Post by Dominator / Mortimer on Jul 2, 2018 17:04:35 GMT -5
Monday 2nd July 2018 – 09.57am
LOCATION – Abandoned Warehouse (Formerly Solent Publishing Ltd.), Marchwood, Southampton, Hampshire, England, United Kingdom
The black glove; a symbolic apparel of changing times. Dark times.
The reasoning behind the bestowing of such a representation of boding malice is still a mystery even now. He had gazed deeply into the black material and craftsmanship of the gauntlet for as long an amount of time as he had done his wristwatch. It feels like time moves faster when he looks to the glove; becoming so lost in his own thoughts, replaying significant memories and publishing alternative scenarios and outcomes that he arrives further in the future than he’d originally envisioned.
The elasticity of the glove now covers his watch like moss engulfing a lawn. The last fortnight had fertilised the seeds planted by his recent shortcomings into a strong vine that has a stranglehold over his cerebellum. Not matter how hard he tries to untangle it, it simply ensnares him deeper. The more he thinks about that moment, the more it affects him.
Even now, the smirk of Johnny Matthews does not ever leave his sight, as if tattooed on his retina.
Taunting him.
Haunting him.
With a snarl, Dominic reaches down with one arm and grabs a wooden pallet at his feet. He lifts it effortlessly into the air before pivoting on his heel, swinging his arm and launching the pallet like a Frisbee. The sound of air rushes between the wooden slats, whirring across the open room and crashes against a stack of metal scaffolding poles, which subsequently clatter and clang across the painted concrete floor, echoing through the empty warehouse.
Until that moment, Horacio Mortimer had been statuesque, simply watching the passage of time before him by staring at the timepiece that hugs his wrist. He is startled by the clamour caused by The Zenith’s overflowing frustration that is evident on his face.
“Be patient, will you?” Horacio misinterprets his client’s rage being activated by impatience. Dominic clenches his fists, teeth and even eyelids closed vehemently for a few seconds, as if trying to expel more anguish from his system before finally coming to his senses. He dusts the few splinters of wood from his hand against his trouser leg before pacing towards a large wooden crate, planting both hands on it and rocking it onto one corner-edge to ascertain its weight; a momentary distraction that prevents him from apologising for his outburst.
“I fail to understand why we would arrive so early,” Dominic scowls. Mortimer may have misconstrued why Dominic’s annoyance had peaked, yet it did at least get him to move on to a different topic of conversation, even if it did yield the same kind of reaction. “It is one thing to be punctual. To be a few minutes early is understandable. But why on earth would we get here a full hour before we are supposed to?” Horacio slowly lowers his arm, breaking his locked on crosshairs from the watch and cricks his neck to one side to view Dominic over his shoulder.
“I appreciate you are angry,” Horacio states observantly, “but there is no need to exhibit such unnecessary tantrums. Even Dawn is acting more mature than you at the moment!” Dominic is unfazed by such an insult. “We cannot afford to be late in any capacity. Especially not under these circumstances.”
“You haven’t even told me what’s going on,” Dominic snaps. “Mind you, what’s new?”
“Just be patient,” Mortimer reiterates. “All will be revealed.”
“Indeed it will,” comes a voice. It is most certainly female. She sounds distant. Her voice bounces from the naked walls of the warehouse in all directions, making it difficult to pinpoint her exact location. Dominic and Horacio both begin to scan the warehouse for any indication as to where this person is lurking.
“Nice of you to finally join us,” Mortimer says aloud, not focusing on any one point within the room.
“Horacio Mortimer. It’s been a long time,” she greets the Order’s architect as she emerges seemingly from a blotch of pitch black cast by a tall stack of empty crates that tower so high that they cover one of the countless broken windows which happen to be at the same side as where the sun casts its rays, themselves casting a series of shadows. “Too long, in fact. How long has it been exactly?” As she comes into view, garbed entirely in black to provide even less clarity towards her identity, Horacio stretches an arm out to his side like a barrier, signalling to Dominic not to follow in his footsteps. The Chronological Order’s founder takes a bold stride in the direction of their guest.
Or should that be hostess?
“From my recollection, it has been…” Horacio pauses to calculate only in the amount of time it takes him to draw a deep intake of breath, “…five years and thirty ones days to the day,” he affirms. How he was able recall such an exact timescale by merely consulting his watch and memories causes Dominic’s jaw to droop in disbelief ever so slightly. As the woman comes to a halt just inches away from Mortimer’s face, the two share an awkward silence which lasts ten seconds or so. They look into each other’s eyes; the windows to the soul as if allowing their spirits to embrace, yet their physical figures do not reciprocate such emotion. Horacio looks the more afflicted of the two, yet is the first to produce the welcoming gesture of extending his hand. The woman looks at it and grabs it softly; shaking it to confirm the business-like nature of this meeting. “How have you been?” he enquires aversely, as if asking only out of sheer politeness as opposed to genuine interest.
