Post by Dominator / Mortimer on Oct 8, 2018 18:38:53 GMT -5
Time/Date: Details Unavailable.
Location: Details Unavailable.
Endless miles of nothing but woodland; one of nature’s grandest and most laborious labyrinths designed to give life and sanctuary to the billions of organisms, all creatures great and small. Disorientation can easily be found within such environs if one’s destination is not predetermined and meticulously calculated. For so many, it is a road to nowhere. To the select few though, the journey can yield riches beyond those that any pirate might plunder or any thief may squander.
Hangtown possesses an uncannily ‘autumnal’ ambience all year round, yet the arrival of ‘The Fall’ only amplifies the palette of dull oranges and browns of the location. Darkness doesn’t look quite as beautiful anywhere else. Yet there is no ‘direct road’ that leads directly towards the heart of the secretive community. For those who do not wish to spend days travelling from the nearest area of civilisation on foot, there is only one other option.
On horseback.
His steed had kicked up a maelstrom of decaying leaves and withered dust with every gaping stride of its galloping hooves. The stallion’s rest was well deserved, submerging its elongated head into a readily filled feed-sack. Upon fastening its reigns to a lone wooden rail erected for just such a purpose, Horacio looks at the sign above the building that he has travelled so wearily to arrive at.
Bad Omens.
He opens the door. A bell mounted about the doorframe chimes abruptly, appalled by his intrusion. Mortimer glares at the bell scornfully, as if it had done him wrong by sounding before slowly closing the door behind him. Why such a primitive feature is espoused upon here of all places is questionable. Yet, given the secrets that this place holds, Horacio cannot help but surrender his understanding. The floorboards creak with every step. They become more agitated the further inward he progresses, creating a decrease in Horacio’s haste. They are soon appeased by his light-footedness, even as he enters a section of the iniquitous bookstore that is guarded by nothing but a red velvet rope that is caked in dust and sign that reads ‘Restricted Area.’ The only guards on duty are the spiders in the corner whose attention are diverted by the hunger that they have been waiting patiently in their webs for so long to curb.
The security measures are breached with a simple arcing step over this otherwise impregnable barricade.
Row after row of bookcases loom over him like the trees that had watched him pass throughout his journey. Unlike every other bookshelf that he had passed prior to entering the forbidden area, the shelves are in total disarray, ransacked of their belongings that they had once held with such pride. Even those that have survived the robbery unscathed are not organised in any specific order; alphabetically, by genre or even by size. His pace therefore slows to that of a crawl, eyes darting back and forth as he rapidly scans the spines of every piece of literature before him, traversing from the left to right of the top row, before descending by one and reversing his direction, zigzagging his way through multiple shelves and the floor alike. This pattern repeats for several moments before, through sheer chance, it screeches to a grinding halt.|
“Could it be?”
Mortimer becomes fixated on the title of one particular novel that lays right at his feet. It is noticeably more ancient than the other’s; the leather of the hardback book looks cracked and emaciated, succumbing to Time like all things that age.
‘The Temporal Segregation.’
Palpitating wildly, Horacio’s heart jumps up and down with excitement. With the utmost of self-discipline, the silence of his elation manifests in the form of a simple smirk. Glancing out of the corners of his eyes in both directions, he becomes content that the coast is clear. As his knees bend, his arm outstretches as if they linked by cogs in the same mechanism.
“I figured you’d find your way back here sooner or later,” an unexpected greeting is laced with anything but warm or welcoming demeanours. Startled, Horacio quickly returns to a vertical base with his prize still in his sight, yet not in his grasp.
“I didn’t realise anybody was in here,” is his feeble attempt at explaining the situation. On the norm, Horacio’s responses would be far more convincing, even if he did happen to be lying. For some reason though, when in Ruth’s presence, his words take on the same sort of weakness as when one’s legs turn into jelly.
“You enter an open bookstore and expect nobody to be on the premises?” Ruth frowns momentarily, but it suddenly morphs into amusement. “That’s stupid, even by your standards, Horacio.”
“If you think I’m here to scour the pages of ’The Book of The Black Hand,’ you can rest assured that I am heeding your brother’s admonition presented to me on my last visit,” he says with a little more confidence. He is certain that Ruth knows what he is here for. Of course, if she thinks that Horacio is going to give her that satisfaction, she is deeply mistaken. “I’m sure there is nothing in that book that I don’t already know,” he continues. “Admittedly though, it would be nice to confirm my suspicions.” The two exchange a prolonged stare. Uncertainty fills the air, making it stagnant. Ruth crosses her arms, unimpressed by the meagreness of Horacio’s argument, despite how credible it may have sounded. With a small sigh, she shakes her head and smiles.
“I believe you,” she hums, although Horacio cannot help but remain sceptical, evident by the narrowing of his eyes. “Do you honestly think we’d keep such an artefact hidden in plain sight? That would be most foolish.” Ruth is drawn to the solitary book that had peaked Horacio’s interest prior to her intervention. “Although,” she ponders aloud, “I cannot help but think there is some sort of ulterior motive behind your visit. So tell me. Exactly why are you here?”
“This is a bookstore, is it not?” Horacio says, honesty now filling his voice. “I’m looking for a book. Books written in the days of old can provide more accurate information than anything one may find through a mere Google search. The internet contains information. Books contain secrets.”
“They do indeed,” Ruth nods in acknowledgement, “however, some secrets are best kept… well, secret. Not that you will listen. People only hear what they want to hear. So let‘s have at it. What do you want to know?” This level of openness is uncharacteristic of Ruth, a fact that Horacio notices all too quickly. Dubiously, he consults his wristwatch.
“I need to confirm the process whereby The Chronological Order separated from The Black Hand,” Mortimer provides the necessary exposition. “I have names, dates and rumours, but what I need are facts.”
“Names such as?” Ruth prompts. It is not Horacio’s intention to reveal the data he himself had unearthed so easily to Ruth, but given the requisite of her cooperation, he feels that he must comply.
“Does the name ’Doctor Melody Huygens’ mean anything to you?”
If he were to have blinked, he’d have missed the nanosecond during which Ruth’s eye’s widen, twitch and narrow all in that brief moment, yet the inflation of her chest as she draws breath merely fortifies the infamy associated with such a name.
