Temporal Rift - Part V (The Lost Chapter)
May 6, 2019 18:56:43 GMT -5
The Anarchist, Kyle Shane, and 1 more like this
Post by Dominator / Mortimer on May 6, 2019 18:56:43 GMT -5
Sunday 4th May 2019 - 12.11pm
Location: Residence of Horacio Mortimer, Totton, Southampton, Hampshire, England, United Kingdom
Not two hours ago, the look of panic in Horacio’s eyes had been akin to the witness of the most freakish of accidents or the goriest of scenes. As with any emergency, a proper diagnosis had to be made; immediate surgery was paramount. Tension was running high. He had no idea if his patient was able to be resuscitated after such a delicate procedure. Yet he knew, in order to save that which he loved so dearly, he would have to bite the bullet and devote all of his knowledge, patience and time into this endeavour to perform best practice.
He had sensed that the sufferer’s heart had stopped beating, though the actual length of time that the victim had been in such a comatosed state was impossible to pinpoint, even for a man as in touch with the flow of time as Horacio Mortimer. There had been no warning signs; he’d been functioning perfectly not minutes before The Chronological Order’s founder had noticed. Stricken with grief, Horacio had abandoned any plans that he had made for that day in order to focus on reviving his fallen friend; a companion that he had carried close to his heart in the most literal sense for as long as he could remember.
The patient? A pocket watch whose brass had been scuffed so greatly that it had regained an element of shine lays in two halves across the desk, split perfectly down the middle and held together by what must be the world’s smallest hinge. It’s innards have already been removed. So small are the screws, cogs and other components that they are practically microscopic. They have been arranged neatly atop a sheet of plain white paper; this background allows the watch’s parts to appear more distinguishable than they would be if they were simply camouflaged by the tint of pure mahogany.
An array of miniaturised tools are at Horacio’s disposal; from a pair of tweezers allow the most delicate grip to a screwdriver so small that it could belong to The Borrowers. He is meticulous in his approach, toiling amidst a deathly silence. A stubby black monocle covers Horacio’s left eye which is kept in place by slightly squinting the muscles around it. The magnification of this simplistic device offers a greater level of vision when dealing with such miniscule components.
This silence, other than the continual clicks, ticks and tocks of the endless assortment of clocks mounted on the walls of his study are all that have accompanied within the last one hundred and twenty two minutes. Such a period of grace would not last. Horacio knew that, any minute now, Dolores Aurelian would be arriving, or rather, returning.
She had been running one of Horacio’s many unusual errands that correlate with The Chronological Order’s grand design. Most likely it would have been to figure out where in the world Dominic had disappeared to this time/ Days had passed without even a word. His desire for positive news is high, although his expectations are kept surprisingly low.
The sound of a closing door acts as Horacio’s alarm clock. He tries to utilise what precious seconds he can before his partner makes her way into the study. Though looking weary and possessing a hint of dismay, a smile never fails to make an appearance on the ever-optimistic face of Dolores Aurelian as she lowers the hood of her dark grey cloak. Her boots clomp against the wooden floor as she paces into the center of the room, though such a clatter does not interrupt Horacio in the slightest.
“Good morning,” she greets, shaking her hair vigorously as if to somehow rearrange the knotted clumps of auburn hair that had become tangled together throughout her rigorous travels.
“It is the afternoon,” Horacio corrects her, not even having to consult any of the clocks in the room to confirm his suspicions. Dolores is not deterred by Horacio’s rudeness. “What news have you for me, Dolores?” Horacio says, his eyes not waving from the task at hand.
“That depends,” Dolores’ perpetual smile goes unnoticed by her partner. “Are you a believer in the philosophy that no news is good news?” Horacio’s uncovered eye rolls upwards, unimpressed by such sarcasm towards a matter of such importance. “I guess that’s a ‘no’ then, is it?” Dolores’ cheerfulness does not falter. “I suppose I’ll just have to keep looking.”
“Yes, you should,” Horacio mutters, using the tweezers to lift a small piece of crystalline material and slotting it adroitly into the same position that it had been in prior to its removal. Dolores’ hands plant themselves on her hips. “We’ve heard nothing from Dominic in almost two weeks now,” he expresses his dissatisfaction. “He is becoming more lackadaisical by the day. He’d promised to fulfil his duties as part of The Chronological Order, yet the falseness of this promise is starting to wear thin on my patience. I suggest you get back out there and find him, Dolores. Or, so help me, The Watchmen will be fully disbanded.”
