Post by Dominator / Mortimer on Jan 14, 2019 18:25:35 GMT -5
Monday 14th January 2019 - 11.42am
Residence of Horacio Mortimer, Totton, Southampton, Hampshire, England, United Kingdom
Rectangular tables that resemble those found in any modern secondary school have been slotted adjacent next to each other to form one larger structure. The walls are donned with a variety of clocks, both analogue and digital of all shapes, sizes and designs. Sat side by side in two seats on the opposite side of the room from the entrance, Matthew Metallinos and Marcus Marx are conversing quietly, supping on glass of water that have been filled from a jug in the center of the table. In front of them, as well as one in front of a vacant seat closer to the doorway, an itinerary of their meeting.
Time has not been kind to Horacio over the course of the winter break. What was once a well groomed and sharp dressed man now possessed an element of disorganisation. His stubble had grown out into a thin beard that looked as wiry and spindly as a well-worn metal scourer. His suit jacket had been flung over the back of the seat rather than hanging it on an appropriate hanger to preserve the lack of creases. The top button of his shirt is undone. The shirt itself is untucked, the armpits caked in a layer of sweat. He is pacing fretfully back and forth in front of a portable whiteboard, frantically checking his watch seemingly every five seconds.
“Calm down, Horacio,” Marx says reassuringly. “Have a glass of water and sit down for a minute. Stomping back and forth across the room isn’t going to make him arrive any faster.”
“I know,” Horacio snaps. “Sorry,” he quickly apologises. “I need to speak to all of you, collectively, as soon as possible. The quicker we can get this done, the sooner we can take action. And you know how much I hate having to repeat myself.”
“He is travelling down the length of the country,” Matthew states, trying to express some clarity.
“It’s the principal of ‘it’s better to be twenty minutes early than two minutes late. And he’s already twelve…” Horacio consults his watch once again. “Thirteen,” he corrects himself as the second hand reaches its most vertical position. With a sigh, he turns his attention to the whiteboard, reaching down to its base to flip the board one hundred and eighty degrees. To his surprise, there is already something inscribed onto the board in black ink. Marx and Matthew show equal levels of intrigue.
Cancer: You may feel that the weight of your burdens are slowly breaking you down. You shall soon find a passion for something that has long since passed reignites in your heart like a fire. Do not suppress your emotions, for come May, that weight will be lifted and everything you know will change for the better.
Horacio looks out across the room towards the back wall, which eerily is not as illuminated as the one light that has been switched on at the front of the room.
“What is that? Some kind of horoscope?” Marx spits.
“It has it’s significance, I‘m sure,” Horacio cryptically states, his focus remaining at the back of the room. His attention is suddenly caught by the appearance of Harley Weiss, who bursts through the door at great speed.
“Sorry I’m late,” Harley wearily huffs, flinging the straps of a rucksack along one arm, swinging it to one side to allow it to drop with a soft thump against the stone floor. He slumps into the chair directly to the side of him. Marx offers him a glass of water, which he gratefully receives and consumes in quick succession. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting for too long.” Evidently, he had. This was as clear as Horacio’s face was disapproving, simply looking at the difference in space between the current time and the expected time of arrival.
“Thank you everybody for attending at such short notice,” Horacio projects his voice confidently throughout the chamber. “First and foremost, may I take the opportunity to thank you for your continued investment within The Chronological Order. Needless to say, our group cannot operate without your contributions.”
“Is this a pep-talk?” Harley interposes. Matthew shoots him a look that puts an end to the interruption. Harley rolls his eyes, reaching for another glass of water.
“I thought I would lead with a note of thanks considering the gravity of our current situation regarding Dominic,” Horacio elaborates. “As you are well aware, Dominic has been spending much of his time under the tutelage of the Dillingers in recent weeks. I’m not going to lie to you, this is far from an ideal scenario for me personally, but he is nevertheless fulfilling his obligations within the Order and is making the best use of his time, which is all I could ever really ask for.” His tone becomes far more sombre after exhaling loudly. “But I feel that his frame of mind is not where he should be. I fear that in spite of using his time wisely, he may be hiding something.”
“Something against The Order?” Matthew queries sceptically.
“Not hiding something in a material sense,” Horacio states, “but rather he is hiding his true emotions. We’ve all seen the ramifications of suppressing his anger; the physical attacks, the desecration of Amy’s grave, the erratic nature of his timekeeping. I refuse to allow all of my hard work come undone by The Dillingers, no matter the affiliation between The Chronological Order and The Black Hand.”
“Do you think he’s still in mourning?” Marx says, the memory of his sister passing away brings a twinge of sadness in his voice.
“Absolutely,” Horacio nods. “But I feel that he needs to segregate his time accordingly. He is undertaking too much in one hit. Even with his recent absence from Pure Class, I do not believe he has taken the necessary measures to get whatever emotions that consume him out of his system.”
“What do you suggest?” Matthew shrugs, leaning back into his seat.
“I say that we abide to his needs, for now,” Horacio says. “He is naturally taking all of his commitments seriously. Whilst I cannot do much in terms of The Dillingers, I can at least continue to accompany him in his endeavours within the squared circle. As such, I will be travelling State-Side with him in the coming days.”
“If you’re so concerned with The Dillingers, why not confront them directly about it?” Marx suggests. “You’re close with Ruth, right?”
“Wrong,” Horacio coughs. “Our relationship has become fractured in recent weeks. Dominic has insisted that he does not want to be disturbed whilst in Hangtown. Ruth isn’t even giving me the time of day, not even when I am trying to relay my schedule to him. He seems transfixed on claiming the North American championship,” Horacio explains further. “Given that he has lost so much in recent times, perhaps obtaining something of such high value and prestige will restore some of his pride. If the title is what he needs to make himself feel better, then I shall of course do everything in my power to ensure that it comes to him.”
“What’s all this about, Horacio?” Harley says, uncertain of what he can likely expect from this meeting. “You called us in here just because Dominic’s going through a hard time? D’you know how backed up I am at the shop? I had to close the garage today just so I could be here. Besides, you know how awful Monday morning traffic can be…”
“I’m sorry that your travel arrangements cannot yield more punctual results,” Horacio says with the utmost of sarcasm through his gritted teeth, “but this is far more serious than simply questioning Dominic’s mental wellbeing, which in itself should be treated as a concern in itself.”
“I get it,” Harley huffs. “We’re all deeply sorry that Amy died. But strictly speaking, she did try to run Dominic down with her car before it crashed into that bridge. It was just as much an attempt on Dominic’s life as it was on her own.”
“That doesn’t mean the pain is any less easier,” Marx frowns, quickly rising out of his seat confrontationally, “on anybody.”
“She lied to Dominic, as well as each and every one of us, about who Dawn’s biological father was,” Harley protests, getting up to his feet. “You can’t say that you condone that shit.”
“I don’t believe that is what Marx was insinuating,” Horacio says firmly, trying to establish some sort of order before the situation can escalate further. “Amy was clearly under intense mental distress at the time and, unfortunately, she made a costly decision that has affected all of us. But for better or worse, Dominic loved that woman and to lose something so close to you must be devastating.”