“Doctor Melody Huygens?” she parrots nervously. “I’m familiar with the name, yes. Descendant of one Christiaan Huygens, the man credited with the invention of the pendulum clock. What about her?”
“Was she, or was she not, one of the original members of The Black Hand? Long before Phinehas’ and Sadistic’s time?”
A lump forms in her throat, which she forcefully swallows down. The advantage in this battle being waged belongs to Horacio. He knows this.
“She was,” comes the confirmation. “I see you’ve been looking at your ancestral heritage.”
“Certainly have,” Horacio smirks. To think that he was indeed a descendant of the very man who invented a device for telling time was a revelation, considering his cause. “I must admit, I am pleased that even back then, during a time where there was so much oppression against women that it was one of my own ancestors that formed the first cracks that would eventually break that trend.”
“Is this meant to appease me somehow?” Ruth grumbles.
“Of course not,” Horacio’s grin widens. “A successful business knows everything there is to know about his product,” Horacio smirks. “And while I didn’t ask to be born into such a position, I am burdened with the responsibility of keeping Doctor Huygens’ legacy alive.”
“So now you know the truth.”
“That Doctor Melody Huygens was the true founder of The Chronological Order?” Mortimer smirks.
“Yes.”
“Well I do now,” comes a wave of conquest. Ruth immediately smacks her forehead, the fortuitousness of her blunt answer gifts Horacio with even more ammunition; further insight into The Chronological Order’s origins. Rather than linger on this shortcoming, Ruth recomposes herself. She stares at Horacio with contempt for a brief moment, but comes to appreciate the dedication and discipline that Mortimer had set for himself in order to find the resolution he so craves.
“How did you come to learn of this?” she asks, her question born of genuine interest as opposed to her defeat.
“I had plenty of time to trial with my theorem during my hospitalisation,” Mortimer responds triumphantly, referring to his injured state consequent of a horrific attack perpetrated by Johnny Matthews, a event that felt as though it had taken place more months ago than what had actually passed. “There was only so much I could research before I could confirm what I had thought, of course. Documentation of the halcyon years of The Chronological Order’s existence are hard to come by, you know.”
“And so here you are,” Ruth hums whimsically, “skulking around Bad Omens like a black cat using the shadows as camouflage in the hope of concealing its own presence. Stealthily.” She steps to Horacio slowly and unintentionally sultrily. “Gracefully.” Ruth feels Horacio attempt to stifle his own deep breath born from sudden arousal. “Silently.” She is now so close to Horacio that her breath that strokes the skin of his neck.
Self-restraint confidently taking hold, Horacio stands rigidly, refusing to make eye contact. Noticing his discomfort, she steps back. This relationship was purely for business and nothing more, no matter how much Horacio thought it could ever be something more.
“You need something from me,” Ruth smiles, snapping Mortimer out of his illusion. “I can tell. You wouldn’t just come here blindly after my brother’s warning. He told me you asked for me. There’s obviously something you need from me. Something more than confirmation of a name.”
“Nothing gets past you, does it?” Mortimer chuckles. “It wouldn’t surprise me if you gave up the information on Doctor Huygens on purpose.” This prompts a stifled giggle from Dillinger.
“You got me,” she admits. “So let me guess. Dominic?”
“Indeed.”
“He’s certainly not the same man anymore.”
The cryptic nature of Ruth’s statement mirrors that normally adopted by Mortimer himself. It could be misconstrued in a number of different interpretations.
“I’m growing concerned for his wellbeing,” Mortimer’s expression swiftly becomes something much more serious; an indication for Ruth that he is unlikely to accept her advancements. As such, she takes a step back. “I haven’t seen him since the funeral,” Horacio begins to explain his recollection of the series of events leading to his disappearance. “I figured that, once the dust had settled, he would be eager to continue his duties as part of The Chronological Order.”
“Duties? What sort of ‘duties’ might a man who worships time as if it were a deity have to fulfil?”
“Any product requires promotion and advertising,” the businessman in Horacio begins to shine through once more.
“Dominic is not a salesman, Horacio. He is a natural-born fighter,” comes Ruth’s own hypothesis. “To me, a man of his stature can be used for only one purpose; as an intimidation tactic.”
“It works.”
“Does it?” she huffs, folding her arms apathetically. “If you spent as much time researching Dominic’s history as opposed to your own family tree, you would realise that Dominic is so much more than your hired muscle. He doesn’t need you or your Watchmen looking over his every move. There are for more superior ways of utilising his time as well as your own rather than monitoring and dictating his every move. Maybe that is why he has become more and more distant from you these past few weeks. He already knows how selfish you are when it comes to making The Chronological Order recognised globally.”
“I prefer the word ‘cutthroat’ over ‘selfish,’ Ruth,” Horacio replies callously.
“Humanity can only grow when a man plants a tree knowing that he will never sit in its shade,” she purrs. “What would you do if The Chronological Order does obtain the recognition that you desire oh-so very much?
“He needed the necessary time to mourn, of course,” Horacio dodges the question presented to him, “but now there is nothing stopping him from becoming his namesake again; a literal Dominator.”
“He was ‘a Dominator’ long before you entered his life,” comes the counter-argument from Ruth. “He has held championships all over the world. He has run federations. He knows his industry inside and out, whereas you have little interest in the actual world of ‘wrestling.’ To include him in your quest to expand The Chronological Order is like using a whole electrical plant to power one solitary light bulb. His potential spans greater than The Chronological Order. Phinehas saw this in him.”
She smirks suddenly.
“And besides, Dominator has more right to be a part of The Black Hand than you realise.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“I’ve already given you enough information for one day,” she beams, a little bit of her pride now restored. “You must realise though, Dominator is now as much as part of The Black Hand as he is The Chronological Order. The sooner you get this fact through that thick skull of yours, the sooner we might actually see some progression in our relationship. Business or otherwise.” She smiles suggestively, but it is immediately shot down by the barrel of the gun that are Horacio’s eyes, which Ruth stares straight into.
