Chapter Six
The Hurricane had only to take one look around the room where he'd been dumped to know that he was in trouble.
The trapdoor concealing the chute that had transported him through the mansion had opened in the ceiling in the exact centre of the room. Scattered around the noticeably bloodstained hardwood floor were various instruments undoubtedly meant for torture: chains, whips, blades of all shape and size. A medieval torture rack sat ominously in one corner and an iron maiden stood opposite looking just as menacing. There was also no visible means of escape; the chamber was isolated from the only doorway by a long wall of steel mesh cage, as though the implied torture sessions were meant for spectators…
All of this would have to register later, however, as the Hurricane's attention was fully fixed on the piece of furniture decorating a third corner: an enormous bed with black satin sheets dominated the chamber, its solid oaken bedposts adorned with handcuffs and blood-red candles. Sitting on top, with an evil glint in her eye, dressed like a dominatrix and stroking a cat-o-nine-tails was Lita.
It was enough to make a man completely terrified and yet immensely horny all at the same time. Hurricane swallowed hard.
"Somehow, Citizen Lita, it does not surprise me that you would feel at home in a place like this."
Lita smiled coyly. "Now, now, Hurricane. If you keep saying mean and nasty things like that, I just might have to give you a-" here she licked the flails of the cat-o-nine-tails before slapping it into her open palm, "-spanking."
Hurricane took a moment longer than he should have to regain his composure and Lita eyed him hungrily, knowing that it was only a matter of time before he cracked. Men are so predictably easy, she mused. It was no wonder to her why she had been rewarded the task to personally handle the leader of their pathetic little resistance task force.
"I must make a plea to your better nature – and yes, I believe that even you have a better nature," the Hurricane began again. "The Coalition is purely evil, and the Peepulation cannot be allowed to—"
"Come sit beside me," Lita purred, interrupting his rant. She traced her finger along the satin sheet and cast a look of longing at him. "I promise I'll be gentle at first."
Hurricane promptly broke into a sweat and, before he even realized that he had done so, complied with her request.
"I have a girlfriend," he stammered rather pathetically.
"Molly?" Lita's giggle was laced with spiteful mockery. "There won't be much left of her to call a girlfriend after tonight."
The reality of her words snapped Hurricane out of his hormone-induced stupor. "What have you done to her?"
Lita's eyes flashed malice; she was enjoying every moment. "Not me, honey," she cooed, roughly scratching her fingernails through his emerald-curls. "The boys wanted to play with her. And here you are, unable to protect her. Again."
Hurricane felt his cheeks burn at the comment. Is she serious? He wanted to believe that she was lying through her teeth – that she was trying to provoke him into doing something stupid and by way break him. But something told him that it was the truth. And while Molly had known this time around the dangers they would face as heroes, did that excuse his complete inability to be there for her and protect her from her destruction a second time?
His question would go unanswered, however, as both his inner turmoil and Lita's lust for cruelty was interrupted by another voice:
"The power to orchestrate the mental and professional downfall of any sentient being, and you choose the one who's 'been there, done that.' Then again, sloppy seconds always was your style."
Trish had appeared in the chamber, her arms crossed imperiously and her dark eyes fixed on Lita. The red-haired Diva became instantly defensive.
"Get your own plaything, Stratus," she hissed. "I don't need any help from you."
"Actually," Trish replied matter-of-factly with a toss of her blonde mane, "I'm here to help him."
Lita gnashed her teeth. "I knew it," she spat, getting to her feet. "I knew you would turn out to be nothing but alittle traitor!"
On the last word she lost all self-restraint and lunged at her long-time nemesis. But Trish had been anticipating the attack and at the last possible second bridged backward with such grace that it could have been straight out of The Matrix. Lita's momentum carried her onward and she crashed, completely out-of-control, into the torture rack.
"You haven't got much time," Trish said to Hurricane once she had straightened. "Keeping with the tradition of terrible clichés, the iron maiden is a secret exit. It opens into a tunnel that will lead you directly to Christian's office. Meanwhile, I'll take care of Lita," she added with a smirk.
Hurricane jumped for the iron maiden, his mind still jumbled with thoughts of Molly in pain (or worse) but then turned back. "Citi-er...Trish? I…thanks again. For everything. We really owe you."
Trish smiled, sincerely flattered. "All in a day's work, honey. Just don't forget the promise you made me."
Hurricane smartly saluted his affirmation and then disappeared down the secret passage. Trish turned to Lita, who was picking herself up off the torture rack, her eyes burning with intense hatred.
"I've been waiting a long time to get you alone," Lita said slowly, flexing her long fingers like a cat testing its claws. "All I needed was an excuse."
