Chapter Five
Mighty Molly didn't know what to make of her situation.
Her ride down the chute had been relatively short; she had heard the others still tumbling throughout the mansion long after she had been deposited into the expansive room that she now found herself staring around in amazement.
It was a beautifully constructed Japanese dojo split into three sections of equal length and width by a series of support columns. The polished wooden floor was laid in a complicated cross-hatch pattern intermittent with lavishly designed diamond sections that stood out so completely from the rest of the flooring that they seemed to jump out at her. The support columns were laden with intricate carvings of symbols and figures that Molly couldn't begin to understand, and yet they held her attention as if trying to tell her something. These glyphs were mimicked on the framework of the walls, which were composed of a finely woven material that had no apparent beginning or end. There were no obvious doorways or seams; the cloth wall circumvented the entire room.
Its most breathtaking characteristic, however, could only be discerned as Molly moved into the centre of the room. For while, up close, the cloth walls appeared to be dyed random vibrant, but meaningless colours, this new wider perspective allowed the hues to take on an wholly different form. Molly's jaw dropped as she turned full circle on her heel to take it all in: an enormous dragon that, from nose-tip to tail-tip, stretched around the entire room. Every muscle detailed to perfection, the dragon seemed to move with a life of its own as invisible breezes rippled the fabric. It was breathtakingly gorgeous.
Words were so obviously useless in a place such as this, and in her wonder Molly forgot the danger she and her companions were in. The dragon was calling to her, beckoning her to come closer so that he could reveal to her secrets beyond anything she could ever have imagined. He would make it so she would never lose her powers again. He could show her how to discover her full potential. He could explain the workings of the male mind.
She couldn't resist.
Trance-like, Molly approached the dragon's head, obediently following his silent summons. His great eye was emerald green and glittered like a precious jewel as its gaze pierced her mind and stared into her soul. He seemed to read her deepest, most secret thoughts and fears and Molly made no effort to hide them, feeling completely safe in his presence.
So fixed was her attention on the dragon that Molly did not notice the room growing dark. A sinister shadow, that had begun in one corner and had slowly crawled up the walls and slithered across the floor, silently followed her movements and threatened to swallow her up as it engulfed the dojo.
Molly reached the dragon's eye and ran the pads of her fingers along the soft fabric, feeling every textured scale of the majestic creature's skin.
The shadow continued to spread like a sickness over the walls, covering the entire room in black and plunging the room into darkness.
The glowing eye was soon all that remained, and its green intensity held Molly's gaze. She leaned closer to hear what secrets it had to tell.
Turn around.
She did as she was told, and then the last thing she saw was the vast, heavy shadow drawing into itself and taking corporeal form before her. In the split second it took to recognize Tajiri he had attacked, spitting an acidic substance into her eyes.
The green mist!
Molly recoiled in pain and futilely clawed at her burning retinas. She saw flashes of colour and white-hot fire and could feel her own tears streaming freely down her cheeks – or was it blood?
In her agony she stumbled around the dojo until she crashed into one of the support columns and fell to the stylized wooden floor. After pushing herself to her knees she pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes until the pain finally and steadily receded from excruciation to a dull ache. She hopefully forced open her eyelids.
Nothing.
The world had been reduced to a great black void tinged with occasional flashes of returning, stinging pain. And while Molly would have certainly spent the next several minutes berating herself for being so utterly naïve and gullible as to have trusted and believed the dragon's promise of safety, she suddenly remembered that, blind or not, she was still in very real and immediate danger.
Tajiri was somewhere in the room. No doubt gloating over this victory, she thought bitterly as she roughly wiped her cheeks. But she resolved that he was in for a surprise; she would not give up so easily.
Using the column to pull herself slowly to her feet, Molly cocked her head to the side and tried to make as little noise as possible in hopes of some audio clue as to her opponent's whereabouts. She stilled her thoughts and cleared her mind to direct full attention to capturing that one sound that would give Tajiri away. She took a tentative step forward, holding her breath; her heart scarcely dared to beat.
A faint skittering to her immediate left caused Molly to throw a potentially impressive power punch in that direction but she connected with nothing but air and ended up spinning momentarily out of control. The sound came again, directly to her right this time, and she tried again and yielded the same results.