“You know, you could at least be a little more supportive,” Dolores professes her displeasure at such a blunt response. “Why don’t you help me out a little, huh? Many hands make light work.”
“And a watched pot never boils,” comes Horacio’s retort, reiterating his desire to not get involved. “In case you hadn’t noticed, my hands are tied right this second. And I refuse to throw this particular task to the wayside because of your own ineptitude.” Dolores’ smile has diminished somewhat, but shrugs her shoulders almost nonchalantly. “Why even come to me if you haven’t any news of Dominic’s progression within The Black Hand. It is a complete waste of time for both of us.”
“Waste of time!?” Dolores parrots, letting out a chuckle that is designed to depict amusement, yet brings forth her annoyance. “I may not have had a sense of purpose before meeting you, but I’m still a human-fucking-being! The way you treat people is deplorable. No wonder Dominic opts to spend most of his time with The Dillingers instead of you.” In a motion that cements his inconsiderate and general shortage of compassion, Horacio checks his wristwatch as if to calculate the passage of time that Dolores has needlessly spent criticising him.
“Have you quite finished?” Horacio frowns. Dolores is left speechless. “Good,” he says, adjusting the monocle to regain his focus. He looks down at his work before continuing to speak to Dolores. “We’re done here,” he bluntly says. “Come back to me once you’ve actually completed your task.
“I’m taking a day off,” Dolores snaps, sitting on a seat in the corner of the study in an act of pure defiance. She crosses her arms and legs with a huff. Horacio doesn’t aggravate the situation further. At least, not intentionally. His newfound silence only irks Dolores further. “Don’t you want to spend together?” she asks.
“All I want right now is for you to reach out to Dominic and make contact whilst I focus my attention on this,” Horacio replies.
“So what are you working on?” Dolores grunts her question towards Horacio. The Chronological Order’s founder smothers himself over his words, trying to barricade the watch from view. It was the question that he had been hoping to avoid in spite of its inevitability. Taking a deep breath, he reaches for the monocle and plucks it away from its eye, setting it to rest on the table alongside his instruments of repair. Leaving the timepiece to rest against his desk, he pivots in his chair and slowly rises to his feet.
“It was one of many little trinkets bequeathed to me by my late grandfather,” Horacio says, his eyes not leaving his restoration project. “I carry this particular piece with me always. Outside of what he had left to me in his last will and testament, among other things, this was the last thing that he physically gave to me by hand.” By this point, Dolores has stood up from her seat and walked around the desk in order to admire the pocket watch from Horacio’s own perspective. There is something else atop the desk that catches Dolores’ attention; a certain photograph that stands freely off to one corner of the desk. Mortimer notices the waywardness of Dolores’ glance mimicking the direction of her outstretched arm. A mortified look appears on Horacio’s face as Dolores picks up the frame with one hand, holding it out in front of her.
“Is that him?” Dolores asks. Horacio’s attempt to snatch his keepsake out of his protégé’s is thwarted by a twisting motion from Aurelian that impedes his progress. He sighs, answering with a simple hum that accompanies a bob of his head. “He looks just like you,” she remarks, “if not a little older.” She pauses to admire the visible history behind the photograph. It was far from a modern print; the coloration of the Polaroid picture had faded over time, succumbing to natural sunlight and general decay, the distortion results in blurriness that somewhat masks the figures of those occupying the picture. “How long ago was this taken?” she asks.
“June 2nd, 1992,” Horacio states, the precision in his answer arrives instantaneously. “This photograph was taken the day before he was k…” the near slip of his tongue causes immobility. Horacio simply glares silently at Dolores, not willing to reveal any more information that he deemed to be necessary.
“Killed?” Dolores finishes Horacio’s sentence off for him with shock tones. Horacio’s heart swells solemnly. As it eventually retracts, he lets out an awkward sigh. Dolores’ eyes have widened in disbelief. “Why have you never told me this?”
“It’s on a ‘need to know’ basis,” Horacio remarks, lacking emotion as he finally able to retrieve the photograph with one fluid swipe. “And, quite frankly, you don’t need to know.” His words are so cold that they form condensation on the window that he now faces, huddling the picture closely into his chest. Minutes pass without a single word exchanged. Dolores does not dare to say anything that might further offend of aggravate her lover. All she can do is be as empathetic as she can.
