Chrono Trigger - Part II

[Dominator / Mortimer]

Sunday 15th July 2019 - 12.00pm
Location: Bonnymead Park, Amesbury, Wiltshire, England, United Kingdom

Could there be a more picturesque scene of watching children at play in the noonday sun? So far out of reach of civilisation is this little wonder than only the residents of Amesbury and their visitors could possibly learn of this place’s existence. Enclosed within a metal palisade fence caked in dark blue paint, multiple pieces of equipment have been erected upon a bed of wood clippings. This deforestation serves as a soft cushion to any children who may fall, yet all are too enthralled to allow the sensation of pain deter them from their primary objectives; having fun.

To the left of the park, a rugby pitch hosts several small groups passing footballs around amongst themselves; the goalposts tower above the participants like oversized ‘capital H’s.’ A gravel car park hosts the vehicles belonging to the parents and grandparents of the children congregated here. An ice cream van has been trading non-stop for seemingly hours. Surrounding all of this is a large span of fir trees and gorse bushes that serves as an impenetrable wall.

Impenetrable, that is, for anybody who isn’t named Dolores Aurelian; the epitome of stealth.

Exhibiting nervousness that has burdened her since last meeting with her father, Dolores shuffles subtly out of the overgrowth. She holds herself, nurturing the ill will within her. It takes but a moment for Horacio to notice her presence, which he acknowledges with a sideward smile and sliding eyes that point in her general direction. Having summoned the courage to even unveil herself from the shrubbery surrounding the perimeter of the park, she had not realised that Horacio had picked her out of the crowd so quickly.

Then again, wearing a jet black leather cloak amongst temperatures hitting thirty three degrees Celsius looks a little conspicuous.

“Alright, Dolores. You can do this,” she whispers her own motivational pep-talk to herself. She endeavours to remain as optimistic as she can. However, the words of her father continuously haunt her; their collusion acts as the source of a stabbing pain at the side of Dolore’s face. She clutches it with a distressed wince, sucking air through her teeth until it subsides momentarily. She slowly reaches Horacio’s side, sitting on a bench behind one of the rugby posts that is suitable shades by the belt of trees. Dolores approaches, opting to stand even deeper in the shadows so that she might avoid further detection.

“My grandfather used to bring me here when I was but a boy,” Horacio explains the reasoning of his chosen meeting point. “It’s changed a lot over the years. The climbing frame there used to be made of nothing but old scaffold poles,” he points, pivoting to change the playground object that resurrects a buried memory. “There used to be a see-saw over where that sand pit is. I would sit on one end and Grandad would push me up in the air by pressing his hand on the seat. He’d never get on it. And that slide over there,” he beams as if he were twenty years younger, “it used seem like it was fifteen feet high at the top. I remember the first time I slid down it by myself, I felt like I could take on the world,” he laughs at such fondness for a couple of seconds before calming himself, retaining his grin. “The innocence of youth is something that escapes us all as we age, though. It is inevitable.” It is at that point that he produces something from under his arm; a cylindrical plastic container that has been made opaque by a thick layer of green paint.

“Is that… an urn?” Dolores frowns.

“It is indeed,” Horacio’s smile slowly begins to scupper. Upon removing the plastic lid of the container, he wedges it under his arm and plunges his arm within; his sleeve already pre-rolled up to his elbow. What he withdraws is a handful of granular sediments of ash. It’s coloration is traditional, yet it possesses the texture of sand. Methodically, he sifts the ash out of his hand, allowing it to sprinkle towards the ground as if it were chickenfeed. Residual particles are carried by the wind. He watches the dance that commemorates the deceased in awe until the moment passes as quickly as it had started; his fulfilment lasting longer than the spectacle itself.

“There you go, Grandad,” Horacio nods. As the last little remnant of ash disappears from view, Horacio lets out a content smile before closing his eyes, reminiscing or, maybe, praying. That could be perceived as an ludicrous notion, given his dismissive opinions towards religion as a whole. So deeply is he reminiscing the days of old that he does not take into consideration the curious glance coming from Dolores. Though keeping at a distance, she is noticeably intrigued by the unusual spectacle that has just unfolded in front of her. “What’s wrong?” Horacio senses that some form of judgement is coming his way.

“Don’t you think that’s a little… unorthodox,” Dolores feigns a giggle to obscure her confusion from Horacio’s view. “Cremated remains are often scattered in one specific place in one go. I can’t quite fathom why you would only scatter a small amount of his remains at any one time.”