“You’re telling me that you’ve never lost somebody who was close to you before?” Harley sneers.
That was the moment that Horacio struck him.
In one fluid motion, Harley is knocked backwards into his seat. Marx immediately sits back down. Harley’s eyes widen with shock, his cheek turning the same shade of red as the back of Horacio’s hand. Mortimer momentarily shows a glimmer of remorse in his eyes, but slowly slides his arm to return behind his back, clasping the impact zone with his other hand. Marx and Matthew look agog as Horacio paces back towards the whiteboard. Harley is simply stunned into silence, immobilised by Horacio’s audacity alone.
An awkward silence befalls the room.
“Don’t you ever tell me how bereavement affects the human psyche,” Horacio seethes. “It is for that very reason that I continue to further The Chronological Order’s mimetic legacy every waking day.” The Watchmen listen intently. Never before had Horacio relayed his deepest thoughts. Harley’s provocation has clearly awaken something within the Order’s leader. He faces the whiteboard as he continues his address, refusing to look any single one of them in the eye. “The Order is not something I started myself,” he confesses, “instead, it was something bequeathed to me at a very young age from…”
He cuts himself off, spinning on his heel after a moment’s reflection.
“We’re getting off topic,” he changes the subject. “The point is, I firmly believe that Dominic’s fragile mindset stems from the trauma of Amy’s passing. And, while by no means am I putting a time restriction as to how long he should grieve, I believe that we need to reassure him.”
“What happened to letting him do things his own way?” Harley hisses, still resentful for the backhanded slap that he had received, which he nurtures with a rub of his hand.
“That was his own prerogative,” Horacio answers, significantly calmer than he had been a matter of seconds earlier. “But I feel that now is the time to interject. We must stage an intervention. For his sake.”
“I could always go and talk to him,” Marx offers. “I mean Amy is my sister. I’m perhaps the only person who held a bond as close to her reminiscent of Dominic’s.”
“How are you holding up?” Matthew asks sincerely, a little dismayed that he hadn’t asked the question any time sooner.
“I’m fine,” Marx smiles, albeit weakly. “It’s obviously heartbreaking, but even though we are flesh and blood, I didn’t know my sister for anywhere near as long as the likes of yourselves. Our bond was strong because of our heritage, not from the amount of time we spent together.”
“In that case, maybe I should go,” Matthew proposes. “Dominic has always been like a brother to me, even when my own biological brother wasn’t. I think if he is likely to open up to anybody, it’d be me.”
“Now, hold on,” Harley jumps out of his seat. “I was Dominic’s very own protégé at one point in time. He taught me everything that I needed to know in order to succeed. If anything, I
“You’ve changed your tune,” Marx snickers.
“Well, Horacio makes a good point, I suppose,” Harley reluctantly admits. Horacio pivots his head in Harley’s direction. Though visibly frustrated from their earlier altercation, a level of respect has been earned, if anything.
In his own mind, Harley had considered Horacio as the weakest link throughout the whole Order. It was only upon learning that his purpose would be to protect and serve his former Master that Harley had accepted Mortimer’s proposal to become one of the Four Watchmen, though he would never vocalise his reservations that stemmed from being at Horacio’s beg and call. Nevertheless, he had remained loyal for Dominic’s sake. And now was an opportunity for him to flex some of the honours bestowed upon him by being part of such an elite group.
“If I may…”
Harley, Matthew and Marx immediately look to the end of the table in the direction where nobody had looked since arriving. At the foot of the table, a cloaked figure has sat undetected amongst shadows. Their black coat covers every inch of their skin. Even their face is not visible. The voice that had came was female, but it was deep, soft, almost ethereal.
Resting on the tabletop directly in front of her, a trio of Tarot cards rest in perfect parallel to one another.
“The Wheel of Fortune, The World and Three of Wands,” the woman states, allowing her hand to flow over each of the cards as she reads their names aloud. “Based from this reading, I believe I can coerce Dominic to rejoin our cause.” She stands, emerging from the shadows and into the light. Picking up her cards and slipping them back into her pocket, she walks behind Marx and Matthew. A chill immediately runs down their spines, as if they’d seen a ghost. “I assume you don’t have a problem with this?” the woman whispers into Horacio’s ear before slowly walking away, only the sounds of her heels clopping against the stone floor answer her back.
“Where the hell did she come from?” Harley gawps. Horacio can only stare at the door through which the cloaked woman had made her exit. Horacio immediately turns to face the group, planting both hands firmly against the table. The sudden boom of flesh striking wood startles the remaining trio to attention.
“Marx, Matthew, I want the two of you to continue to try and make contact with Hangtown, even in my absence,” Horacio instructs. “Any information you can obtain from Ruth or even Phinehas as to what Dominic has been doing during his time there will be crucial into understanding just how The Black Hand intends on using him. I wouldn’t recommend travelling there, but do whatever you feel is necessary.”
“Understood,” Matthew acknowledges.
“You can count on us,” Marx adds enthusiastically. With that, Horacio turns to Harley, who still maintains an embittered expression on his face.
“Harley,” Horacio sighs. “Let me apologise. Such acts of violence are not in my nature.”
“You don’t need to explain,” Harley says with a grin. “I barely even felt it,” he lies, “but maybe I was acting like a bit of an asshole. Just tell me what you need from me.”
“I want you to collate any and all memorabilia you can find of Amy Trenton-Metallinos,” he says slyly.
“Let me guess,” Harley grins with equal malice. “You want me to destroy it?”
“On the contrary,” Horacio grins. “I want you to bring it all here. Every last bit of it, no matter how big or small. Just knock on the door. Someone will be here.” Harley motions to speak, but rather than question his superior’s motives, he simply nods to depict his understanding.
“What timescale do I have?” Harley asks, reaching for his backpack.
“Until I come back from the States,” Horacio replies, walking in the same direction as Harley. Both leave the meeting room in tandem. Horacio turns out the light, closing the door forcefully behind him.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Seldom are the days where, in a given contest, The Zenith is deemed as being at a disadvantage. Bookmakers the world over will introduce larger odds towards my success, for I am set to face not one, but two of the company’s champions in a single bout. My partner; the man who has taken what should have been my rightful place as the top contender to Kyle Shane’s World Title; Gerard Angelo.
Believe me when I say that this is one particular grudge upon which my vengeance will not be enacted. At least not on this occasion. So long as Gerard can bring the same fire and determination that he has brought to the table even before winning the Deadly Rumble, our cohesion will be faultless. Provided, of course, that he doesn’t tread on my toes.
The likelihood of Kyle Shane and Justin “Stormm” Michaels working like a well-oiled machine? Slim. Maybe Kyle can overlook the problematic past he has shared with the former members of NOTORIOUS. But Stormm? He isn’t exactly the sort of individual who enjoys playing second fiddle to someone like Kyle Shane, particularly after thwarting his efforts time and again. Gerard has only given me one reason to be pissed at him. Kyle and Stormm’s? Seemingly countless.