“You should be more open with me,” Dolores huffs, trying to diffuse the outburst that she wants to making, noting the sensitivity of the subject. “What is the point of being in a relationship if we aren’t honest with each other.” Dolores produces a frown upon further contemplation. “Not that you know the meaning of the word.”
“I was only five years old at the time,” Horacio scowls in response. “He was the one who wanted to resurrect The Chronological Order. It was only when The Black Hand caught wind of his intentions that they…” Horacio draws a prolonged intake of breath, “…took action.”
“If The Black Hand were so against The Chronological Order being reformed, then why have they not done the same thing to you?” a sudden amount of concern is heightened in Dolores’ voice upon reaching such a realisation.
“Most likely because I have had a more ‘public’ approach in my methodology,” Horacio theorises. “I truly believe that the original Chronological Order tried to convert founding members of The Black Hand. It was so avant-garde that The Hand systematically eradicated The Order during it’s conception before it became a greater problem than they could handle. Of course, this is only a theory. I will not be able to prove this until I find the real truth at it’s very source.”
“The Book Of The Black Hand?” Dolores deduces. She is taken aback by the brutality behind Horacio’s story. “How could they do such a thing?”
“The residents of Hangtown are not exactly famed for their hospitality towards outsiders,” Horacio says, turning around to face Dolores, subtly placing the picture it its rightful place atop the desk. “It is why I loathe the fact that Dominic is there and not here, even though he said that he would remain loyal to The Order.
“You can’t exactly blame him for his deceit,” Dolores jerks her shoulders up and down. “After all, your own deception has been far worse than that of Dominic’s.”
“Perhaps,“ he admits, “But it is the alacrity that The Dillingers have towards him that really gets my goat. It is as if they are lulling him into a false sense of security. I can’t just sit by and watch matters unfold.”
“Then help me help you,” Dolores implores for his assistance. “If we’re going to get Dominic back, we’re going to have to do it together,” There is something about Dolores’ words that ring true for Horacio. It is as if, for the first time, he is truly listening to her. “Dominic is far more inclined to listen to you than he is to me. I know. Hangtown is a scary place. And I know that The Black Hand must have you in their crosshairs, but you cannot hide behind Dominic forever. You need to make a stand.” She rests a hand on his shoulder comfortingly. “You know that I will support you no matter what you decide to do, but I can’t do it all on my own. Like I said… Many hands make light work.”
Horacio nods.
“Understood,” he acknowledges at last. “Allow me to finish up here and we will leave immediately once I am done.” He returns to his seat, picking up the pair of tweezers once more and lifts another piece of the pocket watch’s entrails, hovering over the cadaverous device like a kestrel ready to swoop. “I assume you haven’t made any further plans for your alleged day off?” he asks with a hint of sarcasm.
“All I wanted was for us to do something together,” Dolores reiterates, the smile returning to her face. She was delighted to be a part of Horacio’s life. Even Dominic’s to some extent.
How Dominic truly felt though? That is as indistinguishable as the state of the PCW Underground.
The Zenith had no reason to involve himself in the exploits and disagreements between those who still call The Underground Division home, yet it is somewhat derisive for somebody so prominent within the PCW pecking order to play ‘second fiddle’ within a trifecta of verbal tirades between David Hunter, Holden Ross and Sicko.
So preoccupied is Sicko in ridding himself of the irritants that are David Hunter and Holden Ross that he may well have dismissed his shortcomings when the company’s three champions fought for bragging rights not one fortnight ago. Since then, Sicko has acknowledged The Zenith’s accomplishments, expressing a level of respect that is certainly justified. And The Zenith himself can at least return that respect Sicko based on the shrewdness in that judgement. Yet, the constant counterarguments being made between the current and former Kings have started to tire amongst The Temporal King’s ears, among many others.
It is commendable to have aspirations in a profession such as the one that is shared amongst the roster members of Pure Class Wrestling; ambitions to be the very best in their field, climbing ladders, breaking barriers and exceeding expectations. Countless individuals have walked through these doors proclaiming how they are destined to climb heights never seen before. Over the years, there have been only a select few who have been able to back their own words up, the rest being left to eat them.
It is the self-entitlement of David Hunter that has proven to be the most infuriating aspect of his character. He believes he should be elevated within the company on the merit that he is already a three time Underground King, in spite of his reigns lasting no longer than a month. Maybe two. Need he be reminded that every subsequent reign from that of The Zenith; from Arsen Goodstone, Holden Ross, Muscles Malone, David Hunter and Sicko himself, they have come nowhere near the level of infamy as the time of The Temporal King. Indeed, The Zenith’s reign eclipses each of the previously mentioned reigns combined.