“I helped him rediscover who he truly is,” Horacio argues with intensity gleaming at the tips of said ‘barrels.’ “He sees things now in a different light. While he was already extraordinary, it was the teachings that The Chronological Order adhere to that placed on a far more manageable pedestal than the one that he had built for himself that was destined to crumble without my intervention. He once thought that he had transcended all of humankind and existed on some form of godly plain. But now he sees the world to for what it is. His mortality has been restored. I made him a man again.”
Apparently, this clarity does not sit well with Ruth at all.
“We don’t need a man. What we need is a monster.”
Her retaliation is infused with such venom that if words were capable of infiltrating the human bloodstream, they would kill.
With his attention diverted, Ruth creeps behind a bookcase in an aisle adjacent to the one that Mortimer has navigated. She reaches for one particular book. Third from the right on the second to bottom shelf. She levers the book free, pulling it from the top of it’s spine. As she does so, there is a loud and heavy clunk from nearby. Seconds later, Horacio pokes his head around the corner, unfazed by Ruth’s absence until such a harrowing sound fills the library.
“I will show you,” Ruth says with a warningly malevolent smirk disguised as one of satisfaction, “but you know what curiosity can do to cats, right?” Horacio is unmoved. Defiant to her threat, he follows her a short distance down the aisle. One particular bookcase appears out of line with the rest of the row, one corner protruding into the passageway ever so slightly. Ruth wraps her fingers around the corner of the offending bookcase and, with an almighty heave, pulls the entire shelving unit with a surprising level of ease.
“A hidden door?” the realisation appears on Mortimer’s face, yet he is truly uncertain as to what treasures may lie within. A sudden feeling of dread consumes him. Could it be that he has bitten off more than he could chew by being here? Unlike Phinehas, who would more than likely have ripped his head clean off his shoulders by now, Ruth had at least something more of a ‘compassionate’ disposition in his company.
“Right this way, Kitty.”
They descend a spiral staircase whose steps are comprised of large shimmering stones. The deeper they descend, the more strenuous becomes the task of light to penetrate such a depth. Yet where the light grows weaker, sound grows stronger… an unusual mumbling like the insufferable buzzing of a thousand flies‘ wings beating in unison. Arriving at a pair of thick wooden doors, Ruth reaches into her pocket and withdraws an oversized rusted key, slotting it into an equally faded padlock securing the doors closes.
With a twist of her hand, the padlock drops. Access has been granted.
The hinges scream in agony as the double-doors open inwards. The sounds understandably grows louder, yet seems to be no more coherent than before. It is the sound of human voices, but yet they seem to be making random noises rather than forming physically syllables of words. A long corridor stretches before them, the dirt and grime that cover the dank walls seem to have settled in place for centuries. Ahead of them, a dimly-lit chamber awaits them.
Horacio is stunned by what he sees upon reaching the hollow vestibule.
Rows of hooded, faceless druids line the perimeter of the circular room, chanting incantations in a language that has been lost to Time. Each hold a stake diagonally. Flames burn fiercely and brilliantly at their apex. With every passing second of radiance, they are inevitably growing weaker, succumbing to time like all things do. Even the rust on the key that Ruth returns to the safety of her pocket is evidence of time’s erosion, despite it functioning just as well as it had on the day it was crafted. The roof is this dome-like room is so high that the recital of the druids’ invocation echo eerily through the room, making their words sound never-ending.
“Anybody who tells you that there is no such thing as ‘monsters’ are either blindly naïve or compulsively lying,” Ruth whispers, content with the aghast gawp of Mortimer’s hinged mouth. “While they might not be hiding under your bed or living in your closet, they most certainly do exist. They are pre-programmed at birth for wanton destruction, but not all destruction has to be mindless. The greatest monsters of all are cerebral in their approach.”
A pointing finger at the end of an outstretched arm indicates the personification of her claims. Sat on a stone pedestal, perhaps even an altar, in the most central part of the room, the bare skin of a towering figure’s back is laced with sweat and blood. The reflections of the flames give the behemoth a dangerous orange hue. He sits cross-legged, his hands clasped together out of view of Horacio and Ruth, perfectly motionless and pristinely silent.
“He’s here,” Horacio gasps.
Surrounding him, bodies of unconscious druids lay at his feet, their burning stakes had been reclaimed by replacements that had stepped through another opening on the opposite side of the room from where Ruth and Horacio stand.
“Watch,” Ruth hisses once again. To their immediate left, one of the druids slowly steps into the circle, creeping like a lion ready to pounce on an unsuspecting impala. They slowly draw back their burning staff, stepping silently around the pedestal on which his target sits in a meditative state. Slowly awakening from his trance, The Zenith’s body subtly twists as if his skin detects the change of heat in the air given off by the roaring flame at the end of the druid’s staff, pivoting slowly around the pedestal. As The Temporal King comes to face Horacio and Ruth, the leader of The Chronological Order notices a blindfold that completely impedes the sense of sight. On top of this, his legs are shackled in chains, prohibiting their use. Only his arms are free to do as they please. The chains jangle as he lowers himself from the plinth, standing upright and listening carefully, trying to detect any sort of movement over the loud chants of the druids.
Without warning, a second druid from the perimeter circle propels himself into the fray, winding his staff back behind his head. When stood in an ample position, he swings the head of his staff directly towards the back of The Zenith’s skull.
With a reaction as fast as a lightning strike, Dominator’s forearm oscillates to one side, clasping the staff in his hand before wrenching the druid, whose grip remains on the stick, directly in front of him. The druid freezes out of fear, not even able to flinch as The Temporal King’s cranium impacts against his forehead, knocking him down onto the ground. Dominator keeps the staff in his possession, swinging it backwards so that the bottom point of the staff pierces the first druid in the gut. With both druids down and writhing in pain, Dominator leaps onto his plinth, double-footedly, standing triumphantly over his prey.
“Desist!” Ruth shouts. The druids immediately fall silent. Those that had been grounded who are still conscious enough to hear her, and are still capable of movement, regroup and return to the outer circle, even if they have to drag themselves across the floor in order to get there. Dominator reaches around the back of his head and rips the knot out of the blindfold.