“In that instance, the memory of their existence does not stay with those left behind in quite the same way,” Horacio explains the logic of his actions in rebuttal. “Take Dominic as a prime example. When Amy died, he was inconsolable. Not to the extent that he would shed perpetual tears, but to the point where he was so consumed with rage that he took it upon himself to desecrate her grave in a bid to distance himself from her memory.”

“You can’t use that as a reasonable comparison,” comes Dolores’ intent to argue this case, “Amy’s bereavement has been considerably recent when compared to that of your grandfather. You have had a much longer period of time to process his death in your mind.”

“That doesn’t mean that the pain is any different,” Horacio counters. The slightest of grimaces born of disbelief at Dolores’ comment appears amidst his folded lips; a facial expression that he rectifies quickly by turning his head to one side, following up on this act with the tried and tested technique of inhaling until his lungs are full to capacity, fit to burst, before slowly exhaling out of his nostrils like a dragon with it’s ability to produce flame omitted. “Not a day goes by where I forget to appreciate the sacrifice he made for me,” Horacio admits, his words lacking the deceit accustom to his normally secretive demeanour. “Had he not, neither of us would be stood here right now. The very least I can do for him is honour his last request.” These words ring true to Dolores, although not quite in the same way as Horacio had meant. “This is our way of remembering the dead. This is what he wanted. In other words; the place that my Grandad had chosen to have his ashes scattered is across time.”

Dolores cannot bring herself to counteract Horacio’s logic with her own. Instead, she smiles apathetically from beneath the hood of her cloak. The five stages of grief are not assigned to one particular timeframe. They come and go dependant on the mourner. Though Death is a face that we shall each meet some day, it is when he takes a loved one that he takes a little piece of us with him each and every time.

Stormm knows this all too well.

In spite of being partnered with the former World Champion on this occasion, Stormm finds himself opposite all too familiar foes. There could well be a newfound incentive for Justin to try and topple The Zenith; that being the recent passing of his brother-in-law, Johnny Matthews. The storied rivalry between Matthews and Dominator has been well documented, particularly throughout the middle of 2018. Whilst many a member of PCW personnel had expressed well wishes to the family and friends of the deceased, The Temporal King had remained silent on the matter.

Even in death, there was no love lost between the former Johnny Vivacious and The Zenith. He had not missed Matthews in his absence. It makes no difference how tragic the circumstances may be. The Zenith is not about to start caring simply because he has surrendered to time. Lest we not forget, it was Dominator who ran his sorry ass out of Pure Class Wrestling for good. Of course, there had been certain rumours doing the rounds that stated that Matthews sought to settle down away from the bright lights and assist his recently widowed wife elsewhere on the wrestling circuit long before their final clash just shy of one year ago. That, though, does not excuse what transpired in The Zenith’s wake.

Could this be Stormm’s new resolve; to avenge his brother in arms to gain at least one small piece of closure? Dedicating a victory to a fallen friend has not proven to be an effective form of motivation for Stormm in recent memory. Again, it cannot be said enough, Justin and Gerard are not facing a paltry pair of rag-tag morons like Kyle Shane and David Hunter. They are facing The Black Hand. And yet, despite the wealth of knowledge Stormm has by aligning with such a force in the past, it has transcended beyond anything that he ever knew.

Justin had struggled when faced with the odd coupling of Dominator and Sicko, who had proven that even as a disjointed unit, they were still capable of taking him down. And whilst he and Sicko had often shared a common goal, the duo of The Hangtown Horror and The Temporal King shared the same ideals. Consistently. Even with the gold-plated elephant in the room acting as a constant need for discussion amongst the experts, the fans and the theorists, it evidently does not yet act as a source of conflict between the two most prominent members of The Black Hand.

As entertaining a punching bag Justin Michaels makes, The Zenith is finding that there is less and less joy in doing it every passing time. On this occasion, The Zenith would put The Force Of Nature down for good and give him the room he needs to grieve.

Not the loss of his brother in law, but the loss of any last shred of credibility that the “Hall of Famer” has left to offer.

On the other hand, The Hollywood Hero’s brief non-attendance in recent weeks were sanctioned under the orders of the doctors that diagnosed the Grade 2 sprain of his Medial Collateral Ligament. Two to four weeks is the minimal amount of recovery time to overcome such an injury. By rushing headlong back into the fray to make his intentions clear before he can be usurped from his secondary position, Gerard is playing with the fire that has already burned him once already. Rather than wait for the optimal amount of time, he has instead arrived at the starting blocks ready to run this marathon as a lame duck; a most unwise decision, particular given that Angelo has sustained similar injuries in the past.