Let that sink in. David Hunter; a three time champion, Muscles Malone, a two time champion, and everyone else in their inaugural tenures as King have not even come close to surpassing that of Dominator even when they are put together.
And of course, lest we not forget who it was who put an end to the seemingly invincible sovereignty of the former North American Champion; Justin “Stormm” Michaels. Heck, not two weeks ago, The Zenith successfully pinned the reigning PCW World Champion.
And yet… David Hunter believes that he should be on his level, despite crying over the spilt milk from the Underground’s udder. So much so that, in a move that must be fuelled by nothing but sheer desperation, he is attempting to certify his self-praise by aligning himself with Holden Ross; a man who apparently shares Hunter’s desire for the ‘true’ Underground King to reclaim his crown.
Holden Ross is no stranger to castigation. So much so, that even he has acknowledged that his standard of competition pales in comparison to that of his peers. In spite of the recent union between Ross and Hunter, it is apparent that this recent coalition is not a mere case of one man fighting for another man’s cause. Of all the motives that The Zenith has experienced, it is the ulterior ones that he can associate with the most. Being in the company of such zealousness as Horacio Mortimer amplifies one’s inner instinct for when something feels amiss.
It could be that Holden Ross is truly working under himself, stringing along David Hunter for the ride. Could that be giving a man like Holden Ross too much credit? Maybe being the lackey for so many others for such a prolonged period of time have given him the experience he needs to formulate his own plans, even if he does execute them horribly.
Who is the stupider man? David Hunter for being ‘outfoxed’ by Holden Ross? Or Holden for believing that one of his own plans might actually come to fruition despite possessing all of the cerebral prowess of a piece of tarmac?
Of course, just because the probability of another triumphant venture for The Zenith is tipped in his favour, that does not mean that this is a given. Tag team matches such as this are not his specialty, at least when not paired with Phinehas Grimm. Though not being the one to cost his team, the fact remains that Dominator had been one the losing team on certain occasions. This was due to the lack of faith that he had in his partners. One cannot call this an excuse. It is factual. However, on this occasion, The Zenith could at least take solace in knowing that he has an adept fighter alongside him; the current Underground King, no less.
“Should I come back later?” Dolores asks, not wanting to impede Horacio’s progress with her presence.
“I’m almost done,” the triumph can already be detected in Horacio’s voice. “You just keep thinking about how we might get to Hangtown.” Try as she might, Dolores had been unsuccessful in locating Hangtown recently. The closest she had ever been was when she had been trailing Dominic on horseback. Even then, he disappeared into the fog and left her to fend for herself. It was only through the grace of good fortune that she had managed to return to civilisation without issue.
“It may be of benefit to make contact with Matthew and Marx,” Dolores states newfound intentions as the brainwave suddenly washes over her. “After all, they actually managed to find Hangtown. If they did it once, I’m sure they can do it again.” Horacio hums in agreement, still working away on the timepiece. “Tracking them down might be more difficult than before, considering you’ve disbanded The Watchmen,” Dolores adds acrimoniously, yet half-heartedly so.
“Do what you must,” Horacio responds, his tongue slithering out of the side of his mouth, seizing the opportunity whilst Mortimer’s concentration was focused elsewhere. Considering Matthew and Marx had returned from Hangtown as amnesiacs, Horacio questioned the logic behind summoning them to repeat their misguided adventures. Instead, it would appear that the lack of genuine results had rendered Horacio’s current interest as minimal, at least at this time. Instead, he focuses entirely on his project that is bound to yield a more positive outcome.
“One more turn of the screw and…”
Satisfied with his handiwork, Horacio flips the back of the timepiece back into its original setting, clipping the metalwork into place. Turning the watch so that they come face to face, a smile appears on the face of The Chronological Order’s founder upon seeing the second hand moving freely, no longer twitching like a rodent left for death after being flattened by a trucker’s tyre, clinging onto life in spite of multiple organ failure. He breathes a sigh of relief, bringing life to another smile from Dolores.
“You’ve got it working again,” Dolores declares victoriously. Horacio simply gazes at the timepiece with the same love and joy as if it were a son.
“So old is this timepiece that even the slightest miscalculation in my reassembly could result in permanent damage,” Horacio states. “The slightest knock to one of the cogs, the slightest overturn of a screw, they could all spell disaster.” He looks back to the photograph of his grandfather one final time, remember the age-old saying that reminded him of his hero.