Enraged red eyes glare back at Ruth and Horacio, bloodthirstily, yet to be quenched nor satisfied. They focus on Mortimer. He goes to take step towards Horacio, but he is restricted by the chains. He reaches down with one arm and grabs a handful of links, putting tension on the shackles surrounding his ankles and grimaces as he yanks on the chain once, twice, thrice, quince… before the fifth attempt is finally enough to shatter one of the links. Where the shackles had buried into his ankles, blood begins to seep from the fresh wounds. This does not phase The Temporal King in the slightest. Instead, he strides straight towards Horacio, only for Ruth to stand between the two.
Who know what sick intention Dominator may have had for the man he deemed to have oppressed him for so long?
Horacio had not even entertained the idea that Dominator may have travelled to Hangtown in search of his own answers. Evidently, the toll of losing his wife-to-be had been a strain that Mortimer could not fathom. The viciousness of the attack, despite how short it was, made Horacio realise that this man… this monster was not the same being that he had been able to keep under his control. This was a raw animal living off of nothing but instinct alone.
“Are these the works of The Black Hand?” Mortimer spits in disgust at such a bloody spectacle. “If that is the case, I feel that the conflict in our interest spans far greater than I first envisioned.”
“On the contrary,” Ruth smirks. “This was orchestrated solely by The Zenith himself. Isn’t that right?”
The aforementioned individual nods. Not out of obligatory compliance, but out of truth.
“What have you been doing down here all this time?” Mortimer queries. His analogy of ‘all this time’ could depict days.
In actuality, it had been weeks.
“I have cleansed myself in Time,” Dominator breathes deeply and purposefully. “I have bathed in the tranquillity of it’s waters. Maybe that’s why it is sometimes referred to as ’the time stream.’ Do you not think?” Impressed by this development, Horacio begins to rub his hands together. Such efficaciousness in Ruth’s methods of ‘training,’ Dominic has somehow come into the possession of the exact mindset that Horacio had tried to teach him for more than a year now.
“That‘s… impressive,” Horacio delivers this statement to simultaneously congratulate Ruth on her tuition methods and Dominic for his progress. Trepidation in his throat as he slowly worms his way past Ruth, coming face to face with his protégé with nothing standing between them. “Who are these people?” he says, noticing the druids vacating the room in a synchronised ‘two-by-two’ format. The most basic questions fill Horacio’s mind. Who? What? Where? Why? When? How?
The Zenith closes his eyes and flashes a wicked grin.
“That is none of your concern.”
His voice is somehow different from the times which Mortimer could recall. The closest resemblance he could hark back to were instances where Dominator had been consumed by the purest of rage; a deep, bitter, yet raspy boom. These qualities still exist, yet the sentiments of anger are non-existent in his voice, even though it is written all over his face. His voice is unnervingly calm; almost evil.
“Dominic…” Horacio motions to address him. Before he can elaborate any further, a snarl ruptures from the very pit of The Zenith’s stomach.
“Do not refer to me by that name,” he fumes. “I am the man known as Dominator. Dominic is nothing more than an empty husk left behind by the emergence of a greater being.”
Horacio looks towards Ruth.
“What have you done?” he mouths to her. Maintain the air of mystique that accompanies her wherever she goes, Ruth shakes her head as if to protest, but not to discount.
“My feelings towards Amy made me weak,” admits The Suzerain Of Time unapologetically, more angered that an emotion such as love had dictated his state of mind for so an elongated period of time. “There is so much more to life than people and possessions. Time is something that is belongs to everybody, even those who have nothing else. It is how one is able to tame Time itself that defines us. We lose as much to time as we do to death. And regret for time wasted is wasted time in itself.” His words are polished with a tongue that gleams with silver, oozing abrasiveness born from his own self-confidence. Horacio, on the other hand, feels it necessary to pull in the reigns on that which he had his hand in creating, intentionally or not.
“It is high time that we returned to the outside world. Away from Hangtown.” He motions with his arm to permit The Zenith to lead him back to civilisation. Dominator refuses to move. “Please do not make this any harder me than it has to be,” he pleads. “We have come too far for all of our hard work to come undone. I have invested a great amount of time in moulding you into The Chronological Order’s greatest asset.”
“And I thank you for the time you have invested in me,” Dominator says, sarcasm is drowned out by loathing, “but I am done being your puppet.”
It is at that precise moment, upon the completion of his statement, that Dominator’s hand bolts forward, snatching Horacio by the throat. Mortimer’s eyes broaden wider than they had ever been before in his life. His airway is crushed, his respiratory system compromised by the pressure of Dominator’s fingers alone.
“Please!” Mortimer croaks desperately.
“I warned you,” Dominator booms with the same level of calm even accompanied by such aggressive actions. “All the lies, all the secrets, all the games… they are over now.”
This. This is what Dominator lives for. The feeling of a crushed larynx behind his fingertips. The proof that his own strength is capable of turning another man’s face a deathly shade of purple. The look of fear and the clairvoyant sensation of hopelessness coursing through his victim’s veins…
It is what makes him so notorious.
It is what makes him so dominant.
It is what makes him so deadly.
Remorsefully, his grip is voluntarily loosened. Horacio drops to the floor, spluttering for breath as he buries his head into his arms. This is resultant of the disapproving look that he receives from Ruth. As deliberate as this act of mercy may have been, that does not mean he was any less reluctant. Yet he can at least thank Horacio for learning his same level of understanding even when seemingly blinded by rage. Perhaps that is the greatest lesson of all that he has learned as part of his training.
“Despite all of the pain that you have caused, you are still too valuable for me to dismiss,” Dominator explains the notions behind his compassion… or pity. “Life and Death. Creation and Destruction. They are mere milestones throughout the passage of Time. The more I learn from you, the greater my understanding will become.” Before Mortimer has a chance to pick himself up off the ground, The Zenith snatches his collar and hauls him upwards, dangling him like a piece of butchered meat in an abattoir. “From now on, we’re doing things my way, not yours. Understood.”
Mortimer responds with a hurried, trembling nod of his head.
This is sufficient enough for Dominator, who simply releases his grip, dropping Horacio to the ground. He crumples in a heap at his new master’s feet. Dominator looks towards Ruth, who offers him nothing more than a shrug. With his muscles still bulging and sweat continuing to drip from his brow, The Temporal King motions to take his leave, but not before peering over his shoulder towards Phinehas’ sister.