Think about that next time you want to sit and think about cooperation.
I too have had some time to sit and think. Kyle might say that I’ve just been lazing around on my back like his white-trash mother did back in the day. Sure, Kyle. How many times have you physically defended your World Title, hmm? Once a month, give or take? When you defend your championship successfully every single fortnight over the course of ten months, THEN you can tell me whether I deserve a fucking rest or not.
It is high time that somebody knocked Kyle Shane down a fucking peg. The man shoots his mouth as much as Muscle Malone shoots his own load. So convinced is he that every single word that exits his mouth oozes with charm and charisma that it borderlines that of a sociopath.
What you don’t seem to realise, Kyle, is that you are my endgame. More specifically, the WGWF World Championship that you carry around with you.
You need the justification, or more the excuse, that my tenure as PCW Underground King has been undermined by being associated with lower-tier performers. To simply discount the credit and legitimacy that I myself brought to the Underground scene is extremely short sighted, particularly when you started off in this exact same position yourself.
The fact is, Kyle, you might not be intimidated by The Zenith, but you fear what he is capable of. Given your exposure to my handiwork in the past, longer before you made PCW your new home, you cannot deny that Dominator is not just one of the most talented competitors in PCW, but indeed, across the entire wrestling industry as a whole. I am revered as a legend in the XWF, a place where you were only just starting to find your footing as a fighter. You’ve seen me topple giants and legends in the WGWF. And now, here I am again, revered as the greatest Underground King this company has seen since it’s inception.
And you know that one day, a day that might come sooner than you think, I will be coming for that which you hold so dear. And I will take it. By force. Whether it is you, Gerard Angelo or anybody else who holds the gold, they will not stand in my way from taking my rightful place as one of the greatest WGWF Champions of all time. To enter this industry without the desire of being the very best, dare I say ‘like no-one ever was,’ is a sheer waste of time, effort and resources.
It is why I value Arsen Goodstone’s efforts. It is why the endless ‘hot potato-ing’ of the Underground Title shows the hunger in the bellies of all who compete for it. But it also goes to show how beneath me those individuals are. Whereas I held the belt for a full three hundred and seven days, it seems
While you may be considered as PCW’s Mt. Everest, I am PCW’s Mauna Kea; hiding in deeper waters, yet still standing taller.
But worry not, Kyle. You are not my prime focus. At least not yet.
No. My attention firmly belongs to Justin “Stormm” Michaels.
The truth is… there are many, many reasons why I have you locked on in my sights. So why divulge into all of them right now?
I can give you one interpretation though, Justin. You see, whilst Kyle Shane and the naysayers out there might believe that I am not on the level to compete at a main event level, there is one distinguishing little trinket that could be seen as a ‘stepping stone’ between the bottom half of the card and the top of it.
You’ve got three guesses. And the first two don’t count.
You’re revered as one of the best, Justin. Am I right? The fact is, I have never even been gifted with an opportunity to challenge someone any higher up the card than Gabriel (which, by the way, I don’t know where Kyle seems to get the idea that I’ve lost to him in singles competition before, but hey, if it keeps his own ego afloat a short while longer…), The Deadly Rumble aside. I’ve never been given a chance outside of the Underground Division to prove myself. And whilst pummelling lesser individuals into oblivion is fun, the novelty begins to wear off after a while.
That is why I had assumed the role of a vigilante; righting this wrong by delivering my own form of sweet justice. Nothing is given away for free in this world and I simply do not have the time to wait for an opportunity to come my way. Instead, I must create a means using my own two hands. To earn the North American Championship is not merely an attempt at reaching a ceiling made of glass, it is indeed to smash the barriers put in front of me by anybody who doubts in my abilities.
Many have tried. Few have succeeded. Grimm is the most notable, of course. Yet I have a profound amount of respect for The Hangtown Horror. I am not bitter in defeat, unlike the likes of Stormm and Kyle who, if anything, seem bitter in victory. They seem abhorred that someone would dare challenge them; like a celestial deity being challenges for the rights to rule Heaven and Earth by the darkest of lords.
To defeat them both in the course of one night, it will leave a taste in their mouths so sour that they’ll think they’ve been force-fed Umeboshi. Not that victory here is the be all and end all. If anything, I can use this as a showcase; an exhibition of the malice and destruction that has followed me even out of the Underground scene.
And while my quest solely lies on picking apart Justin piece by piece and bereave him of his championship, already he too has a motive to try and inflict his own measures of retaliation. The question you have to ask yourself is this, Michaels. Whatever you intend on doing this week, will it be enough to satisfy your thirst for revenge?
What’s not to say that what you sampled at the Icey Awards was exactly that; a sample. In theory, so much more anguish could await you. The question is… do you warrant my mercy? I seem to recall that your would assist your brother-in-law on more than one occasion in his own quest to dethrone me as Underground King. Not once, but TWICE.
And by the time I was finished with him, he limped away with his tail between his legs, never to be seen again.
This is the destiny that I choose for you, Justin. I want you to follow in the footsteps of Johnny Matthews; as a man who, for all the hype and sneak attacks failed to back up his words, instead succumbing to the wrath and annihilation that is synonymous with The Zenith.
What you experienced two weeks ago is nothing differential of the crimes you have committed against me during Matthews’ vendetta against me. Call it cowardly. Call it retribution. Call it what you want. What matters is, I have left nothing but mere flesh wounds at this point in time. Come our inevitable clash over the title, I will leave your bones and spirits in splinters.
That is, of course, providing I don’t pound you into fucking dust come Thursday night.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Monday 14th January 2019 - 2.13pm
Public Footpath, River Avon, Goodworth Clatford, Hampshire, England, United Kingdom
The sky has been blocked out by a thick blanket of white that, oxymoronically, makes the scene feel so much darker. The sounds of trickling water and rustling leaves fills the air; stagnant honeysuckle wafts stickily over his nostrils as he looks out across the water. Slowly and methodically navigating the boggy riverbank, he approached a ruined-looking bridge. A large chunk of the brickwork has been ripped away.
Dominic stops only metres away from the disaster area. He can see remnants of the dislodged bricks resting on the riverbank. Grass has been ripped out of the soil, as if something has been dragged over its surface to leave nothing but wide, muddy streaks carved into the greenery. He reaches down to pick up a chunk of mortar laying at his feet. Even with the rain, he can still distinguish glob of oxygenised and coagulated blood amongst the stony surface.
This is where it happened. This was the place where Amy’s spirit left her body.
With a horrifying roar, he launches the brick piece at full force across the yawning river. It lands at water’s edge on the opposite bank. The Zenith heavily pants. This place, where an angel found it’s wings is now infested with the demons that have nested deep in Dominic’s cerebellum. He runs his fingers through his beard out of anguish, looking towards the bridge once again.
Only now does he notice something… or someone… stood at its apex, watching him in complete silence.