“The future is uncertain,” Horacio says, “but the end is always near.”
Location: Residence of Horacio Mortimer, Totton, Southampton, Hampshire, England, United Kingdom
Not two hours ago, the look of panic in Horacio’s eyes had been akin to the witness of the most freakish of accidents or the goriest of scenes. As with any emergency, a proper diagnosis had to be made; immediate surgery was paramount. Tension was running high. He had no idea if his patient was able to be resuscitated after such a delicate procedure. Yet he knew, in order to save that which he loved so dearly, he would have to bite the bullet and devote all of his knowledge, patience and time into this endeavour to perform best practice.
He had sensed that the sufferer’s heart had stopped beating, though the actual length of time that the victim had been in such a comatosed state was impossible to pinpoint, even for a man as in touch with the flow of time as Horacio Mortimer. There had been no warning signs; he’d been functioning perfectly not minutes before The Chronological Order’s founder had noticed. Stricken with grief, Horacio had abandoned any plans that he had made for that day in order to focus on reviving his fallen friend; a companion that he had carried close to his heart in the most literal sense for as long as he could remember.
The patient? A pocket watch whose brass had been scuffed so greatly that it had regained an element of shine lays in two halves across the desk, split perfectly down the middle and held together by what must be the world’s smallest hinge. It’s innards have already been removed. So small are the screws, cogs and other components that they are practically microscopic. They have been arranged neatly atop a sheet of plain white paper; this background allows the watch’s parts to appear more distinguishable than they would be if they were simply camouflaged by the tint of pure mahogany.
An array of miniaturised tools are at Horacio’s disposal; from a pair of tweezers allow the most delicate grip to a screwdriver so small that it could belong to The Borrowers. He is meticulous in his approach, toiling amidst a deathly silence. A stubby black monocle covers Horacio’s left eye which is kept in place by slightly squinting the muscles around it. The magnification of this simplistic device offers a greater level of vision when dealing with such miniscule components.
This silence, other than the continual clicks, ticks and tocks of the endless assortment of clocks mounted on the walls of his study are all that have accompanied within the last one hundred and twenty two minutes. Such a period of grace would not last. Horacio knew that, any minute now, Dolores Aurelian would be arriving, or rather, returning.
She had been running one of Horacio’s many unusual errands that correlate with The Chronological Order’s grand design. Most likely it would have been to figure out where in the world Dominic had disappeared to this time/ Days had passed without even a word. His desire for positive news is high, although his expectations are kept surprisingly low.
The sound of a closing door acts as Horacio’s alarm clock. He tries to utilise what precious seconds he can before his partner makes her way into the study. Though looking weary and possessing a hint of dismay, a smile never fails to make an appearance on the ever-optimistic face of Dolores Aurelian as she lowers the hood of her dark grey cloak. Her boots clomp against the wooden floor as she paces into the center of the room, though such a clatter does not interrupt Horacio in the slightest.
“Good morning,” she greets, shaking her hair vigorously as if to somehow rearrange the knotted clumps of auburn hair that had become tangled together throughout her rigorous travels.
“It is the afternoon,” Horacio corrects her, not even having to consult any of the clocks in the room to confirm his suspicions. Dolores is not deterred by Horacio’s rudeness. “What news have you for me, Dolores?” Horacio says, his eyes not waving from the task at hand.
“That depends,” Dolores’ perpetual smile goes unnoticed by her partner. “Are you a believer in the philosophy that no news is good news?” Horacio’s uncovered eye rolls upwards, unimpressed by such sarcasm towards a matter of such importance. “I guess that’s a ‘no’ then, is it?” Dolores’ cheerfulness does not falter. “I suppose I’ll just have to keep looking.”
“Yes, you should,” Horacio mutters, using the tweezers to lift a small piece of crystalline material and slotting it adroitly into the same position that it had been in prior to its removal. Dolores’ hands plant themselves on her hips. “We’ve heard nothing from Dominic in almost two weeks now,” he expresses his dissatisfaction. “He is becoming more lackadaisical by the day. He’d promised to fulfil his duties as part of The Chronological Order, yet the falseness of this promise is starting to wear thin on my patience. I suggest you get back out there and find him, Dolores. Or, so help me, The Watchmen will be fully disbanded.”
“You know, you could at least be a little more supportive,” Dolores professes her displeasure at such a blunt response. “Why don’t you help me out a little, huh? Many hands make light work.”