That same wicked grin still etched on his face.
“I am ready to reach my own zenith.”
Location: Details Unavailable.
Endless miles of nothing but woodland; one of nature’s grandest and most laborious labyrinths designed to give life and sanctuary to the billions of organisms, all creatures great and small. Disorientation can easily be found within such environs if one’s destination is not predetermined and meticulously calculated. For so many, it is a road to nowhere. To the select few though, the journey can yield riches beyond those that any pirate might plunder or any thief may squander.
Hangtown possesses an uncannily ‘autumnal’ ambience all year round, yet the arrival of ‘The Fall’ only amplifies the palette of dull oranges and browns of the location. Darkness doesn’t look quite as beautiful anywhere else. Yet there is no ‘direct road’ that leads directly towards the heart of the secretive community. For those who do not wish to spend days travelling from the nearest area of civilisation on foot, there is only one other option.
On horseback.
His steed had kicked up a maelstrom of decaying leaves and withered dust with every gaping stride of its galloping hooves. The stallion’s rest was well deserved, submerging its elongated head into a readily filled feed-sack. Upon fastening its reigns to a lone wooden rail erected for just such a purpose, Horacio looks at the sign above the building that he has travelled so wearily to arrive at.
Bad Omens.
He opens the door. A bell mounted about the doorframe chimes abruptly, appalled by his intrusion. Mortimer glares at the bell scornfully, as if it had done him wrong by sounding before slowly closing the door behind him. Why such a primitive feature is espoused upon here of all places is questionable. Yet, given the secrets that this place holds, Horacio cannot help but surrender his understanding. The floorboards creak with every step. They become more agitated the further inward he progresses, creating a decrease in Horacio’s haste. They are soon appeased by his light-footedness, even as he enters a section of the iniquitous bookstore that is guarded by nothing but a red velvet rope that is caked in dust and sign that reads ‘Restricted Area.’ The only guards on duty are the spiders in the corner whose attention are diverted by the hunger that they have been waiting patiently in their webs for so long to curb.
The security measures are breached with a simple arcing step over this otherwise impregnable barricade.
Row after row of bookcases loom over him like the trees that had watched him pass throughout his journey. Unlike every other bookshelf that he had passed prior to entering the forbidden area, the shelves are in total disarray, ransacked of their belongings that they had once held with such pride. Even those that have survived the robbery unscathed are not organised in any specific order; alphabetically, by genre or even by size. His pace therefore slows to that of a crawl, eyes darting back and forth as he rapidly scans the spines of every piece of literature before him, traversing from the left to right of the top row, before descending by one and reversing his direction, zigzagging his way through multiple shelves and the floor alike. This pattern repeats for several moments before, through sheer chance, it screeches to a grinding halt.|
“Could it be?”
Mortimer becomes fixated on the title of one particular novel that lays right at his feet. It is noticeably more ancient than the other’s; the leather of the hardback book looks cracked and emaciated, succumbing to Time like all things that age.
‘The Temporal Segregation.’
Palpitating wildly, Horacio’s heart jumps up and down with excitement. With the utmost of self-discipline, the silence of his elation manifests in the form of a simple smirk. Glancing out of the corners of his eyes in both directions, he becomes content that the coast is clear. As his knees bend, his arm outstretches as if they linked by cogs in the same mechanism.
“I figured you’d find your way back here sooner or later,” an unexpected greeting is laced with anything but warm or welcoming demeanours. Startled, Horacio quickly returns to a vertical base with his prize still in his sight, yet not in his grasp.
“I didn’t realise anybody was in here,” is his feeble attempt at explaining the situation. On the norm, Horacio’s responses would be far more convincing, even if he did happen to be lying. For some reason though, when in Ruth’s presence, his words take on the same sort of weakness as when one’s legs turn into jelly.
“You enter an open bookstore and expect nobody to be on the premises?” Ruth frowns momentarily, but it suddenly morphs into amusement. “That’s stupid, even by your standards, Horacio.”
“If you think I’m here to scour the pages of ’The Book of The Black Hand,’ you can rest assured that I am heeding your brother’s admonition presented to me on my last visit,” he says with a little more confidence. He is certain that Ruth knows what he is here for. Of course, if she thinks that Horacio is going to give her that satisfaction, she is deeply mistaken. “I’m sure there is nothing in that book that I don’t already know,” he continues. “Admittedly though, it would be nice to confirm my suspicions.” The two exchange a prolonged stare. Uncertainty fills the air, making it stagnant. Ruth crosses her arms, unimpressed by the meagreness of Horacio’s argument, despite how credible it may have sounded. With a small sigh, she shakes her head and smiles.
“I believe you,” she hums, although Horacio cannot help but remain sceptical, evident by the narrowing of his eyes. “Do you honestly think we’d keep such an artefact hidden in plain sight? That would be most foolish.” Ruth is drawn to the solitary book that had peaked Horacio’s interest prior to her intervention. “Although,” she ponders aloud, “I cannot help but think there is some sort of ulterior motive behind your visit. So tell me. Exactly why are you here?”
“This is a bookstore, is it not?” Horacio says, honesty now filling his voice. “I’m looking for a book. Books written in the days of old can provide more accurate information than anything one may find through a mere Google search. The internet contains information. Books contain secrets.”
“They do indeed,” Ruth nods in acknowledgement, “however, some secrets are best kept… well, secret. Not that you will listen. People only hear what they want to hear. So let‘s have at it. What do you want to know?” This level of openness is uncharacteristic of Ruth, a fact that Horacio notices all too quickly. Dubiously, he consults his wristwatch.
“I need to confirm the process whereby The Chronological Order separated from The Black Hand,” Mortimer provides the necessary exposition. “I have names, dates and rumours, but what I need are facts.”
“Names such as?” Ruth prompts. It is not Horacio’s intention to reveal the data he himself had unearthed so easily to Ruth, but given the requisite of her cooperation, he feels that he must comply.
“Does the name ’Doctor Melody Huygens’ mean anything to you?”
If he were to have blinked, he’d have missed the nanosecond during which Ruth’s eye’s widen, twitch and narrow all in that brief moment, yet the inflation of her chest as she draws breath merely fortifies the infamy associated with such a name.