“Existing,” the woman answers with just as much enthusiasm, although boasting a slight sense of superiority. “You of all people should know the complications that we so regularly encounter.” All the while, Dominic looks at this woman with a puzzled look amongst his furrowing eyebrows. He could picture her from somewhere; a face off of the television or another media outlet? “Still,” she continues, “I suppose you are a little out of the loop given the prolonged period of time since we…” she hesitates, clearing her throat as means to refresh her sentence anew. “Since we had a necessity for the temporal vanguard’s contributions.”
“Why now though?” Horacio queries. The woman does not answer. Dominic continues to contemplate as the woman takes a few steps away from Mortimer and his question. As she comes to a stop, Dominic notices the surprise on her face as she cranks her neck back to stare upwards. Everybody knows of Dominator’s imposing height and frame, but until one experiences such a sight for themselves, the scale of one’s previous interpretations could be considered seriously underestimated. Despite their difference in size, there is no intimidation amidst her expression.
“Ruth,” the woman greets. Dominic’s ears twitch upon hearing her voice up close. “A pleasure to finally meet face-to-face.” She speaks so softly, yet there is an air of authority fusing into her words, making her last sentence insinuate that it is The Zenith who should feel indulged by her presence. Dominic remains focused on the mental conundrum he had challenged himself to solve. Putting the pieces together, he comes to conclusion.
She is a Dillinger. Phinehas’ sister.
Not only that, but her voice is eerily comparable to the voice he heard on the various telephones dotted around the Southampton area; the day that Amy accepted a marriage proposal that somebody had made on his behalf.
Immediately, his face curls. This form of trickery is akin to Horacio’s.
Dominic shakes her hand, wrapping his fingers around hers and applies a small amount of pressure, but does so slowly and methodically like a hydraulic ram that threatens to apply even more force. However, the fact of the matter is that this is Grimm’s sister. Angered or not, he daresn’t even threaten to cross any lines.
“Dominic James Atkinson,” he greets back with a glare. “I assume I have YOU to thank for my untimely wedding arrangements?” Ruth lets out a mischievous smirk momentarily, before running her hand through her hair and addressing the matter head on.
“You don’t want Amy to be your wife?” Ruth asks, feigning puzzlement. “I figured that the two of you share such closeness. Given that she might not have much time left, you would want to make her last days as happy as possible? And, supposedly, your wedding day is one of the happiest days of your life.”
“You know about that, do you?” Mortimer mutters callously under his breath. Dominic doesn’t quite believe that Mortimer would say such a thing aloud. Either Ruth did not hear Mortimer’s silenced jab or she hides the fact that she did very well.
“Uh… I mean, of course,” Dominic stammers, for some reason trying to cover for Horacio’s abrupt response. “I would have liked to have gotten down on one knee on my own terms, you know? At a time that suited me.”
“Time doesn’t suit everyone,” Ruth replies with a smile. “Does it, Mort?” she quickly seethes, her face contorts to show malcontent. Instead of correcting her, Horacio simply hangs his head. Dominic is a little stunned that he did not express displeasure at being called such a name. He hated being called ‘Mort.’ Why would Ruth of all people be able to call him it without consequence?
Maybe she DID hear him.
“Anyway,” she looks back to Dominic, suddenly producing a more welcoming and friendly smile. “It is all about commitment,” Ruth states calmly. “Loyalty is a rare commodity these days, especially in the once sacred and unbreakable bonds of matrimony. Marx has told me all about how you fought to protect her and how her estranged husband abducted your daughter right before Christmas. That must’ve been a harrowing experience for both of you, yet it has solidified the connection that you both share. You’re loyal. So why put it off any longer.” Dominic lets out a sigh. He really cannot argue with that logic.
“I guess you’re right,” he concedes.
“I KNOW I’m right,” she corrects.
“So you know Marx? Wait, don’t tell me. Let me guess, you’re the fourth Watchman or something?” Dominic concludes aloud. Ruth lets out a small chuckle under her breath; amused only by Dominic’s naivety and nothing more. Horacio’s head slowly begins to droop like a wilting flower that has been replanted into acidic soils.