Maybe it boils down to the addictive phenomenon of adrenaline coursing through his veins that has reinvigorated Gerard to reach full health with such haste. It is a feeling that The Zenith could at least somewhat sympathise with. He too had engaged in a period of absence from the wrestling ring upon a devastating defeat to Arsen Goodstone that spelled the end of mimetic reign as Pure Class Wrestling’s Underground King. What differs between Gerard’s absence against The Zenith’s is that Gerard’s absence was necessary whilst Dominator’s time away was forced; a gesture of “goodwill” from the higher-ups on the PCW Board of Directors. Granted, the only injury Dominator had sustained at that time was to his pride, which arguably takes even longer to heal than a measly ligament.

During that time, The Zenith had formed a stratagem that rivalled a big money corporate plan; he would win the Deadly Rumble. But, in his haste, he had neglected to consider how serious a threat the eventual winner would be; that man being Gerard Angelo. Now, The Zenith had since addressed and made peace with this shortcoming, having disposed of Angelo on a handful of occasions since that day. He had since set his sights on other prizes and lived up to every subsequent promise that he had made to himself and, indeed, his peers and his followers.

But there is one key point that should be made here. Since that fateful day; Sunday 16th October 2018, The Zenith has not lost a single match.

Not. One.

It is a statistic that cannot be understated, dismissed or misconstrued. It is factual. There is nobody on the PCW roster who has demonstrated such a consistent level of violence and destruction over the last nine consecutive months. Dare it be said, not even the reigned World Champion. Such evidence must be taken into consideration by the balloters when the polls open for the imminent half-yearly Icey Awards.

And it is clearly something that is not prominent in people’s minds when they even begin to entertain the idea that they could possibly stand a chance of downing The Temporal King.

Gerard evidently does not expect mercy, yet vengeance is a highly elusory motive to chase when confronted not only by The Destroyer at Noonday, but The Temporal King as well. One does not need a pot of paint to draw the targeted area that will gain the utmost of The Black Hand’s sadistic attention. It would undoubtedly be ephemeral toture; short but oh-so-sweet, that would leave Gerard writhing in agony on the canvas like a lost clip on the cutting room floor.

“You Mortimers really do see things a lot differently than the rest of the world, don’t you?” She pauses upon contemplation. “Then again, what’s normal and what’s not normal in this day and age?” Horacio hums in agreement. “I’m assuming there’s still no word from Dominic?” Dolores prompts a change in the conversation with an expectant lean. Horacio shakes his head, rousing an exasperated grunt from the young woman. “Still nothing,” she sighs. “If only I could get to Hangtown myself, I’d drag him back here by his beard if I had to.”

“He will come back when he is ready,” Horacio states reassuringly. His tone of voice is much more relaxed than it has been in recent months. By now, he would be airing his grievances as to how unreliable Dominic’s timekeeping has become. Instead, he is simply staring at a set of swings, as if imagining a younger incarnation of himself is being pushed forward by his grandfather’s ghost. “I’ve come to accept the fact that Dominic is virtually the only one out of the three of us who is capable of sourcing the information that we need.”

“Did you realise that after reading The Book?” Dolores draws in breath with inquisitive excitement. It had been weeks since Dolores, Marx and Matthew had ventured to Hangtown to retrieve what they thought was the infamous “Book of The Black Hand,” yet by the carefree shake of Horacio’s head, she appears to have missed half of the story.

“To think that you’d have been able to retrieve ’The Book of The Black Hand’ with such ease would have been foolish,” Horacio remarks. “I’m afraid what you brought back was a fake copy. Dolores begins to stammer, refusing to believe that her efforts were in vain.

“How can you tell?” she stamps her foot out of frustration.

“I can’t really explain it. I just… could,” comes the noncommittal reply. Dolores cannot help but let out a small groan. “It must have something to do with my own connections to Hangtown. There may be elements of The Book engrained in my subconscious somewhere. That is the only logical reasoning I can muster. All I know is that what I read in the book you gave me didn’t feel genuine. At all.”

“Looks like we’re back to square one,” Dolores groans, folding her arms. “Whatever happens, we need to get Dominic out of Hangtown soon. It is unlikely that we will get anywhere close to him with the Dillingers hanging around…” Dolores cuts herself off as she notices Horacio’s peculiar stare. As she stops, he quickly looks away.