Molly bit her lower lip and fought back tears of frustration, knowing how ridiculous she must look. She could picture Tajiri a mere two feet away, laughing at her blind ineptitude, and the thought enraged her. She clenched her teeth and balled her fists, as her blood began to boil, and felt more determined than ever to succeed.
That was when the first blow came.
What was unmistakably Tajiri's concrete-like foot smashed into the back of her head and the black nothingness before her eyes exploded into a sea of glaringly white stars. Her knees buckled and she fell back to the floor, unconsciousness threatening to wash over her.
And Tajiri didn't stop there. A relentless assault of kicks to Molly's midsection followed and every time she tried to feebly swing at where she thought he would be, the next attack came from the other side.
Tears streamed freely down her face and every forcibly-drawn breath caused sharp stabs of pain in her ribcage. She could taste flecks of blood that accompanied every cough.
When one relies on sight to perceive the world, it is like trying to stare at the galaxy through a crack in the door.
Molly knew the quote and, for a moment in her weakened state, thought that the dragon had spoken. She quickly deduced, however, that what she could only describe as her subconscious was attempting to tell her something using her memories. What good an obscure, if inspiring, Star Wars reference was she had no idea. Then again, she had used a Spider-man quote to bring the Hurricane back to his senses…
Your eyes are useless. Your senses deceive you. I can be the help you're looking for.
It wasn't her subconscious after all; Molly recognized the weak grammatical structure before the voice. "Rosey?" she coughed pathetically after another stiff kick.
Clear your mind! Trust me!
With all the mental strength she had left, Molly courageously blocked out the pain that was screaming from her ribs and eyes, and wiped all the thoughts from her mind. In a fraction of a second Rosey linked his consciousness with hers…
…and suddenly she could see.
The room spilled into form as though it had been poured from a paint-can onto the giant black canvas that had surrounded her. And yet it was not the dojo Molly had seen before Tajiri had blinded her but rather a strange impression of it. It was like being trapped in a film negative or, more accurately, like the image burned into one's eyes after staring into a bright light.
But it was enough for Molly to 'see' Tajiri's foot coming at her again.
She caught the kick with one hand and twisted, corkscrewing Tajiri into the ground. He grunted in surprise, having thought her to have been down and out. How she had been able to predict – no, it was more like she had known – where his next strike would land was inconceivable; the mist should have irreversibly stolen her sight.
As impossible as it was, it was happening. Molly was on her feet now and moving with an assured confidence that left no doubt in Tajiri's mind that the mist had somehow failed. Even so, it was now perplexing him as to how she had summoned this strength after taking such a beating. She was blocking every kick and dodging every punch. Finally, in his growing desperation to land a hit, Tajiri made his mistake. Molly was ready for it.
Tajiri opted for a high-risk/high-reward maneuver and executed a spinning heel kick. Molly countered by grabbing hold of his ankle and using his own momentum against him. In an impressive display of her heroic might, Molly followed through on the spin, and flung him across the dojo like a Frisbee. The Japanese Buzzsaw collided with one of the support pillars, which blew apart from the impact in a hail of dust and debris. Tajiri lay motionless on the ground.
You did it! Rosey's telepathic voice was full of pride.
Molly gasped; her ribs were once again screaming and she barely heard Rosey's comment. The shakes had quickly set in as she came down from the adrenaline rush and she was suddenly painfully aware of every injury she had sustained in the fight. As her hands clutched her side she could feel that several of the ribs were cracked or broken. And with even the smallest movement bringing with it unbearable agony, the white flashes returned and blotted out the telepathic vision that Rosey had been feeding her. The sight of the room melting away for the second time sent Molly into a panic.
"Rosey!" she choked out. "Help!"
Molly! Don't lose me! You have to stay calm!
"I can't…" she said as the tears began to run down her face and turned into frightened heaving sobs that sent shockwaves through her ribcage.
Molly—
Molly's distressed mind severed the psychic link and Rosey was gone, leaving her alone again in the black nothingness.
The Undertaker stared into the demonic eyes of his black-hearted baby brother, and, not for the first time, knew that he was in for the fight of his life.