“I’m afraid not,” she dismisses this claim before turning to face the ever sinking expression of Horacio. “You always HAVE been one to stretch the truth, haven’t you?” Ruth nudges Horacio with her elbow. His body wobbles and ripples as if her jab was a stone dropped into water. He stood stands rigid once again, taking a long intake of breath. Dominic mimics this action, but accompanies it with a shake of his head. Another strand of silk has just been broken in his web of lies. “The Watchmen do not solely exist for Horacio’s gain. Just because I haven’t seen Horacio for over five years doesn’t mean that I haven’t been in contact with him.”
“Is that so?” he snarls.
“Both explanations hold water,” Horacio backpedals. “The Watchmen do exist as my eyes where my eyes cannot be, however they are also responsible for relaying information to…” he cuts himself off, looking towards Ruth as if indicating that she is the one pulling strings. Dominic stares at both of them with equal distain.
“You’re telling me that two of my best friends and Amy’s brother are betraying my trust?” he anguishes, clamping his hands on the side of his head as if trying to contain the trauma from erupting volcanically. “It is difficult for me to trust anybody at all these days. How can you call me loyal to Amy when I can’t even trust HER half the time? She tried to end her own life without even opening up to me. Can you really call that loyalty?”
“Welcome to The Black Hand,” Ruth says cynically, yet somehow congratulating Dominic for reaching this conclusion on his own. Only now does it twig. “Don’t concern yourself with the lies. There are levels of deceit out there that span far beyond your own comprehension. You will understand in time.”
“Funny. Horacio has said exactly the same thing to me before,” Dominic grumbles uncertainly. Ruth cannot help but let out another chortle, even as she tries to suppress it. “Do you find it as funny as I do?” he asks with gruff sarcasm.
“I have a question for you,” Ruth smiles. “When Grimm passed you that black glove, why did you take it from him? If you are so concerned about the way that we have watched you grow as an athlete and as a human being, then why allow us to accept you into our ranks?” It was a question that Dominic had not expected. Equally, it was one that he could not answer straight away. It had hardly been a decision made in the heat of the moment. To join Grimm, the man who had played an equal part in tarnishing the reputation of Dominator, was a double-standard. The only way to approach this was honestly.
“Grimm is the only person who has proven that he is on my level, if not above,” he admits. It is true. Even with Johnny Matthews’ involvement, Grimm had managed to do what no other had accomplished since the day The Zenith placed his throne in Pure Class Wrestling. He could not be angry with Grimm, for if the shoe were on the other foot, he would have taken the advantage just as much. It was by the grace of Phinehas that Dominator had been gifted with a position within The Black Hand; a faction even more ‘notorious’ than any that have preceded it. With names such as Michael Wryght and Billy Sadistic standing side by side with Grimm, there were few that were able to even compete against.
His rage was not focused upon Grimm. It was towards Johnny Matthews.
It had always been Johnny Matthews.
The rage. It overflows. All Dominator can think about is tearing Johnny Matthews to shreds like a grizzly bear on the haphazard hunter that had encroached on its territory. Dominator’s pride had visibly been dented, but not because he had lost to Grimm, but because Johnny Matthews had stolen it from him.
This pent-up aggression and languish would be unleashed at the next available opportunity. For the sake of his mental wellbeing and to avenge his honour, he would look not just to defeat, but destroy a man who once prided himself as a warrior, now reduced to nothing more than a mere circus act. A clown. A joke.
Once again, The Zenith finds himself on a collision course with a man who he last faced, and subsequently defeated over six months ago. A span of time such as this would surely act as judge, jury and executioner when it comes to whether one sinks or swims in such environs. Hiroshi Yukio currently finds himself treading water in shark-infested seas, barely able to keep his head above the surface of relevance.
For all the strength and size that Yukio possesses, he cannot utilise it. He is a tornado that is petering out or a landslip that falls into the ocean; a disaster that does no harm. And yet, the former sumo champion might sense that the air of invincibility has been blown away by the winds of change. Yukio, and all who would follow him in facing The Zenith, would look swoop down like vultures on fresh carrion, rubbing salt into his wounds before he can lick them.
But that would not happen.
While Johnny Matthews had angered The Zenith, he had not humiliated him.
To lose to Hiroshi Yukio… THAT would be humiliating.
But for Hiroshi Yukio to eat defeat, it would be just another day at the office.
Survival can only be achieved by adapting and evolving. As such, one small loss has triggered a remarkable transformation upon stark realisation and a thirst for blood that goes unquenched. As part of The Black Hand, Dominator will continue to improve. As part of The Psycho Circus, Hiroshi Yukio will continue to fail. Perhaps he should have considered the offer made to him to join The Chronological Order all those months ago.