“And a watched pot never boils,” comes Horacio’s retort, reiterating his desire to not get involved. “In case you hadn’t noticed, my hands are tied right this second. And I refuse to throw this particular task to the wayside because of your own ineptitude.” Dolores’ smile has diminished somewhat, but shrugs her shoulders almost nonchalantly. “Why even come to me if you haven’t any news of Dominic’s progression within The Black Hand. It is a complete waste of time for both of us.”
“Waste of time!?” Dolores parrots, letting out a chuckle that is designed to depict amusement, yet brings forth her annoyance. “I may not have had a sense of purpose before meeting you, but I’m still a human-fucking-being! The way you treat people is deplorable. No wonder Dominic opts to spend most of his time with The Dillingers instead of you.” In a motion that cements his inconsiderate and general shortage of compassion, Horacio checks his wristwatch as if to calculate the passage of time that Dolores has needlessly spent criticising him.
“Have you quite finished?” Horacio frowns. Dolores is left speechless. “Good,” he says, adjusting the monocle to regain his focus. He looks down at his work before continuing to speak to Dolores. “We’re done here,” he bluntly says. “Come back to me once you’ve actually completed your task.
“I’m taking a day off,” Dolores snaps, sitting on a seat in the corner of the study in an act of pure defiance. She crosses her arms and legs with a huff. Horacio doesn’t aggravate the situation further. At least, not intentionally. His newfound silence only irks Dolores further. “Don’t you want to spend together?” she asks.
“All I want right now is for you to reach out to Dominic and make contact whilst I focus my attention on this,” Horacio replies.
“So what are you working on?” Dolores grunts her question towards Horacio. The Chronological Order’s founder smothers himself over his words, trying to barricade the watch from view. It was the question that he had been hoping to avoid in spite of its inevitability. Taking a deep breath, he reaches for the monocle and plucks it away from its eye, setting it to rest on the table alongside his instruments of repair. Leaving the timepiece to rest against his desk, he pivots in his chair and slowly rises to his feet.
“It was one of many little trinkets bequeathed to me by my late grandfather,” Horacio says, his eyes not leaving his restoration project. “I carry this particular piece with me always. Outside of what he had left to me in his last will and testament, among other things, this was the last thing that he physically gave to me by hand.” By this point, Dolores has stood up from her seat and walked around the desk in order to admire the pocket watch from Horacio’s own perspective. There is something else atop the desk that catches Dolores’ attention; a certain photograph that stands freely off to one corner of the desk. Mortimer notices the waywardness of Dolores’ glance mimicking the direction of her outstretched arm. A mortified look appears on Horacio’s face as Dolores picks up the frame with one hand, holding it out in front of her.
“Is that him?” Dolores asks. Horacio’s attempt to snatch his keepsake out of his protégé’s is thwarted by a twisting motion from Aurelian that impedes his progress. He sighs, answering with a simple hum that accompanies a bob of his head. “He looks just like you,” she remarks, “if not a little older.” She pauses to admire the visible history behind the photograph. It was far from a modern print; the coloration of the Polaroid picture had faded over time, succumbing to natural sunlight and general decay, the distortion results in blurriness that somewhat masks the figures of those occupying the picture. “How long ago was this taken?” she asks.
“June 2nd, 1992,” Horacio states, the precision in his answer arrives instantaneously. “This photograph was taken the day before he was k…” the near slip of his tongue causes immobility. Horacio simply glares silently at Dolores, not willing to reveal any more information that he deemed to be necessary.
“Killed?” Dolores finishes Horacio’s sentence off for him with shock tones. Horacio’s heart swells solemnly. As it eventually retracts, he lets out an awkward sigh. Dolores’ eyes have widened in disbelief. “Why have you never told me this?”
“It’s on a ‘need to know’ basis,” Horacio remarks, lacking emotion as he finally able to retrieve the photograph with one fluid swipe. “And, quite frankly, you don’t need to know.” His words are so cold that they form condensation on the window that he now faces, huddling the picture closely into his chest. Minutes pass without a single word exchanged. Dolores does not dare to say anything that might further offend of aggravate her lover. All she can do is be as empathetic as she can.
“You should be more open with me,” Dolores huffs, trying to diffuse the outburst that she wants to making, noting the sensitivity of the subject. “What is the point of being in a relationship if we aren’t honest with each other.” Dolores produces a frown upon further contemplation. “Not that you know the meaning of the word.”