“Thank you for being with me today.” Horacio’s sudden display of sincerity catches Dolores off guard. So engaged has he been amidst his own undertakings in recent times, he rarely produces gestures that could even be considered to be gratuitous. For him to deliver such appreciation unprompted is something that Dolores accepts warmly. She had been wary of Horacio’s perfidious ways, but it pales in comparison to the nefarious instructions from her father; orders that she simply had to follow.

“Can we please discuss a means of luring Dominic away from Hangtown?” Dolores snaps, trying to keep things on track. The roles have well and truly been reversed. For so long has Horacio been the serious one whilst Dolores has been, for the most part, whimsical.

“Listen, I didn’t call you here to talk about Dominic,” he confesses. This, in itself, is a shock to Dolores. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately and, what, with everything going on with Dominic right now, I am coming to realise that

“Everything we have done has been for Dominic’s sake,” Dolores states. “You’re not about to give all of that up, are you?”

“I’m not saying that,” Horacio replies snappily to diffuse any confusion that might be stemming. “I wanted to tell you something important. Something even more important than The Chronological Order right now. I can’t put into words how happy you make me, so I’m just going to come right out and say it.”

“Horacio…” Dolores backs away slowly, concerned by what might be coming.

“I…”

A lump has formed in Horacio’s throat. Could it be a swelling of fear or of pride? Whatever it is, he has no option but to swallow it. Though veiled beneath her hood, Dolores’ eyes widen. She is paralysed as Horacio places his hands on her shoulders and slowly runs them along her neck. He goes to remove her hood.

“I… think I’m falling in love with you,” comes Horacio’s ultimate admission.

Her hood falls behind her head, revealing the extent of the horror that she has been desperately trying to hide. Her eye is gruesomely swollen, the bulbous skin a disgusting swirl of purple and dark blue. What appears to be blood-soaked surgical tape is all that keeps her right ear in contact with the side of her head. Long lacerations ripple from her torn ear down the length of her face like a coagulated bolt of reddened lightning that has become sodden by the tears that are now streaming down her face.

Horacio twitches in disbelief at what he sees.

“Dolores…” he murmurs with the same level of sincerity that he managed to tap into when declaring his true feelings towards her. He strokes the backs of his fingers gently towards her wounds. Both of them shudder passionately as they reciprocate one another’s good will towards each other Dolores takes Horacio’s hand, pressing it softly into her skin for a fleeting moment.

“Horacio… I…”

She at a complete loss for words. Never before has she been so conflicted in her life. Somehow, she trusted him. But given the horrific circumstances that she finds herself in, she finds herself conflicted.

“I can’t let him down.”

She suddenly glares at Horacio; a look of terror on her face. She whips his hands away.

That is the moment that she runs, immediately burying herself in the belt of trees directly behind her.

“I’m sorry, Horacio,” she weeps as she pulls the hood back over her head to mask her wounds. She looks only in the direction that she is hurriedly travelling, refusing to give Horacio’s declaration a second thought whilst still in his vicinity.

“Dolores!”

His arm had skimmed through the air with futility as he tried to latch on to her once again, yet she moved too quickly for him to sufficiently react. He lets his arm hang fruitlessly in the air like the branch of a tree. Only once she submerges herself amongst the foliage does he lower it. Horacio rapidly draws breath but, upon noticing the abrupt exit of Dolores, now no longer in sight, his exhalation sinks as heavily as his heart.

Never mind being the figurehead of The Chronological Order and the manager to PCW’s greatest asset. That, the confession was one of the hardest things he had ever had to do in his life. And even though the desired outcome had not presented itself immediately, Horacio feels a certain amount of pride in summoning the courage to express his limerence.

The first droplet of rain in what must be a month plops on the tip of Horacio’s nose. He had not noticed the dark clouds looming overhead, yet the petrichor strikes his nostrils with the power of a euphoric high. He reveres the gift that Mother Nature and Father Time have presented to him here and now…

…and yet, it is not enough.

As the crowds begin to disperse from the scene, the clouds begin to open their floodgates. What were mere droplets moments ago has now transformed into a torrential downpour. The refuge of the trees is not quite enough to shield him fully, but he is able to escape the worst of it. He slowly lowers himself back down onto the bench.

“Dominic,” Horacio sighs. “Where are you?”