With uncertainty consuming him, Dominic’s curiosity gets the better of him. He slowly walks towards the bridge
“It’s good to finally meet you, Dominic,” comes a female voice from deep within the cloak. He cannot see her face, keeping it stooped low. Given the sheer height difference, Dominic can only the see the very top of her hood.
“And you are?” Dominic frowns.
“You mean you don’t know?“ the woman hums whimsically. “No, I suppose not. We’ve never really met before, have we? Fate is a wonderful thing, isn’t it. We were bound to come face to face sooner or later.”
“Fate?” snorts The Zenith. “What do you know about fate?”
“Well, why don’t I show you? When’s your birthday?” she asks.
“Rather an unusual question to ask somebody that you’ve only just met,” Dominic incredulously remarks.
“Perhaps,” the hooded figure sweetly giggles. “But you’re the one who is questioning the purpose of fate.”
“Fair comment,” he shrugs.
“You possess many traits of a Scorpio or a Capricorn,” she thinks aloud. “Maybe a Leo?”
“Close,” Dominic semi-confirms. “I’m a Cancerian.”
“Really?” she gasps. “I had an inkling, but I didn’t want to act upon intuition alone.” Dominic shrugs his shoulders, confused as to what she could possibly mean by such a statement. “I’m a Gemini, myself,” she adds.
“Hmph,” Dominic grunts under his breath. “Same as she was.”
“Who?” the woman asks.
“Nobody,” Dominic curtly states before resuming his trajectory along the footpath. The hooded figure continues to loom close behind.
“Do you believe in horoscopes, Dominic?”
“Honestly? No.” he says abruptly, hoping to kill this particular conversation dead. “I prefer to read the hard facts rather than take the words of some loonies who believe in that sort of nonsense.”
“Is that so?” the still anonymous female replies. “That’s disheartening, to say the least. I actually have a horoscope for Cancer right here in my pocket.” She fondles with one of the many tassels and togs of her trench coat. She is barely able to keep up with Dominic’s pace, the width of his strides combined with his overall speed means that the hooded lady has to keep the rapidity of a light jog just to stay anywhere near The Zenith.
“Here we are,” she sings, uncrumpling a small piece of paper in her fingertips. “You may feel that the weight of your burdens are slowly breaking you down. You shall soon find a passion for something that has long since passed reignites in your heart like a fire. Do not suppress your emotions, for come May, that weight will be lifted and everything you know will change for the better.”
“Really?” Dominic remains unimpressed. “Four months is a long time to wait.”
“It depends on how you interpret it,” the robed woman says cheerfully, pulling out a deck of Tarot cards from her pocket. She shuffles the deck and picks one out at random. “The Knight Of Swords,” she says with an element of surprise in her voice. “This is extremely suitable for this situation.”
“How so?” Dominic folds his arms.
“The Knight Of Swords represents determination,” she explains, “along with a fierce desire to achieve one’s goals. You will do anything to get what you want, no matter how aggressive a stance you may take. I think this card sums you up to a tee.” Dominic again responds with nothing more committal than a shrug of his shoulders. The robed woman produces a second card, to which Dominic tries to take a peek, his interest subtly growing.
“What is it?” he asks.
“The Chariot,” she says, holding the card forward. Indeed, it depicts a horse-drawn in the finest of details, from the glistening golden spokes all the way to the decorative handles. Even the reigns that are latched to the horse seem to sway in the wind, such is the illusion that the card provides. “It is a symbol of movement, progress and integration. I’d say that is a fair representation of what we have discussed.” Holding a significant amount of interest, Dominic is eager for the mystic to turn the next card. She obliges, pulling another from her deck and takes a sneaky peek. She turns it for Dominic to see.
“What’s that!?” Dominic exhibits a face of horror. What he sees is a skeletal figure’s neck tied to a noose, hanging limply and lifelessly from the gallows.
“Don’t worry,” the woman giggles. “This is The Hanging Man. This is a sign of surrender, of a new perspective or even enlightenment. It isn’t strictly speaking in the sense of you surrendering, but more so your demons. You are fighting them off in order to see the world more clearly.” Dominic hums, invested by what he is hearing. “What I think this represents is your spirit’s readiness to pick up precisely where it left off before you lost the one you loved.”
“Wait… how could you possibly know about that?”
“I suppose the gig is up,” she chuckles. “Horacio specifically requested that I shouldn’t hide anything from you, so I guess you deserve to know. I am one of Horacio’s Watchmen. I believe you can count me as the Fourth, since you’re familiar with Harley, Marcus and Matthew.”
“At long last,” Dominic breathes a sigh of relief. “You’ve no idea how long I’ve been waiting to find out. You know, for the longest time I thought that the last member of the Watchmen was going to be somebody like Lucas Felix, or worse still, my father.”
“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with either,” the woman states forlornly.
“Don’t feel bad,” Dominic lets out an amused huff. “You’re not missing out on much.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say!” the hooded figure admonishes such a declaration. “Family is one of the most important things that you can have in life. To reject something so special is like throwing your gifts out on Christmas Day before you’ve even opened them.”
“My Dad was a complete fool,” Dominic snarls at the mere memory of his father. “He was a man obsessed with nothing but power and fame. He had little time for me when I was a child. Instead, he left me to grow up on my own. He didn’t care how I did in school, not even the school of hard knocks for that matter. No, all he cared about was he stupid little investments in companies and watching his stocks plummet, leaving us living underneath the property line.”
“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dominic snarls over his shoulder.
“I’m a Watchman, Dominic.” the woman snaps back. “Not only that, but even though you count me as the Fourth, I was technically the First.”
“What?”
“That’s right.” her cackle morphs into something much more malicious. “Horacio enrolled me into The Chronological Order long before you even knew who Horacio was. I’ve been watching you for a long time, Dominic. Longer than you can fathom.” Dominic stops in his tracks and dubiously looks towards the cloaked woman over his shoulder. Finally he turns to face her, folding his bulging arms.
“That does it,“ Dominic stamps his feet, sending a spray of mud either side of his foot. “I’m not taking another step until I know everything there is that I need to. Just who are you?”
Slowly, the woman lifts her arms up to her hood and gently lets it drop behind the back of her head. Dominic’s face immediately falls. A beautiful twenty-something woman with locks of luscious auburn hair and unblemished skin relishes in the shocked reaction of Dominic. The Zenith himself has frozen on the spot, unsure whether the ghost that stands in front of him is spectral or a mere doppelganger.
“AMY!?”
“Not quite,” the girl replies with a smile. “My name is May. May Trenton.”
“T-Trenton?” Dominic stammers. Even his mind does not know which emotion to display prominently. A combination of anger, relief, lust, anguish, heartache, but most of all perplexity.
“That’s right,” May nods, “Marcus wasn’t the only member of Amy’s family that you didn’t know even existed,” the woman says, her voice suddenly much softer, yet ten times more serious. “To his credit, he didn’t even know I existed.”
“Who the fuck are you?” he bellows, his confusion taking control of his aggression.