Kane had wasted no time in taking the fight to his older sibling. Undertaker had barely emerged from the chute into the mansion's boiler room before the man known by many as the 'Big Red Machine' (and by many more as the 'Big Red Monster' for obvious reasons) had attacked and had activated his psionic control over pyrokinectics and ignited a perimeter of very hot fire. The sudden brightness had worked perfectly to his advantage; Undertaker had needed to shield his eyes and therefore had not even seen Kane before he had already landed his first blow. Then the two giants had exchanged shots until Kane connected with a vicious open-handed uppercut that had sent the Taker reeling.
"Forgot about me, didn't you?" Kane now sneered as he took a moment to crack his knuckles. "Conveniently wreaking your own brand of havoc unchallenged on Smackdown! whilst keeping your distance from the one force that seeks nothing but your ultimate destruction."
"Your challenges have never gone unanswered, Kane," Taker growled monotonously, and met his gaze unblinking. "Were you ever ready to stop playing on RAW – WWE's version of the children's sandbox – and come and join the big boys, the Creatures of the Night would have been only too happy to prepare you for the total annihilation of your soul."
"Ah, but you see, my brother, that is why you could never truly defeat me," Kane retorted with a twisted, wry grin. "I have no soul."
And as their unholy war continued, the Undertaker's mind raced. He had been exposed to Kane's Hellfire on several occasions, so the towering inferno walling them in did little to physically concern him. His brother's ability to control the fire was, however, another matter; so long as the flames burned, Kane could essentially siphon strength from them. It was why he preferred the blistering heat of the boiler room and the burning danger of Inferno matches.
Such was the clear reasoning behind Kane's sudden and relentless attack – it was in his best interest to end the battle quickly before the Undertaker could gather his wits and gain the informed upper hand.
Had the Taker a full range of emotions, he would have laughed; by coming to this realization the advantage had become his.
With uncharacteristic speed, Taker dropkicked Kane squarely on the chin, rattling his jawbone and knocking him backward. Then, before Kane could recover, the Phenom summoned again the mists that rose to fill the boiler room and snuff out the flames.
Kane felt the sudden coldness wrap around his bare upper torso like an icy blanket, and with a tremendous bellow of unbridled rage, took hold of the man who had wronged him as a child so many years ago, and hurled them both into the brick wall. In an explosion that rained powdered mortar over their bodies, Undertaker and Kane crashed through into the adjacent room.
"Aw, and here I thought this dance would be one-on-one."
Shawn Michaels and Kurt Angle, who had clearly been having it out for several minutes already in what was apparently astorage room, had both stopped to gape in confusion at the two giants' dramatic entrance. Kurt was visibly irked at the sight of Kane (of course, Kane looked less than enthused to see Angle as well), but it was Shawn who had voiced his distaste for the new situation.
"I thought I made it clear outside, Dead Man," the Heart-break Kid said arrogantly as he hauled his (tentative) ally to his feet. "Angle is mine, and mine alone. So what's the big idea with…"
The Undertaker had fixed Michaels with the ugliest, most terrifying Death Glare in the history of the known world.
"Or, you know, on second thought, tag team matches are one of my specialties."
"Bring it on!" Kurt spat as sweat ran down his face and his red-white-and-blue mouthguard glistened with saliva. "It doesn't matter how many of you there are! Nobody beats the wrestling machine!"
And with that, he and Kane (who, in all honesty, was just happy that it wasn't Edge with whom he was being forced to team) charged at their opponents, and Michaels and the Undertaker dove in opposite directions to avoid being bulldozed. Shawn was on his feet first and leapfrogged Angle as he charged him again. Instinctively he held his hand out toward Taker who took hold and slingshot him toward his target, allowing Michaels to drive a high-velocity elbow into the self-proclaimed 'Olympic hero's cheekbone.
Taker then turned his attention back to his baby brother, who had set him with his characteristic psychotic red-eyed stare. For a (very) brief moment he wondered why Kane had not attacked from behind but the answer became instantly clear: this battle was deeply personal and Kane sought to prove once and for all which Brother of Destruction was superior.
