Chrono Trigger Part VII (Before The Harvest Fields Forsaken)

[Dominator / Mortimer]

Monday 4th November 2019 - 5.40pm
Location: Hangtown, Kentucky

“Are we nearly there yet?”

In much the way that has become the norm as of late, Dominic’s initial instinct is to prolong acknowledging the voice, or indeed any voice, that might try and deter him from focusing on the matter at hand. Draped over his shoulder is some sort of enlarged duffel bag, covered in a thick and fully opaque blanket. The weight of it’s contents do not seem to have phased The Zenith’s levels of fatigue as he traverses the harsh terrain at Hangtown’s perimeter.

“I said are we nearly there yet!? My arms are falling asleep.”

“Your arms are falling asleep!?” The Zenith breaks his silence with a disgruntled snarl. “I could have left you to rot. I should have left you to rot.”

“Come now, Dom-Dom. You know as well as I do that you‘d never let that happen. Not if you want to inherit my wisdom.”

“Wisdom!? You can’t even stand on your own two feet.”

“Neither can you at this rate. It feels like we’ve been travelling for days on end. I wouldn‘t be surprised if the soles of your feet aren‘t covered in blisters by now.”

“It doesn’t normally take this long,” Dominic frowns, sharing the same sentiments. Indeed, navigating the outer reaches of the fabled town can be disorientating to those who are unaccustomed with such environs. Yet, this is not Dominic’s maiden voyage. He has made this journey many times. Granted, not so many as Phinehas or perhaps even his brother, Billy Sadistic, but often enough to know where all of the right and wrong turns lie.

He knows that he can’t have made a mistake. As grand a labyrinth as Hangtown’s barricade is, Dominic can map his route to perfection having learned the path like the back of his hand. His black hand, if you will. It is almost as though the trees are shifting positions in an act of defiance; either testing the abilities of The Zenith or, more alarmingly, obstructing him in such a way that it would deny him access to his newly discovered hometown in a dramatic demonstration of Hangtown’s power.

Somehow, it is a nice change of pace to feel tested. Complacency is dangerous. It clouds one’s judgement, as he learned back when David Hunter bereaved him of his most cherished possession. The Zenith knew that his time would eventually come. For now, he had other matters to attend to.

The debuting duo of Bret James and Jackson Reno, collectively known as ‘South Texas Deathride,’ possess one of the few advantages that any living person has when confronting The Black Hand; the element of the unknown. These two have allegedly been tearing it up in the native State, along with lesser known promotions; Universal Wrestling League being most recently. And in spite of their exploits, news of their endeavours had not reached PCW up until this point.

That’s just what Pure Class Wrestling needs. More fucking redneck Texans.

The Zenith had dealt with their kind before. Who could forget the war waged between him and Johnny Matthews, may God rest his soul, a year ago or more? We can all appreciate that everybody is unique, with their own sense of morals, purpose and techniques deployed when the necessity arises. However, if being in the former Johnny V’s company for such prolonged periods has taught him anything, it that those born in Texas have a, let’s say, certain way of doing things.

Those from Hangtown could also be accused of doing things a particular way, of course. The difference is; a man from Texas will kill a cow and feast on it’s meat for months. A man from Hangtown will kill a cow, feast on it’s meat for months, then devour the soul for dessert. More to the point; things are done in a radically different way in Pure Class Wrestling than anywhere that Bret James and Jackson Reno might have settled in before. How chameleonic are they when it comes to changing environs to ones as harsh as these. Only time will tell.

That being said, South Texas Deathride have a more immediate disadvantage.

Their initiation into Pure Class Wrestling is against The Black Hand; their debut match the personification of a trial by fire.

Because they are such anomalies, there is zero expectation for them to succeed. And as with most STDs, The Zenith will most likely have to get checked by a doctor at the end of the night.

Whereas Reno and James will need to be checked over by plastic surgeons.

Without warning, Dominic feels a whooshing sensation across his left ear. So forceful is the rush of air that The Zenith is uncertain as to whether or not he had actually been struck by something.