Instead, he refused. He sacrificed his pride to Alexa Black and the rest of the circus freaks and must therefore live with such a poor moment of judgement for the rest of his life. He could deliberate over his life choices from the hospital bed. The Zenith has already fluffed the pillow.
The judgement had been cast.
“I want… more,” Dominic grins, immediately catching the interest in Horacio as his expression grows more frenzied. “I want The Black Hand to teach me more. Make me stronger, more powerful than I have ever been.” Dominator had always had a sweet-tooth when it came to tyranny. His history boasts multiple occasions where he would overthrow certain situations and execute his own regime. It had led to many a downfall in the years that had molded him prior to meeting Horacio. True, The Chronological Order had given him a whole new lease on life and had given him a certain prowess ever since. But this is a chance to reach even greater heights! The Chronological Order AND The Black Hand combined would see Dominator reach a level that no other Pure Class Wrestling star, active or injured, living or dead, would be able to match.
“Calm yourself!” Horacio snaps violently. Dominic immediately jerks his head towards Mortimer, surprised that such a small man by comparison could produce such a boom. “I am not going to let you fall into that same trap as you have done so many times.” All of his past experiences elude him during his power trip until Horacio’s words ring true. There had been times where The Zenith had referred to himself as a ‘Self-Proclaimed God.’
Had times really changed? Is there any true difference between his former and current monikers?
Zenith: Noun. Definition: The time at which something is most powerful or most successful. Definition 2: the point in the sky or celestial sphere directly above the observer.
“I will be honest,” Ruth dishearteningly sighs, “I thought that your hunger for power had long since kerbed.” Ruth words seem to hit a lot harder than Horacio’s. Maybe it boiled down to the fact that he had heard Horacio’s scolding statements on so many occasions that it had become as second nature as the sound of a strong breeze. Dominic recoils, falling into a state of silence. Ruth simply lets out another smile. “No matter. We will soon see how dependable a commodity you will be.”
“What do you mean by that?” Horacio butts in, concern in his voice. Clearly this Ruth woman is not to be trifled with, yet he seems to be caught between a rock and a hard place when it comes to Ruth and Dominic. Ruth simply looks up at Dominic, who continues to deliriously wonder about what life within The Black Hand might entail.
“He’s very good in difficult situations,” she states her observations, “however, there are factors on the outside that are holding him back. Once we open his eyes fully, he will be able to accomplish great things. I want you to be completely honest with him from now on, Mort. No more twisting the story. He deserves to know the truth.” Mortimer looks incredibly uncertain.
“Are you sure about this?” he frowns, skeptical over the whole scenario.
“The way I see it, the only person he has been loyal to, aside from Amy, is you, Horacio.” Ruth says softly. Horacio stares into her eyes; he cannot tell if they are an azure blue or emerald green even after adjusting his spectacles. Then again, the warehouse floor is illuminated so poorly that it would be difficult to tell regardless. Ruth tilts her head out of interest as Horacio removes his spectacles and threads them between the buttons of his shirt, allowing them to hang alongside his tie.
“I’d like to propose that we discuss this matter a little more privately,” Horacio says quietly and somewhat nervously. “Over dinner, perhaps?”
This was the first instance of Ruth showing a flicker of emotion. Caught unawares by such an invitation, she hesitantly turns away and begins walking towards the shadows from which she had emerged, a frown over her face.
“Don’t you ever think that this is anything more than a business proposition, Mort,” Ruth assertively states as she begins to fade into the darkness, stopping just before she completely fades from view. A moment of awkwardness is shared amongst the trio, before the tiniest little chuckle escapes from Ruth’s mouth. “I will be in touch,” she says, far more affectionately than before. Horacio lets out the slightest of smiles before consulting his watch once again. Where Ruth was situated has now been engulfed by the shadows. Not even her footsteps are audible. With the conversation over, Dominic consults his watch.
“Suppose we’d better make a move ourselves,” Dominic insinuates that it is time to move on, yet Horacio continues to look towards the shaded corner of the warehouse that Ruth had perambulated within. “Horacio?” Dominic tries to catch Mortimer’s attention. Like a puppy who had seen its mother walk away from him, Mortimer stares wide-eyed into the depths.
“HORACIO!”
“Huh!?” Mortimer snaps out of whatever daydream he was having. He quickly looks at his watch before scurrying directly past Dominic without making eye contact in a direction opposite to the route taken by Ruth. Dominic cannot help but crack a smile at the redness in Mortimer’s face.