“Doctor Melody Huygens?” she parrots nervously. “I’m familiar with the name, yes. Descendant of one Christiaan Huygens, the man credited with the invention of the pendulum clock. What about her?”
“Was she, or was she not, one of the original members of The Black Hand? Long before Phinehas’ and Sadistic’s time?”
A lump forms in her throat, which she forcefully swallows down. The advantage in this battle being waged belongs to Horacio. He knows this.
“She was,” comes the confirmation. “I see you’ve been looking at your ancestral heritage.”
“Certainly have,” Horacio smirks. To think that he was indeed a descendant of the very man who invented a device for telling time was a revelation, considering his cause. “I must admit, I am pleased that even back then, during a time where there was so much oppression against women that it was one of my own ancestors that formed the first cracks that would eventually break that trend.”
“Is this meant to appease me somehow?” Ruth grumbles.
“Of course not,” Horacio’s grin widens. “A successful business knows everything there is to know about his product,” Horacio smirks. “And while I didn’t ask to be born into such a position, I am burdened with the responsibility of keeping Doctor Huygens’ legacy alive.”
“So now you know the truth.”
“That Doctor Melody Huygens was the true founder of The Chronological Order?” Mortimer smirks.
“Yes.”
“Well I do now,” comes a wave of conquest. Ruth immediately smacks her forehead, the fortuitousness of her blunt answer gifts Horacio with even more ammunition; further insight into The Chronological Order’s origins. Rather than linger on this shortcoming, Ruth recomposes herself. She stares at Horacio with contempt for a brief moment, but comes to appreciate the dedication and discipline that Mortimer had set for himself in order to find the resolution he so craves.
“How did you come to learn of this?” she asks, her question born of genuine interest as opposed to her defeat.
“I had plenty of time to trial with my theorem during my hospitalisation,” Mortimer responds triumphantly, referring to his injured state consequent of a horrific attack perpetrated by Johnny Matthews, a event that felt as though it had taken place more months ago than what had actually passed. “There was only so much I could research before I could confirm what I had thought, of course. Documentation of the halcyon years of The Chronological Order’s existence are hard to come by, you know.”
“And so here you are,” Ruth hums whimsically, “skulking around Bad Omens like a black cat using the shadows as camouflage in the hope of concealing its own presence. Stealthily.” She steps to Horacio slowly and unintentionally sultrily. “Gracefully.” Ruth feels Horacio attempt to stifle his own deep breath born from sudden arousal. “Silently.” She is now so close to Horacio that her breath that strokes the skin of his neck.
Self-restraint confidently taking hold, Horacio stands rigidly, refusing to make eye contact. Noticing his discomfort, she steps back. This relationship was purely for business and nothing more, no matter how much Horacio thought it could ever be something more.
“You need something from me,” Ruth smiles, snapping Mortimer out of his illusion. “I can tell. You wouldn’t just come here blindly after my brother’s warning. He told me you asked for me. There’s obviously something you need from me. Something more than confirmation of a name.”
“Nothing gets past you, does it?” Mortimer chuckles. “It wouldn’t surprise me if you gave up the information on Doctor Huygens on purpose.” This prompts a stifled giggle from Dillinger.
“You got me,” she admits. “So let me guess. Dominic?”
“Indeed.”
“He’s certainly not the same man anymore.”
The cryptic nature of Ruth’s statement mirrors that normally adopted by Mortimer himself. It could be misconstrued in a number of different interpretations.
“I’m growing concerned for his wellbeing,” Mortimer’s expression swiftly becomes something much more serious; an indication for Ruth that he is unlikely to accept her advancements. As such, she takes a step back. “I haven’t seen him since the funeral,” Horacio begins to explain his recollection of the series of events leading to his disappearance. “I figured that, once the dust had settled, he would be eager to continue his duties as part of The Chronological Order.”
“Duties? What sort of ‘duties’ might a man who worships time as if it were a deity have to fulfil?”
“Any product requires promotion and advertising,” the businessman in Horacio begins to shine through once more.
“Dominic is not a salesman, Horacio. He is a natural-born fighter,” comes Ruth’s own hypothesis. “To me, a man of his stature can be used for only one purpose; as an intimidation tactic.”
“It works.”
“Does it?” she huffs, folding her arms apathetically. “If you spent as much time researching Dominic’s history as opposed to your own family tree, you would realise that Dominic is so much more than your hired muscle. He doesn’t need you or your Watchmen looking over his every move. There are for more superior ways of utilising his time as well as your own rather than monitoring and dictating his every move. Maybe that is why he has become more and more distant from you these past few weeks. He already knows how selfish you are when it comes to making The Chronological Order recognised globally.”
“I prefer the word ‘cutthroat’ over ‘selfish,’ Ruth,” Horacio replies callously.
“Humanity can only grow when a man plants a tree knowing that he will never sit in its shade,” she purrs. “What would you do if The Chronological Order does obtain the recognition that you desire oh-so very much?
“He needed the necessary time to mourn, of course,” Horacio dodges the question presented to him, “but now there is nothing stopping him from becoming his namesake again; a literal Dominator.”
“He was ‘a Dominator’ long before you entered his life,” comes the counter-argument from Ruth. “He has held championships all over the world. He has run federations. He knows his industry inside and out, whereas you have little interest in the actual world of ‘wrestling.’ To include him in your quest to expand The Chronological Order is like using a whole electrical plant to power one solitary light bulb. His potential spans greater than The Chronological Order. Phinehas saw this in him.”
She smirks suddenly.
“And besides, Dominator has more right to be a part of The Black Hand than you realise.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“I’ve already given you enough information for one day,” she beams, a little bit of her pride now restored. “You must realise though, Dominator is now as much as part of The Black Hand as he is The Chronological Order. The sooner you get this fact through that thick skull of yours, the sooner we might actually see some progression in our relationship. Business or otherwise.” She smiles suggestively, but it is immediately shot down by the barrel of the gun that are Horacio’s eyes, which Ruth stares straight into.
“I helped him rediscover who he truly is,” Horacio argues with intensity gleaming at the tips of said ‘barrels.’ “He sees things now in a different light. While he was already extraordinary, it was the teachings that The Chronological Order adhere to that placed on a far more manageable pedestal than the one that he had built for himself that was destined to crumble without my intervention. He once thought that he had transcended all of humankind and existed on some form of godly plain. But now he sees the world to for what it is. His mortality has been restored. I made him a man again.”