“Do you need me to spell it out for you?” May smirks. “I’m a literal Gemini. I am Amy’s twin sister.”
Residence of Horacio Mortimer, Totton, Southampton, Hampshire, England, United Kingdom
Rectangular tables that resemble those found in any modern secondary school have been slotted adjacent next to each other to form one larger structure. The walls are donned with a variety of clocks, both analogue and digital of all shapes, sizes and designs. Sat side by side in two seats on the opposite side of the room from the entrance, Matthew Metallinos and Marcus Marx are conversing quietly, supping on glass of water that have been filled from a jug in the center of the table. In front of them, as well as one in front of a vacant seat closer to the doorway, an itinerary of their meeting.
Time has not been kind to Horacio over the course of the winter break. What was once a well groomed and sharp dressed man now possessed an element of disorganisation. His stubble had grown out into a thin beard that looked as wiry and spindly as a well-worn metal scourer. His suit jacket had been flung over the back of the seat rather than hanging it on an appropriate hanger to preserve the lack of creases. The top button of his shirt is undone. The shirt itself is untucked, the armpits caked in a layer of sweat. He is pacing fretfully back and forth in front of a portable whiteboard, frantically checking his watch seemingly every five seconds.
“Calm down, Horacio,” Marx says reassuringly. “Have a glass of water and sit down for a minute. Stomping back and forth across the room isn’t going to make him arrive any faster.”
“I know,” Horacio snaps. “Sorry,” he quickly apologises. “I need to speak to all of you, collectively, as soon as possible. The quicker we can get this done, the sooner we can take action. And you know how much I hate having to repeat myself.”
“He is travelling down the length of the country,” Matthew states, trying to express some clarity.
“It’s the principal of ‘it’s better to be twenty minutes early than two minutes late. And he’s already twelve…” Horacio consults his watch once again. “Thirteen,” he corrects himself as the second hand reaches its most vertical position. With a sigh, he turns his attention to the whiteboard, reaching down to its base to flip the board one hundred and eighty degrees. To his surprise, there is already something inscribed onto the board in black ink. Marx and Matthew show equal levels of intrigue.
Cancer: You may feel that the weight of your burdens are slowly breaking you down. You shall soon find a passion for something that has long since passed reignites in your heart like a fire. Do not suppress your emotions, for come May, that weight will be lifted and everything you know will change for the better.
Horacio looks out across the room towards the back wall, which eerily is not as illuminated as the one light that has been switched on at the front of the room.
“What is that? Some kind of horoscope?” Marx spits.
“It has it’s significance, I‘m sure,” Horacio cryptically states, his focus remaining at the back of the room. His attention is suddenly caught by the appearance of Harley Weiss, who bursts through the door at great speed.
“Sorry I’m late,” Harley wearily huffs, flinging the straps of a rucksack along one arm, swinging it to one side to allow it to drop with a soft thump against the stone floor. He slumps into the chair directly to the side of him. Marx offers him a glass of water, which he gratefully receives and consumes in quick succession. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting for too long.” Evidently, he had. This was as clear as Horacio’s face was disapproving, simply looking at the difference in space between the current time and the expected time of arrival.
“Thank you everybody for attending at such short notice,” Horacio projects his voice confidently throughout the chamber. “First and foremost, may I take the opportunity to thank you for your continued investment within The Chronological Order. Needless to say, our group cannot operate without your contributions.”
“Is this a pep-talk?” Harley interposes. Matthew shoots him a look that puts an end to the interruption. Harley rolls his eyes, reaching for another glass of water.
“I thought I would lead with a note of thanks considering the gravity of our current situation regarding Dominic,” Horacio elaborates. “As you are well aware, Dominic has been spending much of his time under the tutelage of the Dillingers in recent weeks. I’m not going to lie to you, this is far from an ideal scenario for me personally, but he is nevertheless fulfilling his obligations within the Order and is making the best use of his time, which is all I could ever really ask for.” His tone becomes far more sombre after exhaling loudly. “But I feel that his frame of mind is not where he should be. I fear that in spite of using his time wisely, he may be hiding something.”
“Something against The Order?” Matthew queries sceptically.
“Not hiding something in a material sense,” Horacio states, “but rather he is hiding his true emotions. We’ve all seen the ramifications of suppressing his anger; the physical attacks, the desecration of Amy’s grave, the erratic nature of his timekeeping. I refuse to allow all of my hard work come undone by The Dillingers, no matter the affiliation between The Chronological Order and The Black Hand.”
“Do you think he’s still in mourning?” Marx says, the memory of his sister passing away brings a twinge of sadness in his voice.
“Absolutely,” Horacio nods. “But I feel that he needs to segregate his time accordingly. He is undertaking too much in one hit. Even with his recent absence from Pure Class, I do not believe he has taken the necessary measures to get whatever emotions that consume him out of his system.”
“What do you suggest?” Matthew shrugs, leaning back into his seat.
“I say that we abide to his needs, for now,” Horacio says. “He is naturally taking all of his commitments seriously. Whilst I cannot do much in terms of The Dillingers, I can at least continue to accompany him in his endeavours within the squared circle. As such, I will be travelling State-Side with him in the coming days.”
“If you’re so concerned with The Dillingers, why not confront them directly about it?” Marx suggests. “You’re close with Ruth, right?”
“Wrong,” Horacio coughs. “Our relationship has become fractured in recent weeks. Dominic has insisted that he does not want to be disturbed whilst in Hangtown. Ruth isn’t even giving me the time of day, not even when I am trying to relay my schedule to him. He seems transfixed on claiming the North American championship,” Horacio explains further. “Given that he has lost so much in recent times, perhaps obtaining something of such high value and prestige will restore some of his pride. If the title is what he needs to make himself feel better, then I shall of course do everything in my power to ensure that it comes to him.”
“What’s all this about, Horacio?” Harley says, uncertain of what he can likely expect from this meeting. “You called us in here just because Dominic’s going through a hard time? D’you know how backed up I am at the shop? I had to close the garage today just so I could be here. Besides, you know how awful Monday morning traffic can be…”
“I’m sorry that your travel arrangements cannot yield more punctual results,” Horacio says with the utmost of sarcasm through his gritted teeth, “but this is far more serious than simply questioning Dominic’s mental wellbeing, which in itself should be treated as a concern in itself.”
“I get it,” Harley huffs. “We’re all deeply sorry that Amy died. But strictly speaking, she did try to run Dominic down with her car before it crashed into that bridge. It was just as much an attempt on Dominic’s life as it was on her own.”
“That doesn’t mean the pain is any less easier,” Marx frowns, quickly rising out of his seat confrontationally, “on anybody.”
“She lied to Dominic, as well as each and every one of us, about who Dawn’s biological father was,” Harley protests, getting up to his feet. “You can’t say that you condone that shit.”
“I don’t believe that is what Marx was insinuating,” Horacio says firmly, trying to establish some sort of order before the situation can escalate further. “Amy was clearly under intense mental distress at the time and, unfortunately, she made a costly decision that has affected all of us. But for better or worse, Dominic loved that woman and to lose something so close to you must be devastating.”