A quartet of short, shrill caws rattle through the autumn air from above. Dominic turns his head towards the treetops. One solitary crow surveys the scene from the branches. It is soon joined by another, coming in to land directly beside it. A third swoops down from a taller tree through the descending fog. Their calls make for common listening; the only source of entertainment that Hangtown provides before one reaches the areas populated more so by it’s human residents.

But their numbers continue to grow, as does the volume of their squawks as the avians each try to outdo one other. Such a display from the flock is aberrant. They are usually quick to disperse from a scene when something as imposing as The Zenith ventures into their domain, knowing that he is only passing through. Today though, the crows dare to be audacious. For every footstep Dominic takes, another dozen birds find space amidst the woodland’s thousand limbs until the canopy is so overrun with blackened feathers that they threaten to block the light from the setting sun.

“I don’t like the look of this,” Dominic acknowledges such an ominous presence. His insecurities soon become justified. Unable to determine if the culprit was the same one from before, the surge of displaced air runs past his ear. This time, he can indisputably verify a sharp pain go across his ear as a beak nips at his lobe. “Son of a…” he rasps, wincing from the suddenness of the pain rather than the measure of it. As he watches the offending crow fly off, he does not notice an impending second wave.

“One coming in on your six.”

The eyes at the back of his head do not fail him. He attempts to swat the bird out of the air as if it were a gnat, but it weaves through the air in order to avoid what would otherwise be a crippling blow. Sensing that this is anything but coincidental, he carefully slides the duffel bag off of his shoulder in order to cradle it with one arm, huddling it into his chest as best as he can; folding it so that it is in a foetal ball. He outstretches his free hand in preparation, allowing the rest of his body to relax in a bid to heighten his senses. Suddenly, Dominic pivots to his right, shooting his vacant arm forwards and snatches the avian right out of the sky. It lets out a distress squeak as the air is forced out of it’s body by The Zenith’s clenched hand.

It is at that moment that all hell breaks loose.

Rapidly launching from their perches, the crows descend upon Dominic, divebombing like feathered missiles towards Dominic’s chest, apparently more infatuated with the bag rather than The Temporal Tyrant himself. They claw at the blanket, trying to pull it away from the bag. Others begin to harass Dominic in the hope that it may force him to release his prize.

As The Zenith huddles over the bag, the crows become even more restless. Somehow, Dominic is able to see through the curtain of flurrying wings to see what looks likes an abandoned fox den that has been burrowed into the side of a woodland mound. Though it would not provide any asylum for a man of his gargantuan build, it looks narrow enough for him to stuff the bag so that it at least provides some security.

“I should have known this would happen.”

“Then why the hell didn’t you say anything!?”

“It’s been a long time since I last entered Hangtown’s boundaries. You’ve got to permit me for a small lapse in my memory.”

Dominic’s sleeveless vest top offers minimal armament against the barrage of claws and beaks ripping into his flesh. He can feel them becoming tangled in his long tresses of hair; subsequently ripping various strands from his scalp in order to escape. The Zenith can only grit his teeth amongst the ordeal as he barricades the entrance of the den. He remains rigid, unrelenting in his desperation to protect that which is in his possession. No sounds beyond the enraged squawks and the constant beating of wings are able to reach The Zenith’s ear.

“Enough!”

He cannot determine whether or not he had simply spoken aloud or someone else had made the call on his behalf. As quickly as the aerial assault had started, it becomes calm once more. The deafening caws fade into the distance. Dominic slowly turns his head to confirm his perception of what is happening. Save for a few stragglers that rest on some low hanging branches, the rest of the flock have vacated the scene, subdued by the arrival of Hangtown’s dark harbinger.

There he stands; The Destroyer At Noonday, Phinehas Dillinger.

“Marx would be proud,” Dominic passes comment on the Watchman’s fondness for birds; hence his nickname of The Birdman.

“Hangtown is angry.” Phinehas mysteriously quips as he slowly walks up towards Dominic. “What are you hiding in the bag, Dominic?”

“As if you don’t know,” Dominic smirks. Phinehas apparently feigns confusion. In truth though, he knows better.

They both do.

