcome; how high were you falling from? How fast were you falling? Did you hit anything on the way down? The anticipation looms like a shadow over the likelihood of such a tragedy from ever occurring, bringing with it the anxiety.”
“Everyone has anxiety towards something in their lives,” he continues. “Anybody who says that they do not is a liar. Anticipating the anxiety itself will make any unsettling situation more manageable. You can walk up a steady gradient for hours and hours and not even realise how high you are,” he continues. “It is only when you look back, or look down, that the fear hits you. By that logic, there is but one thing that you can do to prevent it.”
He takes a breath.
“Don’t look down. Keep looking up. Don’t look back. Look straight ahead. Whatever your destination, you will get there… in a matter of time.”
By now. Marx is hanging his head, no longer able to bring himself to look Dominic in the eye. Something is thrust forward, stopping mere inches from Marx’ face. Lifting it back up to witness this object, a slight amount of surprise arrives upon viewing Dominic’s open, outstretched hand; an offering of comfort, peace and forgiveness. Dominic lets out a smile.
“Maybe we should go inside,” suggests Dominic with a grin. “We can help you, you know.” The only reason Marx hesitates in accepting stems from the disbelief that he has been pardoned for his crimes. “I can take you to see Amy once the snow clears, if you want?” he adds. The genuineness in his voice is heard loud and clear. Coming to terms with his wrongdoings and subsequent forgiveness, Marx nods. With a smile, he raises his own arm to parallel Dominic’s, latching on to one another’s wrists.