“You’re telling me that you’ve never lost somebody who was close to you before?” Harley sneers.
That was the moment that Horacio struck him.
In one fluid motion, Harley is knocked backwards into his seat. Marx immediately sits back down. Harley’s eyes widen with shock, his cheek turning the same shade of red as the back of Horacio’s hand. Mortimer momentarily shows a glimmer of remorse in his eyes, but slowly slides his arm to return behind his back, clasping the impact zone with his other hand. Marx and Matthew look agog as Horacio paces back towards the whiteboard. Harley is simply stunned into silence, immobilised by Horacio’s audacity alone.
An awkward silence befalls the room.
“Don’t you ever tell me how bereavement affects the human psyche,” Horacio seethes. “It is for that very reason that I continue to further The Chronological Order’s mimetic legacy every waking day.” The Watchmen listen intently. Never before had Horacio relayed his deepest thoughts. Harley’s provocation has clearly awaken something within the Order’s leader. He faces the whiteboard as he continues his address, refusing to look any single one of them in the eye. “The Order is not something I started myself,” he confesses, “instead, it was something bequeathed to me at a very young age from…”
He cuts himself off, spinning on his heel after a moment’s reflection.
“We’re getting off topic,” he changes the subject. “The point is, I firmly believe that Dominic’s fragile mindset stems from the trauma of Amy’s passing. And, while by no means am I putting a time restriction as to how long he should grieve, I believe that we need to reassure him.”
“What happened to letting him do things his own way?” Harley hisses, still resentful for the backhanded slap that he had received, which he nurtures with a rub of his hand.
“That was his own prerogative,” Horacio answers, significantly calmer than he had been a matter of seconds earlier. “But I feel that now is the time to interject. We must stage an intervention. For his sake.”
“I could always go and talk to him,” Marx offers. “I mean Amy is my sister. I’m perhaps the only person who held a bond as close to her reminiscent of Dominic’s.”
“How are you holding up?” Matthew asks sincerely, a little dismayed that he hadn’t asked the question any time sooner.
“I’m fine,” Marx smiles, albeit weakly. “It’s obviously heartbreaking, but even though we are flesh and blood, I didn’t know my sister for anywhere near as long as the likes of yourselves. Our bond was strong because of our heritage, not from the amount of time we spent together.”
“In that case, maybe I should go,” Matthew proposes. “Dominic has always been like a brother to me, even when my own biological brother wasn’t. I think if he is likely to open up to anybody, it’d be me.”
“Now, hold on,” Harley jumps out of his seat. “I was Dominic’s very own protégé at one point in time. He taught me everything that I needed to know in order to succeed. If anything, I
“You’ve changed your tune,” Marx snickers.
“Well, Horacio makes a good point, I suppose,” Harley reluctantly admits. Horacio pivots his head in Harley’s direction. Though visibly frustrated from their earlier altercation, a level of respect has been earned, if anything.
In his own mind, Harley had considered Horacio as the weakest link throughout the whole Order. It was only upon learning that his purpose would be to protect and serve his former Master that Harley had accepted Mortimer’s proposal to become one of the Four Watchmen, though he would never vocalise his reservations that stemmed from being at Horacio’s beg and call. Nevertheless, he had remained loyal for Dominic’s sake. And now was an opportunity for him to flex some of the honours bestowed upon him by being part of such an elite group.
“If I may…”
Harley, Matthew and Marx immediately look to the end of the table in the direction where nobody had looked since arriving. At the foot of the table, a cloaked figure has sat undetected amongst shadows. Their black coat covers every inch of their skin. Even their face is not visible. The voice that had came was female, but it was deep, soft, almost ethereal.
Resting on the tabletop directly in front of her, a trio of Tarot cards rest in perfect parallel to one another.
“The Wheel of Fortune, The World and Three of Wands,” the woman states, allowing her hand to flow over each of the cards as she reads their names aloud. “Based from this reading, I believe I can coerce Dominic to rejoin our cause.” She stands, emerging from the shadows and into the light. Picking up her cards and slipping them back into her pocket, she walks behind Marx and Matthew. A chill immediately runs down their spines, as if they’d seen a ghost. “I assume you don’t have a problem with this?” the woman whispers into Horacio’s ear before slowly walking away, only the sounds of her heels clopping against the stone floor answer her back.
“Where the hell did she come from?” Harley gawps. Horacio can only stare at the door through which the cloaked woman had made her exit. Horacio immediately turns to face the group, planting both hands firmly against the table. The sudden boom of flesh striking wood startles the remaining trio to attention.
“Marx, Matthew, I want the two of you to continue to try and make contact with Hangtown, even in my absence,” Horacio instructs. “Any information you can obtain from Ruth or even Phinehas as to what Dominic has been doing during his time there will be crucial into understanding just how The Black Hand intends on using him. I wouldn’t recommend travelling there, but do whatever you feel is necessary.”
“Understood,” Matthew acknowledges.
“You can count on us,” Marx adds enthusiastically. With that, Horacio turns to Harley, who still maintains an embittered expression on his face.
“Harley,” Horacio sighs. “Let me apologise. Such acts of violence are not in my nature.”
“You don’t need to explain,” Harley says with a grin. “I barely even felt it,” he lies, “but maybe I was acting like a bit of an asshole. Just tell me what you need from me.”
“I want you to collate any and all memorabilia you can find of Amy Trenton-Metallinos,” he says slyly.
“Let me guess,” Harley grins with equal malice. “You want me to destroy it?”
“On the contrary,” Horacio grins. “I want you to bring it all here. Every last bit of it, no matter how big or small. Just knock on the door. Someone will be here.” Harley motions to speak, but rather than question his superior’s motives, he simply nods to depict his understanding.
“What timescale do I have?” Harley asks, reaching for his backpack.
“Until I come back from the States,” Horacio replies, walking in the same direction as Harley. Both leave the meeting room in tandem. Horacio turns out the light, closing the door forcefully behind him.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Seldom are the days where, in a given contest, The Zenith is deemed as being at a disadvantage. Bookmakers the world over will introduce larger odds towards my success, for I am set to face not one, but two of the company’s champions in a single bout. My partner; the man who has taken what should have been my rightful place as the top contender to Kyle Shane’s World Title; Gerard Angelo.
Believe me when I say that this is one particular grudge upon which my vengeance will not be enacted. At least not on this occasion. So long as Gerard can bring the same fire and determination that he has brought to the table even before winning the Deadly Rumble, our cohesion will be faultless. Provided, of course, that he doesn’t tread on my toes.
The likelihood of Kyle Shane and Justin “Stormm” Michaels working like a well-oiled machine? Slim. Maybe Kyle can overlook the problematic past he has shared with the former members of NOTORIOUS. But Stormm? He isn’t exactly the sort of individual who enjoys playing second fiddle to someone like Kyle Shane, particularly after thwarting his efforts time and again. Gerard has only given me one reason to be pissed at him. Kyle and Stormm’s? Seemingly countless.