“Looks like it must be something important,” The Lord of Misrule notes.

“Not particularly,” comes the heartless response from The Suzerain of Time.

“I‘m right here, you know!”

Dominic shoots a glare towards the bag. He kicks it with his heel deeper into the animal set, covering it in a small amount of dirt and autumn leaves to camouflage it further than the coloration of the cloth covering it already does.

“As I say; nothing important,” The Zenith reiterates. “And besides, what do you mean Hangtown is angry?”

Phinehas Dillinger simply shakes his head.

“Crows aren’t territorial this time of season,” Phinehas briefly explains. “I would have thought you of all people should have known that, what, with your penchant for cycles in time and whatnot.” A valid rebuttal is not something that The Zenith can use to counteract such logic at such a speed. Phinehas looks neither smug nor exasperated, but undoubtedly enjoys this moment of speechlessness.

“If I wanted a lecture, I’d go back to Horacio’s,” comes Dominic’s reply. Eventually.

“I thought you wanted to know why Hangtown acted the way it just did?” Phinehas counters once again. The Zenith sighs. Arguing for the sake of arguing is going provide nothing of benefit in the long run. Conceding, he relents to Phinehas’ intelligence.

“You mean Hangtown attacked me… with crows?”

“It is a sentient entity,” Phinehas says. “Like the white blood cells in your body attacking bacterium, Hangtown is trying to defend itself against an unwelcome intruder.” Dominic follows Phinehas’ line of sight; back towards the bag that he has now left abandoned in the hollow. “It is pretty apparent that Hangtown is defining you, or whatever it is you’ve brought with you as something that it needs to monitor.”

“Do you define yourself under the same light?” Dominic says, folding his arms curiously. Phinehas merely chuckles softly to himself before lifting his head to look at The Zenith right in eye with a steely glare.

“I define myself as Phinehas Grimm.”

Leave it to The Lord of Misrule to live up to his name. Even with Hangtown under such an alleged threat, he does not seem intent, or even willing to pick between defending his hometown or assisting his comrade. He does not even go so far as to act as a mediator between both parties. In truth, Dominic simply could not get a good read of the man.

It has been something that has bothered him for the full year that the two had been on mutual terms. He was the answer to one of Dominic’s many questions.

“What about you, Dominic?” Phinehas says, tilting his head to stare at the beard that rivals his own. “Are you an antibody or a virus?”

“Oh, I’m a virus, all right,” Dominic declares without a moment’s hesitation. “But a virus can be defined in a number of ways. Am I one that infects? Or one that reprograms. Phinehas did not expect such a full frontal answer, yet he shows no signs of being emotionally perturbed. Dominic looks back to the bag one more time before looking sheepishly back to Grimm. “I lied before. There is something important in that bag that I need to keep safe.”

“It would be unwise to proceed any further with it,” Phinehas warns. The denotation of his voice suggests this is more of a direct instruction.

“Then let me grab just one thing from it,” Dominic says, motioning towards the sack without seeking any further approval from Phinehas. As Dominic kneels down at the entrance of the den, he plunges his arm deep into the bag.

“Don‘t even think about leaving me here! I‘ll be food for the crows!”

“Just relax and stay here. Well… it’s not as if you’re capable of going anywhere in your condition.”

“If something happens to me, you know you won‘t get the whole truth.”

“Phinehas has intervened. You’ll be safe. And besides… so long as I can keep them guessing, we both need not fear.”

Withdrawing his arm, he slips something into his pocket before securing the drawstrings of the sack tightly, sealing it a frankly unbreakable knot tied to such thickness that it would surely dull even the sharpest blade. He slowly gets up to his feet, dragging them across the forest floor as he reaches back into his pocket. Displaying his treasured possession to Grimm, he holds a pocket watch in the palm of his hand. Now that the crows have finally died down, the ticking of the mechanism within is the only sound that can be heard.

Phinehas’ stare is askance as Dominic tosses the watch upwards and snatches it out of the air before returning it to the sanctuary of his pocket, striding confidently past The Hangtown Horror before gesturing with his arm for Phinehas to take the lead.

“Shall we?”