Perhaps their affiliation runs deeper than The Zenith had first realised.
LOCATION – Abandoned Warehouse (Formerly Solent Publishing Ltd.), Marchwood, Southampton, Hampshire, England, United Kingdom
The black glove; a symbolic apparel of changing times. Dark times.
The reasoning behind the bestowing of such a representation of boding malice is still a mystery even now. He had gazed deeply into the black material and craftsmanship of the gauntlet for as long an amount of time as he had done his wristwatch. It feels like time moves faster when he looks to the glove; becoming so lost in his own thoughts, replaying significant memories and publishing alternative scenarios and outcomes that he arrives further in the future than he’d originally envisioned.
The elasticity of the glove now covers his watch like moss engulfing a lawn. The last fortnight had fertilised the seeds planted by his recent shortcomings into a strong vine that has a stranglehold over his cerebellum. Not matter how hard he tries to untangle it, it simply ensnares him deeper. The more he thinks about that moment, the more it affects him.
Even now, the smirk of Johnny Matthews does not ever leave his sight, as if tattooed on his retina.
Taunting him.
Haunting him.
With a snarl, Dominic reaches down with one arm and grabs a wooden pallet at his feet. He lifts it effortlessly into the air before pivoting on his heel, swinging his arm and launching the pallet like a Frisbee. The sound of air rushes between the wooden slats, whirring across the open room and crashes against a stack of metal scaffolding poles, which subsequently clatter and clang across the painted concrete floor, echoing through the empty warehouse.
Until that moment, Horacio Mortimer had been statuesque, simply watching the passage of time before him by staring at the timepiece that hugs his wrist. He is startled by the clamour caused by The Zenith’s overflowing frustration that is evident on his face.
“Be patient, will you?” Horacio misinterprets his client’s rage being activated by impatience. Dominic clenches his fists, teeth and even eyelids closed vehemently for a few seconds, as if trying to expel more anguish from his system before finally coming to his senses. He dusts the few splinters of wood from his hand against his trouser leg before pacing towards a large wooden crate, planting both hands on it and rocking it onto one corner-edge to ascertain its weight; a momentary distraction that prevents him from apologising for his outburst.
“I fail to understand why we would arrive so early,” Dominic scowls. Mortimer may have misconstrued why Dominic’s annoyance had peaked, yet it did at least get him to move on to a different topic of conversation, even if it did yield the same kind of reaction. “It is one thing to be punctual. To be a few minutes early is understandable. But why on earth would we get here a full hour before we are supposed to?” Horacio slowly lowers his arm, breaking his locked on crosshairs from the watch and cricks his neck to one side to view Dominic over his shoulder.
“I appreciate you are angry,” Horacio states observantly, “but there is no need to exhibit such unnecessary tantrums. Even Dawn is acting more mature than you at the moment!” Dominic is unfazed by such an insult. “We cannot afford to be late in any capacity. Especially not under these circumstances.”
“You haven’t even told me what’s going on,” Dominic snaps. “Mind you, what’s new?”
“Just be patient,” Mortimer reiterates. “All will be revealed.”
“Indeed it will,” comes a voice. It is most certainly female. She sounds distant. Her voice bounces from the naked walls of the warehouse in all directions, making it difficult to pinpoint her exact location. Dominic and Horacio both begin to scan the warehouse for any indication as to where this person is lurking.
“Nice of you to finally join us,” Mortimer says aloud, not focusing on any one point within the room.
“Horacio Mortimer. It’s been a long time,” she greets the Order’s architect as she emerges seemingly from a blotch of pitch black cast by a tall stack of empty crates that tower so high that they cover one of the countless broken windows which happen to be at the same side as where the sun casts its rays, themselves casting a series of shadows. “Too long, in fact. How long has it been exactly?” As she comes into view, garbed entirely in black to provide even less clarity towards her identity, Horacio stretches an arm out to his side like a barrier, signalling to Dominic not to follow in his footsteps. The Chronological Order’s founder takes a bold stride in the direction of their guest.
Or should that be hostess?
“From my recollection, it has been…” Horacio pauses to calculate only in the amount of time it takes him to draw a deep intake of breath, “…five years and thirty ones days to the day,” he affirms. How he was able recall such an exact timescale by merely consulting his watch and memories causes Dominic’s jaw to droop in disbelief ever so slightly. As the woman comes to a halt just inches away from Mortimer’s face, the two share an awkward silence which lasts ten seconds or so. They look into each other’s eyes; the windows to the soul as if allowing their spirits to embrace, yet their physical figures do not reciprocate such emotion. Horacio looks the more afflicted of the two, yet is the first to produce the welcoming gesture of extending his hand. The woman looks at it and grabs it softly; shaking it to confirm the business-like nature of this meeting. “How have you been?” he enquires aversely, as if asking only out of sheer politeness as opposed to genuine interest.