Think about that next time you want to sit and think about cooperation.
I too have had some time to sit and think. Kyle might say that I’ve just been lazing around on my back like his white-trash mother did back in the day. Sure, Kyle. How many times have you physically defended your World Title, hmm? Once a month, give or take? When you defend your championship successfully every single fortnight over the course of ten months, THEN you can tell me whether I deserve a fucking rest or not.
It is high time that somebody knocked Kyle Shane down a fucking peg. The man shoots his mouth as much as Muscle Malone shoots his own load. So convinced is he that every single word that exits his mouth oozes with charm and charisma that it borderlines that of a sociopath.
What you don’t seem to realise, Kyle, is that you are my endgame. More specifically, the WGWF World Championship that you carry around with you.
You need the justification, or more the excuse, that my tenure as PCW Underground King has been undermined by being associated with lower-tier performers. To simply discount the credit and legitimacy that I myself brought to the Underground scene is extremely short sighted, particularly when you started off in this exact same position yourself.
The fact is, Kyle, you might not be intimidated by The Zenith, but you fear what he is capable of. Given your exposure to my handiwork in the past, longer before you made PCW your new home, you cannot deny that Dominator is not just one of the most talented competitors in PCW, but indeed, across the entire wrestling industry as a whole. I am revered as a legend in the XWF, a place where you were only just starting to find your footing as a fighter. You’ve seen me topple giants and legends in the WGWF. And now, here I am again, revered as the greatest Underground King this company has seen since it’s inception.
And you know that one day, a day that might come sooner than you think, I will be coming for that which you hold so dear. And I will take it. By force. Whether it is you, Gerard Angelo or anybody else who holds the gold, they will not stand in my way from taking my rightful place as one of the greatest WGWF Champions of all time. To enter this industry without the desire of being the very best, dare I say ‘like no-one ever was,’ is a sheer waste of time, effort and resources.
It is why I value Arsen Goodstone’s efforts. It is why the endless ‘hot potato-ing’ of the Underground Title shows the hunger in the bellies of all who compete for it. But it also goes to show how beneath me those individuals are. Whereas I held the belt for a full three hundred and seven days, it seems
While you may be considered as PCW’s Mt. Everest, I am PCW’s Mauna Kea; hiding in deeper waters, yet still standing taller.
But worry not, Kyle. You are not my prime focus. At least not yet.
No. My attention firmly belongs to Justin “Stormm” Michaels.
The truth is… there are many, many reasons why I have you locked on in my sights. So why divulge into all of them right now?
I can give you one interpretation though, Justin. You see, whilst Kyle Shane and the naysayers out there might believe that I am not on the level to compete at a main event level, there is one distinguishing little trinket that could be seen as a ‘stepping stone’ between the bottom half of the card and the top of it.
You’ve got three guesses. And the first two don’t count.
You’re revered as one of the best, Justin. Am I right? The fact is, I have never even been gifted with an opportunity to challenge someone any higher up the card than Gabriel (which, by the way, I don’t know where Kyle seems to get the idea that I’ve lost to him in singles competition before, but hey, if it keeps his own ego afloat a short while longer…), The Deadly Rumble aside. I’ve never been given a chance outside of the Underground Division to prove myself. And whilst pummelling lesser individuals into oblivion is fun, the novelty begins to wear off after a while.
That is why I had assumed the role of a vigilante; righting this wrong by delivering my own form of sweet justice. Nothing is given away for free in this world and I simply do not have the time to wait for an opportunity to come my way. Instead, I must create a means using my own two hands. To earn the North American Championship is not merely an attempt at reaching a ceiling made of glass, it is indeed to smash the barriers put in front of me by anybody who doubts in my abilities.
Many have tried. Few have succeeded. Grimm is the most notable, of course. Yet I have a profound amount of respect for The Hangtown Horror. I am not bitter in defeat, unlike the likes of Stormm and Kyle who, if anything, seem bitter in victory. They seem abhorred that someone would dare challenge them; like a celestial deity being challenges for the rights to rule Heaven and Earth by the darkest of lords.
To defeat them both in the course of one night, it will leave a taste in their mouths so sour that they’ll think they’ve been force-fed Umeboshi. Not that victory here is the be all and end all. If anything, I can use this as a showcase; an exhibition of the malice and destruction that has followed me even out of the Underground scene.
And while my quest solely lies on picking apart Justin piece by piece and bereave him of his championship, already he too has a motive to try and inflict his own measures of retaliation. The question you have to ask yourself is this, Michaels. Whatever you intend on doing this week, will it be enough to satisfy your thirst for revenge?
What’s not to say that what you sampled at the Icey Awards was exactly that; a sample. In theory, so much more anguish could await you. The question is… do you warrant my mercy? I seem to recall that your would assist your brother-in-law on more than one occasion in his own quest to dethrone me as Underground King. Not once, but TWICE.
And by the time I was finished with him, he limped away with his tail between his legs, never to be seen again.
This is the destiny that I choose for you, Justin. I want you to follow in the footsteps of Johnny Matthews; as a man who, for all the hype and sneak attacks failed to back up his words, instead succumbing to the wrath and annihilation that is synonymous with The Zenith.
What you experienced two weeks ago is nothing differential of the crimes you have committed against me during Matthews’ vendetta against me. Call it cowardly. Call it retribution. Call it what you want. What matters is, I have left nothing but mere flesh wounds at this point in time. Come our inevitable clash over the title, I will leave your bones and spirits in splinters.
That is, of course, providing I don’t pound you into fucking dust come Thursday night.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Monday 14th January 2019 - 2.13pm
Public Footpath, River Avon, Goodworth Clatford, Hampshire, England, United Kingdom
The sky has been blocked out by a thick blanket of white that, oxymoronically, makes the scene feel so much darker. The sounds of trickling water and rustling leaves fills the air; stagnant honeysuckle wafts stickily over his nostrils as he looks out across the water. Slowly and methodically navigating the boggy riverbank, he approached a ruined-looking bridge. A large chunk of the brickwork has been ripped away.
Dominic stops only metres away from the disaster area. He can see remnants of the dislodged bricks resting on the riverbank. Grass has been ripped out of the soil, as if something has been dragged over its surface to leave nothing but wide, muddy streaks carved into the greenery. He reaches down to pick up a chunk of mortar laying at his feet. Even with the rain, he can still distinguish glob of oxygenised and coagulated blood amongst the stony surface.
This is where it happened. This was the place where Amy’s spirit left her body.
With a horrifying roar, he launches the brick piece at full force across the yawning river. It lands at water’s edge on the opposite bank. The Zenith heavily pants. This place, where an angel found it’s wings is now infested with the demons that have nested deep in Dominic’s cerebellum. He runs his fingers through his beard out of anguish, looking towards the bridge once again.
Only now does he notice something… or someone… stood at its apex, watching him in complete silence.