“I was only five years old at the time,” Horacio scowls in response. “He was the one who wanted to resurrect The Chronological Order. It was only when The Black Hand caught wind of his intentions that they…” Horacio draws a prolonged intake of breath, “…took action.”
“If The Black Hand were so against The Chronological Order being reformed, then why have they not done the same thing to you?” a sudden amount of concern is heightened in Dolores’ voice upon reaching such a realisation.
“Most likely because I have had a more ‘public’ approach in my methodology,” Horacio theorises. “I truly believe that the original Chronological Order tried to convert founding members of The Black Hand. It was so avant-garde that The Hand systematically eradicated The Order during it’s conception before it became a greater problem than they could handle. Of course, this is only a theory. I will not be able to prove this until I find the real truth at it’s very source.”
“The Book Of The Black Hand?” Dolores deduces. She is taken aback by the brutality behind Horacio’s story. “How could they do such a thing?”
“The residents of Hangtown are not exactly famed for their hospitality towards outsiders,” Horacio says, turning around to face Dolores, subtly placing the picture it its rightful place atop the desk. “It is why I loathe the fact that Dominic is there and not here, even though he said that he would remain loyal to The Order.
“You can’t exactly blame him for his deceit,” Dolores jerks her shoulders up and down. “After all, your own deception has been far worse than that of Dominic’s.”
“Perhaps,“ he admits, “But it is the alacrity that The Dillingers have towards him that really gets my goat. It is as if they are lulling him into a false sense of security. I can’t just sit by and watch matters unfold.”
“Then help me help you,” Dolores implores for his assistance. “If we’re going to get Dominic back, we’re going to have to do it together,” There is something about Dolores’ words that ring true for Horacio. It is as if, for the first time, he is truly listening to her. “Dominic is far more inclined to listen to you than he is to me. I know. Hangtown is a scary place. And I know that The Black Hand must have you in their crosshairs, but you cannot hide behind Dominic forever. You need to make a stand.” She rests a hand on his shoulder comfortingly. “You know that I will support you no matter what you decide to do, but I can’t do it all on my own. Like I said… Many hands make light work.”
Horacio nods.
“Understood,” he acknowledges at last. “Allow me to finish up here and we will leave immediately once I am done.” He returns to his seat, picking up the pair of tweezers once more and lifts another piece of the pocket watch’s entrails, hovering over the cadaverous device like a kestrel ready to swoop. “I assume you haven’t made any further plans for your alleged day off?” he asks with a hint of sarcasm.
“All I wanted was for us to do something together,” Dolores reiterates, the smile returning to her face. She was delighted to be a part of Horacio’s life. Even Dominic’s to some extent.
How Dominic truly felt though? That is as indistinguishable as the state of the PCW Underground.
The Zenith had no reason to involve himself in the exploits and disagreements between those who still call The Underground Division home, yet it is somewhat derisive for somebody so prominent within the PCW pecking order to play ‘second fiddle’ within a trifecta of verbal tirades between David Hunter, Holden Ross and Sicko.
So preoccupied is Sicko in ridding himself of the irritants that are David Hunter and Holden Ross that he may well have dismissed his shortcomings when the company’s three champions fought for bragging rights not one fortnight ago. Since then, Sicko has acknowledged The Zenith’s accomplishments, expressing a level of respect that is certainly justified. And The Zenith himself can at least return that respect Sicko based on the shrewdness in that judgement. Yet, the constant counterarguments being made between the current and former Kings have started to tire amongst The Temporal King’s ears, among many others.
It is commendable to have aspirations in a profession such as the one that is shared amongst the roster members of Pure Class Wrestling; ambitions to be the very best in their field, climbing ladders, breaking barriers and exceeding expectations. Countless individuals have walked through these doors proclaiming how they are destined to climb heights never seen before. Over the years, there have been only a select few who have been able to back their own words up, the rest being left to eat them.
It is the self-entitlement of David Hunter that has proven to be the most infuriating aspect of his character. He believes he should be elevated within the company on the merit that he is already a three time Underground King, in spite of his reigns lasting no longer than a month. Maybe two. Need he be reminded that every subsequent reign from that of The Zenith; from Arsen Goodstone, Holden Ross, Muscles Malone, David Hunter and Sicko himself, they have come nowhere near the level of infamy as the time of The Temporal King. Indeed, The Zenith’s reign eclipses each of the previously mentioned reigns combined.