“Existing,” the woman answers with just as much enthusiasm, although boasting a slight sense of superiority. “You of all people should know the complications that we so regularly encounter.” All the while, Dominic looks at this woman with a puzzled look amongst his furrowing eyebrows. He could picture her from somewhere; a face off of the television or another media outlet? “Still,” she continues, “I suppose you are a little out of the loop given the prolonged period of time since we…” she hesitates, clearing her throat as means to refresh her sentence anew. “Since we had a necessity for the temporal vanguard’s contributions.”
“Why now though?” Horacio queries. The woman does not answer. Dominic continues to contemplate as the woman takes a few steps away from Mortimer and his question. As she comes to a stop, Dominic notices the surprise on her face as she cranks her neck back to stare upwards. Everybody knows of Dominator’s imposing height and frame, but until one experiences such a sight for themselves, the scale of one’s previous interpretations could be considered seriously underestimated. Despite their difference in size, there is no intimidation amidst her expression.
“Ruth,” the woman greets. Dominic’s ears twitch upon hearing her voice up close. “A pleasure to finally meet face-to-face.” She speaks so softly, yet there is an air of authority fusing into her words, making her last sentence insinuate that it is The Zenith who should feel indulged by her presence. Dominic remains focused on the mental conundrum he had challenged himself to solve. Putting the pieces together, he comes to conclusion.
She is a Dillinger. Phinehas’ sister.
Not only that, but her voice is eerily comparable to the voice he heard on the various telephones dotted around the Southampton area; the day that Amy accepted a marriage proposal that somebody had made on his behalf.
Immediately, his face curls. This form of trickery is akin to Horacio’s.
Dominic shakes her hand, wrapping his fingers around hers and applies a small amount of pressure, but does so slowly and methodically like a hydraulic ram that threatens to apply even more force. However, the fact of the matter is that this is Grimm’s sister. Angered or not, he daresn’t even threaten to cross any lines.
“Dominic James Atkinson,” he greets back with a glare. “I assume I have YOU to thank for my untimely wedding arrangements?” Ruth lets out a mischievous smirk momentarily, before running her hand through her hair and addressing the matter head on.
“You don’t want Amy to be your wife?” Ruth asks, feigning puzzlement. “I figured that the two of you share such closeness. Given that she might not have much time left, you would want to make her last days as happy as possible? And, supposedly, your wedding day is one of the happiest days of your life.”
“You know about that, do you?” Mortimer mutters callously under his breath. Dominic doesn’t quite believe that Mortimer would say such a thing aloud. Either Ruth did not hear Mortimer’s silenced jab or she hides the fact that she did very well.
“Uh… I mean, of course,” Dominic stammers, for some reason trying to cover for Horacio’s abrupt response. “I would have liked to have gotten down on one knee on my own terms, you know? At a time that suited me.”
“Time doesn’t suit everyone,” Ruth replies with a smile. “Does it, Mort?” she quickly seethes, her face contorts to show malcontent. Instead of correcting her, Horacio simply hangs his head. Dominic is a little stunned that he did not express displeasure at being called such a name. He hated being called ‘Mort.’ Why would Ruth of all people be able to call him it without consequence?
Maybe she DID hear him.
“Anyway,” she looks back to Dominic, suddenly producing a more welcoming and friendly smile. “It is all about commitment,” Ruth states calmly. “Loyalty is a rare commodity these days, especially in the once sacred and unbreakable bonds of matrimony. Marx has told me all about how you fought to protect her and how her estranged husband abducted your daughter right before Christmas. That must’ve been a harrowing experience for both of you, yet it has solidified the connection that you both share. You’re loyal. So why put it off any longer.” Dominic lets out a sigh. He really cannot argue with that logic.
“I guess you’re right,” he concedes.
“I KNOW I’m right,” she corrects.
“So you know Marx? Wait, don’t tell me. Let me guess, you’re the fourth Watchman or something?” Dominic concludes aloud. Ruth lets out a small chuckle under her breath; amused only by Dominic’s naivety and nothing more. Horacio’s head slowly begins to droop like a wilting flower that has been replanted into acidic soils.