Apparently, this clarity does not sit well with Ruth at all.
“We don’t need a man. What we need is a monster.”
Her retaliation is infused with such venom that if words were capable of infiltrating the human bloodstream, they would kill.
With his attention diverted, Ruth creeps behind a bookcase in an aisle adjacent to the one that Mortimer has navigated. She reaches for one particular book. Third from the right on the second to bottom shelf. She levers the book free, pulling it from the top of it’s spine. As she does so, there is a loud and heavy clunk from nearby. Seconds later, Horacio pokes his head around the corner, unfazed by Ruth’s absence until such a harrowing sound fills the library.
“I will show you,” Ruth says with a warningly malevolent smirk disguised as one of satisfaction, “but you know what curiosity can do to cats, right?” Horacio is unmoved. Defiant to her threat, he follows her a short distance down the aisle. One particular bookcase appears out of line with the rest of the row, one corner protruding into the passageway ever so slightly. Ruth wraps her fingers around the corner of the offending bookcase and, with an almighty heave, pulls the entire shelving unit with a surprising level of ease.
“A hidden door?” the realisation appears on Mortimer’s face, yet he is truly uncertain as to what treasures may lie within. A sudden feeling of dread consumes him. Could it be that he has bitten off more than he could chew by being here? Unlike Phinehas, who would more than likely have ripped his head clean off his shoulders by now, Ruth had at least something more of a ‘compassionate’ disposition in his company.
“Right this way, Kitty.”
They descend a spiral staircase whose steps are comprised of large shimmering stones. The deeper they descend, the more strenuous becomes the task of light to penetrate such a depth. Yet where the light grows weaker, sound grows stronger… an unusual mumbling like the insufferable buzzing of a thousand flies‘ wings beating in unison. Arriving at a pair of thick wooden doors, Ruth reaches into her pocket and withdraws an oversized rusted key, slotting it into an equally faded padlock securing the doors closes.
With a twist of her hand, the padlock drops. Access has been granted.
The hinges scream in agony as the double-doors open inwards. The sounds understandably grows louder, yet seems to be no more coherent than before. It is the sound of human voices, but yet they seem to be making random noises rather than forming physically syllables of words. A long corridor stretches before them, the dirt and grime that cover the dank walls seem to have settled in place for centuries. Ahead of them, a dimly-lit chamber awaits them.
Horacio is stunned by what he sees upon reaching the hollow vestibule.
Rows of hooded, faceless druids line the perimeter of the circular room, chanting incantations in a language that has been lost to Time. Each hold a stake diagonally. Flames burn fiercely and brilliantly at their apex. With every passing second of radiance, they are inevitably growing weaker, succumbing to time like all things do. Even the rust on the key that Ruth returns to the safety of her pocket is evidence of time’s erosion, despite it functioning just as well as it had on the day it was crafted. The roof is this dome-like room is so high that the recital of the druids’ invocation echo eerily through the room, making their words sound never-ending.
“Anybody who tells you that there is no such thing as ‘monsters’ are either blindly naïve or compulsively lying,” Ruth whispers, content with the aghast gawp of Mortimer’s hinged mouth. “While they might not be hiding under your bed or living in your closet, they most certainly do exist. They are pre-programmed at birth for wanton destruction, but not all destruction has to be mindless. The greatest monsters of all are cerebral in their approach.”
A pointing finger at the end of an outstretched arm indicates the personification of her claims. Sat on a stone pedestal, perhaps even an altar, in the most central part of the room, the bare skin of a towering figure’s back is laced with sweat and blood. The reflections of the flames give the behemoth a dangerous orange hue. He sits cross-legged, his hands clasped together out of view of Horacio and Ruth, perfectly motionless and pristinely silent.
“He’s here,” Horacio gasps.
Surrounding him, bodies of unconscious druids lay at his feet, their burning stakes had been reclaimed by replacements that had stepped through another opening on the opposite side of the room from where Ruth and Horacio stand.
“Watch,” Ruth hisses once again. To their immediate left, one of the druids slowly steps into the circle, creeping like a lion ready to pounce on an unsuspecting impala. They slowly draw back their burning staff, stepping silently around the pedestal on which his target sits in a meditative state. Slowly awakening from his trance, The Zenith’s body subtly twists as if his skin detects the change of heat in the air given off by the roaring flame at the end of the druid’s staff, pivoting slowly around the pedestal. As The Temporal King comes to face Horacio and Ruth, the leader of The Chronological Order notices a blindfold that completely impedes the sense of sight. On top of this, his legs are shackled in chains, prohibiting their use. Only his arms are free to do as they please. The chains jangle as he lowers himself from the plinth, standing upright and listening carefully, trying to detect any sort of movement over the loud chants of the druids.
Without warning, a second druid from the perimeter circle propels himself into the fray, winding his staff back behind his head. When stood in an ample position, he swings the head of his staff directly towards the back of The Zenith’s skull.
With a reaction as fast as a lightning strike, Dominator’s forearm oscillates to one side, clasping the staff in his hand before wrenching the druid, whose grip remains on the stick, directly in front of him. The druid freezes out of fear, not even able to flinch as The Temporal King’s cranium impacts against his forehead, knocking him down onto the ground. Dominator keeps the staff in his possession, swinging it backwards so that the bottom point of the staff pierces the first druid in the gut. With both druids down and writhing in pain, Dominator leaps onto his plinth, double-footedly, standing triumphantly over his prey.
“Desist!” Ruth shouts. The druids immediately fall silent. Those that had been grounded who are still conscious enough to hear her, and are still capable of movement, regroup and return to the outer circle, even if they have to drag themselves across the floor in order to get there. Dominator reaches around the back of his head and rips the knot out of the blindfold.