Let that sink in. David Hunter; a three time champion, Muscles Malone, a two time champion, and everyone else in their inaugural tenures as King have not even come close to surpassing that of Dominator even when they are put together.
And of course, lest we not forget who it was who put an end to the seemingly invincible sovereignty of the former North American Champion; Justin “Stormm” Michaels. Heck, not two weeks ago, The Zenith successfully pinned the reigning PCW World Champion.
And yet… David Hunter believes that he should be on his level, despite crying over the spilt milk from the Underground’s udder. So much so that, in a move that must be fuelled by nothing but sheer desperation, he is attempting to certify his self-praise by aligning himself with Holden Ross; a man who apparently shares Hunter’s desire for the ‘true’ Underground King to reclaim his crown.
Holden Ross is no stranger to castigation. So much so, that even he has acknowledged that his standard of competition pales in comparison to that of his peers. In spite of the recent union between Ross and Hunter, it is apparent that this recent coalition is not a mere case of one man fighting for another man’s cause. Of all the motives that The Zenith has experienced, it is the ulterior ones that he can associate with the most. Being in the company of such zealousness as Horacio Mortimer amplifies one’s inner instinct for when something feels amiss.
It could be that Holden Ross is truly working under himself, stringing along David Hunter for the ride. Could that be giving a man like Holden Ross too much credit? Maybe being the lackey for so many others for such a prolonged period of time have given him the experience he needs to formulate his own plans, even if he does execute them horribly.
Who is the stupider man? David Hunter for being ‘outfoxed’ by Holden Ross? Or Holden for believing that one of his own plans might actually come to fruition despite possessing all of the cerebral prowess of a piece of tarmac?
Of course, just because the probability of another triumphant venture for The Zenith is tipped in his favour, that does not mean that this is a given. Tag team matches such as this are not his specialty, at least when not paired with Phinehas Grimm. Though not being the one to cost his team, the fact remains that Dominator had been one the losing team on certain occasions. This was due to the lack of faith that he had in his partners. One cannot call this an excuse. It is factual. However, on this occasion, The Zenith could at least take solace in knowing that he has an adept fighter alongside him; the current Underground King, no less.
“Should I come back later?” Dolores asks, not wanting to impede Horacio’s progress with her presence.
“I’m almost done,” the triumph can already be detected in Horacio’s voice. “You just keep thinking about how we might get to Hangtown.” Try as she might, Dolores had been unsuccessful in locating Hangtown recently. The closest she had ever been was when she had been trailing Dominic on horseback. Even then, he disappeared into the fog and left her to fend for herself. It was only through the grace of good fortune that she had managed to return to civilisation without issue.
“It may be of benefit to make contact with Matthew and Marx,” Dolores states newfound intentions as the brainwave suddenly washes over her. “After all, they actually managed to find Hangtown. If they did it once, I’m sure they can do it again.” Horacio hums in agreement, still working away on the timepiece. “Tracking them down might be more difficult than before, considering you’ve disbanded The Watchmen,” Dolores adds acrimoniously, yet half-heartedly so.
“Do what you must,” Horacio responds, his tongue slithering out of the side of his mouth, seizing the opportunity whilst Mortimer’s concentration was focused elsewhere. Considering Matthew and Marx had returned from Hangtown as amnesiacs, Horacio questioned the logic behind summoning them to repeat their misguided adventures. Instead, it would appear that the lack of genuine results had rendered Horacio’s current interest as minimal, at least at this time. Instead, he focuses entirely on his project that is bound to yield a more positive outcome.
“One more turn of the screw and…”
Satisfied with his handiwork, Horacio flips the back of the timepiece back into its original setting, clipping the metalwork into place. Turning the watch so that they come face to face, a smile appears on the face of The Chronological Order’s founder upon seeing the second hand moving freely, no longer twitching like a rodent left for death after being flattened by a trucker’s tyre, clinging onto life in spite of multiple organ failure. He breathes a sigh of relief, bringing life to another smile from Dolores.
“You’ve got it working again,” Dolores declares victoriously. Horacio simply gazes at the timepiece with the same love and joy as if it were a son.
“So old is this timepiece that even the slightest miscalculation in my reassembly could result in permanent damage,” Horacio states. “The slightest knock to one of the cogs, the slightest overturn of a screw, they could all spell disaster.” He looks back to the photograph of his grandfather one final time, remember the age-old saying that reminded him of his hero.
“The future is uncertain,” Horacio says, “but the end is always near.”