"Talk, talk, talk, talk, talk," Trish yawned with deliberate over-emphasis. "That's all you do these days, girl! I swear whoever made the decision to give you a mic on national television should seriously be shot. Week after week…like nails on a chalkboard."
Trish certainly knew all of her arch-rival's buttons; outraged, Lita picked up the chain that was lying at her feet. "How about I make it the final nail in your coffin?" she shot back, wrapping the chain around her fists and snapping it tight between them before she attacked.
Stratus dodged two wild kicks but caught a third in the soft flesh of her stomach that doubled her over. Even as the air was still escaping from Trish's lips Lita was on top of her, throwing her hands over her opponent's head and pulling the chain into her throat. Trish emitted a strangled cry and tugged at the chain in an attempt to out-muscle Lita enough to allow air into her lungs. Lita laughed savagely, feeling the strength slowly draining from the Women's Champion.
Trish's oxygen-deprived mind raced; if she couldn't out-muscle Lita then she had to out-wit her. And with that realization Trish planted both feet into the ground and sprang backward, smashing Lita-first into the solid wood bedpost. The red-maned Diva released her grip and Trish fell forward, sucking wind.
But Trish hadn't become Champ by playing defense all night. She was quickly to her feet again and wasted no time in grabbing dual fistfuls of Lita's crimson locks. With her rival screaming bloody murder Trish yanked hard and sent Lita flying right back into the torture rack.
Trish moved fast, and Lita was still shaking the proverbial cobwebs out as she took her hand and roughly slammed it into the wooden frame and tied it down with one of the rack's leather straps. She reached for the other hand, but Lita had snapped out of her haze. Pivoting her hips to knock Trish off balance she swung both legs back and landed double kicks into the other woman's ear. Trish reeled, but as Lita made to follow up the strap held tight. She screamed in frustration and Trish took the moment to catch her breath completely.
"What's the point in this anyway, Stratus?" Lita demanded as she struggled with her restraint. "You already had second-in-command, and you're throwing that away for the Hurricane?" A strange look crossed her face as a thought occurred to her. "You're using him, aren't you? You'll double-cross him after he takes out Christian, which leaves you with sole command!"
"Oh, Lita," Trish shook her head condescendingly. "You're on the right track, but, as usual, you can't see the big picture."
"Enlighten me, bitch."
"Obviously I need Hurricane to take out Christian," she admitted, unaffected by the insult. "I couldn't do it myself because of the failsafe link to the Coalition. But I won't waste my breath explaining why; the concepts of right and wrong tend to be lost on you."
"It still won't work," Lita pointedly rolled her eyes. "You're Coalition too, and we can't both lose. Christian's failsafe will still be intact."
"Au contraire," Trish smiled knowingly, pulling a small metal disc from inside her bra. "I always keep an extra card up my…sleeve."
"What's that?"
"Our ensured stalemate, my dear. We both lose."
Trish clicked a tiny button on the disc and immediately a ghostly hissing noise could be heard coming from inside the walls. The chamber grew cloudy as gas began to steadily seep in through hidden vents.
Lita's eyes widened as she suddenly understood Trish's full intent to sacrifice herself. She struggled harder against the leather strap, twisting her body to bring her other hand up in an effort to free herself. Her breathing became panicked and more gas was inadvertently sucked into her lungs until her struggles finally ceased. With one last ugly, hate-filled Death Glare cast at her adversary, Lita lost consciousness.
Trish, in turn, smiled faintly before she too passed out.
The Hurricane raced wildly down the secret passage and, coming to an apparent dead-end but spying a thin line of light at the base, threw himself against the obstacle. What turned out to be a false bookshelf swung open to reveal, as Trish had promised, what could only be Christian's office.
It was empty.
Hurricane narrowed his eyes and carefully scrutinized the room. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary; all the articles on the large wooden desk that imperiously occupied the far end of the room were arranged in right angles to the edge and all papers were stacked in neat piles. There was nothing whatsoever to indicate that Christian had left in any hurry or panic.
Movement caught his eye and Hurricane turned his head to see that the paneling on the wall adjacent to the secret passage had been moved aside to reveal three rows of five television screens, peculiarly muted. A couple of them depicted images of recognizable rooms and areas in and around the mansion. A surveillance system, he realized, and again noted the bizarre lack of evidence regarding Christian's flight. A great black leather chair faced the screens and one clearly showed the torture chamber – surely he had seen the Hurricane coming?
He raised an eyebrow and walked cautiously toward the desk, wondering if any of the papers held a clue as to Christian's whereabouts. As he did so, the bookcase swung slowly shut behind him, sealing tightly to the wall and leaving no trace of the passage it concealed. The steady ticking of a clock was the only sound beside his feet shuffling on the carpet, but a quick glance around failed to locate any timepiece. A shiver ran up his spine now, and he had the distinct impression that he was being watched.