They matched each other blow for blow, landing hits that would crush the average man's skull and mash his insides into a fine paste. Finally, in a terrifying mirror-image, both men went for the Chokeslam and were caught with the other's hand clamped around his throat in a deadly stalemate.
The movement caught Shawn's eye and his attention was diverted for that split second that allowed Angle to plant a boot in his stomach, doubling him over. Angle followed up by grabbing hold of Shawn and suplexing him over his head, snapping Michaels' back down onto the brick rubble strewn about the concrete floor. Michaels' spine arched unnaturally as he recoiled from the pain, and Angle sprang to his feet to press the advantage, setting in the dreaded Anklelock before Shawn could move to block it.
"Give it up, Michaels!" Kurt spat. "If you're lucky, maybe I'll show mercy and finish you quick."
Shawn's hands flew to his face and he writhed in agony as Angle twisted and wrestling at his ankle, applying continuous pressure to the bones that were threatening to snap. Angle could smell victory in Michaels' pain and it was driving his senses wild; there was no way Christian could ignore his worth after single-handedly putting down a super. Oh it's true, he thought smugly. It's true.
Crack!
It had been a move of sheer desperation. Michaels had groped frantically for anything within arm's reach and had wrapped his fingers around the legs of a wooden dining chair. Noting (alongside its curiously convenient placement) that it was hardly steel but admitting the beggars could ill afford to be choosers, he had swung it with all his might and had brought it crashing down over Kurt Angle's bald head. It had been more than sufficient; Kurt's grip slackened and Michaels' ankle was free.
"I never give up," Michaels muttered as he gingerly got to his feet with what was left of the chair still in his grasp. He turned his attention back to the showdown between the unholy siblings and saw that Kane looked to be gaining the upper hand. The Undertaker was steadily faltering in the battle for position that would finally allow one to escape the clutches of the other and be subsequently slammed to the floor.
Michaels made the only decision there was to make and, gritting his teeth against the throbbing pain in his ankle, hobbled toward them. Using the splintered chair-frame as support, he planted his bad foot firmly on the ground. The other foot he thrust upward and caught Kane squarely on the jaw with his patented superkick known as the Sweet Chin Music. The impact was enough to rattle every tooth in his head, and Kane blinked once before dropping like dead weight to the floor.
"So it's true what they say," Michaels mused, rubbing his ankle. "Music does put monsters to sleep."
The Undertaker made no reply as he recovered his breath, but his pale face registered unspoken gratitude, and Shawn was smart enough to realize that it was probably the best he was going to get.
As the two of them turned to leave, however, a pair of hands took hold of Michaels from behind and a seething voice hissed in his ear:
"I never give up either, 'Sexy Boy.'"
Michaels had only the time to recognize Kurt Angle's throaty snarl before he was lifted off his feet and tossed through the air via release version of the Angle Slam. He crashed hard into the ground, knocking his head against the unforgiving concrete and jarring his already-injured ankle.
A sharp bark of mocking laughter escaped Kurt's lips as he admired his handiwork but his celebration had begun far too soon. The moment he turned around he was 'formally introduced' to the Undertaker's enormous boot. Before his brain had a chance to register what was happening he had been hoisted into the air and held touching the ceiling at full extension of Taker's arms. At this point his senses caught up to the situation.
"Oh, shi—"
His distressed expletive was cut off as he was treated to a Last Ride powerbomb that had enough force behind it to crack the cement. In what closely resembled a murder scene, the foundation fractured around Angle's supine body like a haphazard chalk line.
"Rest in peace," Undertaker growled his familiar mantra.
Michaels groaned as he rubbed the back of his head and was unceremoniously hauled to his feet by the larger man. He winced at the jolt to his ankle but composed himself, not wanting to show weakness.
"Thanks…partner," he said, extending his hand (and was more than a little surprised when the other shook it). "Not that I couldn't have done it myself."
Undertaker just stared at him. Shawn grinned sheepishly. Then the two of them picked their way through the rubble and eventually found the mansion's front doors. Without so much as a thought for the rest of the team or another word for each other they exited and went their separate ways.
In the boiler room, several stories below, Kane slowly sat up...