With uncertainty consuming him, Dominic’s curiosity gets the better of him. He slowly walks towards the bridge
“It’s good to finally meet you, Dominic,” comes a female voice from deep within the cloak. He cannot see her face, keeping it stooped low. Given the sheer height difference, Dominic can only the see the very top of her hood.
“And you are?” Dominic frowns.
“You mean you don’t know?“ the woman hums whimsically. “No, I suppose not. We’ve never really met before, have we? Fate is a wonderful thing, isn’t it. We were bound to come face to face sooner or later.”
“Fate?” snorts The Zenith. “What do you know about fate?”
“Well, why don’t I show you? When’s your birthday?” she asks.
“Rather an unusual question to ask somebody that you’ve only just met,” Dominic incredulously remarks.
“Perhaps,” the hooded figure sweetly giggles. “But you’re the one who is questioning the purpose of fate.”
“Fair comment,” he shrugs.
“You possess many traits of a Scorpio or a Capricorn,” she thinks aloud. “Maybe a Leo?”
“Close,” Dominic semi-confirms. “I’m a Cancerian.”
“Really?” she gasps. “I had an inkling, but I didn’t want to act upon intuition alone.” Dominic shrugs his shoulders, confused as to what she could possibly mean by such a statement. “I’m a Gemini, myself,” she adds.
“Hmph,” Dominic grunts under his breath. “Same as she was.”
“Who?” the woman asks.
“Nobody,” Dominic curtly states before resuming his trajectory along the footpath. The hooded figure continues to loom close behind.
“Do you believe in horoscopes, Dominic?”
“Honestly? No.” he says abruptly, hoping to kill this particular conversation dead. “I prefer to read the hard facts rather than take the words of some loonies who believe in that sort of nonsense.”
“Is that so?” the still anonymous female replies. “That’s disheartening, to say the least. I actually have a horoscope for Cancer right here in my pocket.” She fondles with one of the many tassels and togs of her trench coat. She is barely able to keep up with Dominic’s pace, the width of his strides combined with his overall speed means that the hooded lady has to keep the rapidity of a light jog just to stay anywhere near The Zenith.
“Here we are,” she sings, uncrumpling a small piece of paper in her fingertips. “You may feel that the weight of your burdens are slowly breaking you down. You shall soon find a passion for something that has long since passed reignites in your heart like a fire. Do not suppress your emotions, for come May, that weight will be lifted and everything you know will change for the better.”
“Really?” Dominic remains unimpressed. “Four months is a long time to wait.”
“It depends on how you interpret it,” the robed woman says cheerfully, pulling out a deck of Tarot cards from her pocket. She shuffles the deck and picks one out at random. “The Knight Of Swords,” she says with an element of surprise in her voice. “This is extremely suitable for this situation.”
“How so?” Dominic folds his arms.
“The Knight Of Swords represents determination,” she explains, “along with a fierce desire to achieve one’s goals. You will do anything to get what you want, no matter how aggressive a stance you may take. I think this card sums you up to a tee.” Dominic again responds with nothing more committal than a shrug of his shoulders. The robed woman produces a second card, to which Dominic tries to take a peek, his interest subtly growing.
“What is it?” he asks.
“The Chariot,” she says, holding the card forward. Indeed, it depicts a horse-drawn in the finest of details, from the glistening golden spokes all the way to the decorative handles. Even the reigns that are latched to the horse seem to sway in the wind, such is the illusion that the card provides. “It is a symbol of movement, progress and integration. I’d say that is a fair representation of what we have discussed.” Holding a significant amount of interest, Dominic is eager for the mystic to turn the next card. She obliges, pulling another from her deck and takes a sneaky peek. She turns it for Dominic to see.
“What’s that!?” Dominic exhibits a face of horror. What he sees is a skeletal figure’s neck tied to a noose, hanging limply and lifelessly from the gallows.
“Don’t worry,” the woman giggles. “This is The Hanging Man. This is a sign of surrender, of a new perspective or even enlightenment. It isn’t strictly speaking in the sense of you surrendering, but more so your demons. You are fighting them off in order to see the world more clearly.” Dominic hums, invested by what he is hearing. “What I think this represents is your spirit’s readiness to pick up precisely where it left off before you lost the one you loved.”
“Wait… how could you possibly know about that?”
“I suppose the gig is up,” she chuckles. “Horacio specifically requested that I shouldn’t hide anything from you, so I guess you deserve to know. I am one of Horacio’s Watchmen. I believe you can count me as the Fourth, since you’re familiar with Harley, Marcus and Matthew.”
“At long last,” Dominic breathes a sigh of relief. “You’ve no idea how long I’ve been waiting to find out. You know, for the longest time I thought that the last member of the Watchmen was going to be somebody like Lucas Felix, or worse still, my father.”
“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with either,” the woman states forlornly.
“Don’t feel bad,” Dominic lets out an amused huff. “You’re not missing out on much.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say!” the hooded figure admonishes such a declaration. “Family is one of the most important things that you can have in life. To reject something so special is like throwing your gifts out on Christmas Day before you’ve even opened them.”
“My Dad was a complete fool,” Dominic snarls at the mere memory of his father. “He was a man obsessed with nothing but power and fame. He had little time for me when I was a child. Instead, he left me to grow up on my own. He didn’t care how I did in school, not even the school of hard knocks for that matter. No, all he cared about was he stupid little investments in companies and watching his stocks plummet, leaving us living underneath the property line.”
“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dominic snarls over his shoulder.
“I’m a Watchman, Dominic.” the woman snaps back. “Not only that, but even though you count me as the Fourth, I was technically the First.”
“What?”
“That’s right.” her cackle morphs into something much more malicious. “Horacio enrolled me into The Chronological Order long before you even knew who Horacio was. I’ve been watching you for a long time, Dominic. Longer than you can fathom.” Dominic stops in his tracks and dubiously looks towards the cloaked woman over his shoulder. Finally he turns to face her, folding his bulging arms.
“That does it,“ Dominic stamps his feet, sending a spray of mud either side of his foot. “I’m not taking another step until I know everything there is that I need to. Just who are you?”
Slowly, the woman lifts her arms up to her hood and gently lets it drop behind the back of her head. Dominic’s face immediately falls. A beautiful twenty-something woman with locks of luscious auburn hair and unblemished skin relishes in the shocked reaction of Dominic. The Zenith himself has frozen on the spot, unsure whether the ghost that stands in front of him is spectral or a mere doppelganger.
“AMY!?”
“Not quite,” the girl replies with a smile. “My name is May. May Trenton.”
“T-Trenton?” Dominic stammers. Even his mind does not know which emotion to display prominently. A combination of anger, relief, lust, anguish, heartache, but most of all perplexity.
“That’s right,” May nods, “Marcus wasn’t the only member of Amy’s family that you didn’t know even existed,” the woman says, her voice suddenly much softer, yet ten times more serious. “To his credit, he didn’t even know I existed.”
“Who the fuck are you?” he bellows, his confusion taking control of his aggression.
“Do you need me to spell it out for you?” May smirks. “I’m a literal Gemini. I am Amy’s twin sister.”