Enraged red eyes glare back at Ruth and Horacio, bloodthirstily, yet to be quenched nor satisfied. They focus on Mortimer. He goes to take step towards Horacio, but he is restricted by the chains. He reaches down with one arm and grabs a handful of links, putting tension on the shackles surrounding his ankles and grimaces as he yanks on the chain once, twice, thrice, quince… before the fifth attempt is finally enough to shatter one of the links. Where the shackles had buried into his ankles, blood begins to seep from the fresh wounds. This does not phase The Temporal King in the slightest. Instead, he strides straight towards Horacio, only for Ruth to stand between the two.
Who know what sick intention Dominator may have had for the man he deemed to have oppressed him for so long?
Horacio had not even entertained the idea that Dominator may have travelled to Hangtown in search of his own answers. Evidently, the toll of losing his wife-to-be had been a strain that Mortimer could not fathom. The viciousness of the attack, despite how short it was, made Horacio realise that this man… this monster was not the same being that he had been able to keep under his control. This was a raw animal living off of nothing but instinct alone.
“Are these the works of The Black Hand?” Mortimer spits in disgust at such a bloody spectacle. “If that is the case, I feel that the conflict in our interest spans far greater than I first envisioned.”
“On the contrary,” Ruth smirks. “This was orchestrated solely by The Zenith himself. Isn’t that right?”
The aforementioned individual nods. Not out of obligatory compliance, but out of truth.
“What have you been doing down here all this time?” Mortimer queries. His analogy of ‘all this time’ could depict days.
In actuality, it had been weeks.
“I have cleansed myself in Time,” Dominator breathes deeply and purposefully. “I have bathed in the tranquillity of it’s waters. Maybe that’s why it is sometimes referred to as ’the time stream.’ Do you not think?” Impressed by this development, Horacio begins to rub his hands together. Such efficaciousness in Ruth’s methods of ‘training,’ Dominic has somehow come into the possession of the exact mindset that Horacio had tried to teach him for more than a year now.
“That‘s… impressive,” Horacio delivers this statement to simultaneously congratulate Ruth on her tuition methods and Dominic for his progress. Trepidation in his throat as he slowly worms his way past Ruth, coming face to face with his protégé with nothing standing between them. “Who are these people?” he says, noticing the druids vacating the room in a synchronised ‘two-by-two’ format. The most basic questions fill Horacio’s mind. Who? What? Where? Why? When? How?
The Zenith closes his eyes and flashes a wicked grin.
“That is none of your concern.”
His voice is somehow different from the times which Mortimer could recall. The closest resemblance he could hark back to were instances where Dominator had been consumed by the purest of rage; a deep, bitter, yet raspy boom. These qualities still exist, yet the sentiments of anger are non-existent in his voice, even though it is written all over his face. His voice is unnervingly calm; almost evil.
“Dominic…” Horacio motions to address him. Before he can elaborate any further, a snarl ruptures from the very pit of The Zenith’s stomach.
“Do not refer to me by that name,” he fumes. “I am the man known as Dominator. Dominic is nothing more than an empty husk left behind by the emergence of a greater being.”
Horacio looks towards Ruth.
“What have you done?” he mouths to her. Maintain the air of mystique that accompanies her wherever she goes, Ruth shakes her head as if to protest, but not to discount.
“My feelings towards Amy made me weak,” admits The Suzerain Of Time unapologetically, more angered that an emotion such as love had dictated his state of mind for so an elongated period of time. “There is so much more to life than people and possessions. Time is something that is belongs to everybody, even those who have nothing else. It is how one is able to tame Time itself that defines us. We lose as much to time as we do to death. And regret for time wasted is wasted time in itself.” His words are polished with a tongue that gleams with silver, oozing abrasiveness born from his own self-confidence. Horacio, on the other hand, feels it necessary to pull in the reigns on that which he had his hand in creating, intentionally or not.
“It is high time that we returned to the outside world. Away from Hangtown.” He motions with his arm to permit The Zenith to lead him back to civilisation. Dominator refuses to move. “Please do not make this any harder me than it has to be,” he pleads. “We have come too far for all of our hard work to come undone. I have invested a great amount of time in moulding you into The Chronological Order’s greatest asset.”
“And I thank you for the time you have invested in me,” Dominator says, sarcasm is drowned out by loathing, “but I am done being your puppet.”
It is at that precise moment, upon the completion of his statement, that Dominator’s hand bolts forward, snatching Horacio by the throat. Mortimer’s eyes broaden wider than they had ever been before in his life. His airway is crushed, his respiratory system compromised by the pressure of Dominator’s fingers alone.
“Please!” Mortimer croaks desperately.
“I warned you,” Dominator booms with the same level of calm even accompanied by such aggressive actions. “All the lies, all the secrets, all the games… they are over now.”
This. This is what Dominator lives for. The feeling of a crushed larynx behind his fingertips. The proof that his own strength is capable of turning another man’s face a deathly shade of purple. The look of fear and the clairvoyant sensation of hopelessness coursing through his victim’s veins…
It is what makes him so notorious.
It is what makes him so dominant.
It is what makes him so deadly.
Remorsefully, his grip is voluntarily loosened. Horacio drops to the floor, spluttering for breath as he buries his head into his arms. This is resultant of the disapproving look that he receives from Ruth. As deliberate as this act of mercy may have been, that does not mean he was any less reluctant. Yet he can at least thank Horacio for learning his same level of understanding even when seemingly blinded by rage. Perhaps that is the greatest lesson of all that he has learned as part of his training.
“Despite all of the pain that you have caused, you are still too valuable for me to dismiss,” Dominator explains the notions behind his compassion… or pity. “Life and Death. Creation and Destruction. They are mere milestones throughout the passage of Time. The more I learn from you, the greater my understanding will become.” Before Mortimer has a chance to pick himself up off the ground, The Zenith snatches his collar and hauls him upwards, dangling him like a piece of butchered meat in an abattoir. “From now on, we’re doing things my way, not yours. Understood.”
Mortimer responds with a hurried, trembling nod of his head.
This is sufficient enough for Dominator, who simply releases his grip, dropping Horacio to the ground. He crumples in a heap at his new master’s feet. Dominator looks towards Ruth, who offers him nothing more than a shrug. With his muscles still bulging and sweat continuing to drip from his brow, The Temporal King motions to take his leave, but not before peering over his shoulder towards Phinehas’ sister.
That same wicked grin still etched on his face.
“I am ready to reach my own zenith.”