“I’m afraid not,” she dismisses this claim before turning to face the ever sinking expression of Horacio. “You always HAVE been one to stretch the truth, haven’t you?” Ruth nudges Horacio with her elbow. His body wobbles and ripples as if her jab was a stone dropped into water. He stood stands rigid once again, taking a long intake of breath. Dominic mimics this action, but accompanies it with a shake of his head. Another strand of silk has just been broken in his web of lies. “The Watchmen do not solely exist for Horacio’s gain. Just because I haven’t seen Horacio for over five years doesn’t mean that I haven’t been in contact with him.”
“Is that so?” he snarls.
“Both explanations hold water,” Horacio backpedals. “The Watchmen do exist as my eyes where my eyes cannot be, however they are also responsible for relaying information to…” he cuts himself off, looking towards Ruth as if indicating that she is the one pulling strings. Dominic stares at both of them with equal distain.
“You’re telling me that two of my best friends and Amy’s brother are betraying my trust?” he anguishes, clamping his hands on the side of his head as if trying to contain the trauma from erupting volcanically. “It is difficult for me to trust anybody at all these days. How can you call me loyal to Amy when I can’t even trust HER half the time? She tried to end her own life without even opening up to me. Can you really call that loyalty?”
“Welcome to The Black Hand,” Ruth says cynically, yet somehow congratulating Dominic for reaching this conclusion on his own. Only now does it twig. “Don’t concern yourself with the lies. There are levels of deceit out there that span far beyond your own comprehension. You will understand in time.”
“Funny. Horacio has said exactly the same thing to me before,” Dominic grumbles uncertainly. Ruth cannot help but let out another chortle, even as she tries to suppress it. “Do you find it as funny as I do?” he asks with gruff sarcasm.
“I have a question for you,” Ruth smiles. “When Grimm passed you that black glove, why did you take it from him? If you are so concerned about the way that we have watched you grow as an athlete and as a human being, then why allow us to accept you into our ranks?” It was a question that Dominic had not expected. Equally, it was one that he could not answer straight away. It had hardly been a decision made in the heat of the moment. To join Grimm, the man who had played an equal part in tarnishing the reputation of Dominator, was a double-standard. The only way to approach this was honestly.
“Grimm is the only person who has proven that he is on my level, if not above,” he admits. It is true. Even with Johnny Matthews’ involvement, Grimm had managed to do what no other had accomplished since the day The Zenith placed his throne in Pure Class Wrestling. He could not be angry with Grimm, for if the shoe were on the other foot, he would have taken the advantage just as much. It was by the grace of Phinehas that Dominator had been gifted with a position within The Black Hand; a faction even more ‘notorious’ than any that have preceded it. With names such as Michael Wryght and Billy Sadistic standing side by side with Grimm, there were few that were able to even compete against.
His rage was not focused upon Grimm. It was towards Johnny Matthews.
It had always been Johnny Matthews.
The rage. It overflows. All Dominator can think about is tearing Johnny Matthews to shreds like a grizzly bear on the haphazard hunter that had encroached on its territory. Dominator’s pride had visibly been dented, but not because he had lost to Grimm, but because Johnny Matthews had stolen it from him.
This pent-up aggression and languish would be unleashed at the next available opportunity. For the sake of his mental wellbeing and to avenge his honour, he would look not just to defeat, but destroy a man who once prided himself as a warrior, now reduced to nothing more than a mere circus act. A clown. A joke.
Once again, The Zenith finds himself on a collision course with a man who he last faced, and subsequently defeated over six months ago. A span of time such as this would surely act as judge, jury and executioner when it comes to whether one sinks or swims in such environs. Hiroshi Yukio currently finds himself treading water in shark-infested seas, barely able to keep his head above the surface of relevance.
For all the strength and size that Yukio possesses, he cannot utilise it. He is a tornado that is petering out or a landslip that falls into the ocean; a disaster that does no harm. And yet, the former sumo champion might sense that the air of invincibility has been blown away by the winds of change. Yukio, and all who would follow him in facing The Zenith, would look swoop down like vultures on fresh carrion, rubbing salt into his wounds before he can lick them.
But that would not happen.
While Johnny Matthews had angered The Zenith, he had not humiliated him.
To lose to Hiroshi Yukio… THAT would be humiliating.
But for Hiroshi Yukio to eat defeat, it would be just another day at the office.
Survival can only be achieved by adapting and evolving. As such, one small loss has triggered a remarkable transformation upon stark realisation and a thirst for blood that goes unquenched. As part of The Black Hand, Dominator will continue to improve. As part of The Psycho Circus, Hiroshi Yukio will continue to fail. Perhaps he should have considered the offer made to him to join The Chronological Order all those months ago.
Instead, he refused. He sacrificed his pride to Alexa Black and the rest of the circus freaks and must therefore live with such a poor moment of judgement for the rest of his life. He could deliberate over his life choices from the hospital bed. The Zenith has already fluffed the pillow.
The judgement had been cast.
“I want… more,” Dominic grins, immediately catching the interest in Horacio as his expression grows more frenzied. “I want The Black Hand to teach me more. Make me stronger, more powerful than I have ever been.” Dominator had always had a sweet-tooth when it came to tyranny. His history boasts multiple occasions where he would overthrow certain situations and execute his own regime. It had led to many a downfall in the years that had molded him prior to meeting Horacio. True, The Chronological Order had given him a whole new lease on life and had given him a certain prowess ever since. But this is a chance to reach even greater heights! The Chronological Order AND The Black Hand combined would see Dominator reach a level that no other Pure Class Wrestling star, active or injured, living or dead, would be able to match.
“Calm yourself!” Horacio snaps violently. Dominic immediately jerks his head towards Mortimer, surprised that such a small man by comparison could produce such a boom. “I am not going to let you fall into that same trap as you have done so many times.” All of his past experiences elude him during his power trip until Horacio’s words ring true. There had been times where The Zenith had referred to himself as a ‘Self-Proclaimed God.’
Had times really changed? Is there any true difference between his former and current monikers?
Zenith: Noun. Definition: The time at which something is most powerful or most successful. Definition 2: the point in the sky or celestial sphere directly above the observer.
“I will be honest,” Ruth dishearteningly sighs, “I thought that your hunger for power had long since kerbed.” Ruth words seem to hit a lot harder than Horacio’s. Maybe it boiled down to the fact that he had heard Horacio’s scolding statements on so many occasions that it had become as second nature as the sound of a strong breeze. Dominic recoils, falling into a state of silence. Ruth simply lets out another smile. “No matter. We will soon see how dependable a commodity you will be.”
“What do you mean by that?” Horacio butts in, concern in his voice. Clearly this Ruth woman is not to be trifled with, yet he seems to be caught between a rock and a hard place when it comes to Ruth and Dominic. Ruth simply looks up at Dominic, who continues to deliriously wonder about what life within The Black Hand might entail.
“He’s very good in difficult situations,” she states her observations, “however, there are factors on the outside that are holding him back. Once we open his eyes fully, he will be able to accomplish great things. I want you to be completely honest with him from now on, Mort. No more twisting the story. He deserves to know the truth.” Mortimer looks incredibly uncertain.
“Are you sure about this?” he frowns, skeptical over the whole scenario.
“The way I see it, the only person he has been loyal to, aside from Amy, is you, Horacio.” Ruth says softly. Horacio stares into her eyes; he cannot tell if they are an azure blue or emerald green even after adjusting his spectacles. Then again, the warehouse floor is illuminated so poorly that it would be difficult to tell regardless. Ruth tilts her head out of interest as Horacio removes his spectacles and threads them between the buttons of his shirt, allowing them to hang alongside his tie.
“I’d like to propose that we discuss this matter a little more privately,” Horacio says quietly and somewhat nervously. “Over dinner, perhaps?”
This was the first instance of Ruth showing a flicker of emotion. Caught unawares by such an invitation, she hesitantly turns away and begins walking towards the shadows from which she had emerged, a frown over her face.
“Don’t you ever think that this is anything more than a business proposition, Mort,” Ruth assertively states as she begins to fade into the darkness, stopping just before she completely fades from view. A moment of awkwardness is shared amongst the trio, before the tiniest little chuckle escapes from Ruth’s mouth. “I will be in touch,” she says, far more affectionately than before. Horacio lets out the slightest of smiles before consulting his watch once again. Where Ruth was situated has now been engulfed by the shadows. Not even her footsteps are audible. With the conversation over, Dominic consults his watch.
“Suppose we’d better make a move ourselves,” Dominic insinuates that it is time to move on, yet Horacio continues to look towards the shaded corner of the warehouse that Ruth had perambulated within. “Horacio?” Dominic tries to catch Mortimer’s attention. Like a puppy who had seen its mother walk away from him, Mortimer stares wide-eyed into the depths.
“HORACIO!”
“Huh!?” Mortimer snaps out of whatever daydream he was having. He quickly looks at his watch before scurrying directly past Dominic without making eye contact in a direction opposite to the route taken by Ruth. Dominic cannot help but crack a smile at the redness in Mortimer’s face.
Perhaps their affiliation runs deeper than The Zenith had first realised.