Absently he ruffled through the multiple papers on the desk, but most were filled with legal-sounding jargon and were utterly unhelpful. The only one that was different was a single sheet of notebook paper that listed several names: Kevin Nash, Edge, Chris Jericho, the Hurricane, Scott D'Amore, Jeff Jarrett, Sting. Hurricane chewed his bottom lip in thought, wondering at his apparent connection with these other men.
Without knowing quite why, he picked up a picture frame (that had been sitting at a perfect angle to the desk corner) and studied the photograph inside. Christian was portrayed standing next to a titanic black Hummer that was polished to a mirror-like finish. One had was behind his back, but in the reflection in the vehicle's hood Hurricane could swear that Christian was hiding a white and black mask. This all felt very familiar, like it should have meant something to him, but for the life of him he couldn't figure out why.
"Curious," he muttered.
"Let sleeping dogs lie, Hurricane. No sense dredging up the past when it'll just get you into more trouble."
Hurricane dropped the photograph in surprise and turned to see Christian smiling arrogantly from the chair that had moments before been facing the other way. Hurricane silently cursed himself; why hadn't his Hurri-senses detected Christian's presence?
"Power dampeners," the other replied as though he had read his mind, indicating the baseboards. "Cover the entire office. Had them installed myself – yet another safeguard should any of my loyal—" here he coughed sarcastically, "—enforcers get any ideas. Call me paranoid, but hey, show me someone who isn't and I'll show you the Dork Chop never meant to hold any power for long.
"But where are my manners?" he exclaimed with a wry grin, jumping to his feet and wiping anything remotely offensive from his hands onto his pants before extending the right to his nemesis. "Finally we meet without any false pretence. A pleasure, Mr. Helms."
Hurricane stared coolly at the hand before meeting Christian's eyes. "Don't call me that. I am the Hurricane, and I will remain the Hurricane."
"Oh, please," Christian laughed as he pulled his hand back and ran it along his short faux-hawk, covering for being left hanging. "Shane Helms, 'Sugar' Shane Helms, Gregory Helms, Hurricane, back to Helms again, back to the Hurricane – I've never met anyone so D.I.D. in my life. Well, except maybe Billy Gunn."
Hurricane studied Christian carefully and noted with a touch of satisfaction that his hand had moved from his hair to gently and discretely massage his temple. A moment passed when a quick look of nearly-disguised pain crossed his face followed by another and another. Finally he gave up trying to hide his discomfort and pressed the heel of his palm into the side of his head.
"Headache?" Hurricane asked smugly.
"Don't get smart, kid, stay just the way you are," Christian returned through clenched teeth. "I'll give you your dues, though: using the Coalition failsafe against me? Good plan…wasn't yours, was it?" It was more of a statement than a question.
"Citizen Stratus has defected from your Inner Circle," Hurricane declared, neither affirming nor denying the inquiry. "She is one of us."
"And you believe that. Cute," Christian replied so swiftly that the Hurricane was taken aback. "Trish will do what is best for her. Always two steps ahead, that one. It's half the reason I find her so hot – come on now, Hurricane! Don't look so betrayed!" he chuckled at the look on his rival's face. "If it's any consolation, Trish truly was your ally tonight. But mark my words: she was never on your side. Think of it as a game between she and I – who can get the better of whom."
"You're monologuing."
"In true heel fashion. That's how I roll," he smirked as he casually moved behind his desk, popped open a bottle of Tylonol from the top drawer and dry-swallowing two tablets. Then, without warning, he lurched in the Hurricane's direction, and the superhero snapped immediately into a defensive stance. Christian smiled mischievously, amused that his feint had caught the other off-guard. Hurricane, in turn, cursed himself again, this time for allowing the clever villain to unnerve him, and eyed him even more closely than before.
"Hurricane, you're in luck," Christian began again, his voice swelling to indicate that the time for small talk was over and he was coming to his point. "You caught me in a good mood today – so good a mood in fact that I won't even comment on that fashion faux-pas of a costume you're wearing. And since I'm in such a good mood and I'm such an admirably decent and charming fellow, I'm going to give you two choices."
Hurricane remained un-amused by the ribbing shot. "And what, pray tell, are these choices, Citizen Christian?"
"Choice number one: we fight," he shrugged as though it should have been obvious. "You've got a lot of moxie, kid, so I can only expect that even without your powers you'll make for a worthy opponent. Anything goes, of course, and we battle until one of us cannot continue – a 'Last Man Standing' match, if you will."
"And choice-number two?" Hurricane asked, looking as though he'd like nothing better than to jump-start choice-number one right then.
Christian's eyes flashed. "You get to save your friends."
Hurricane blanched; that was certainly not what he had been expecting. He stared at Christian for a long moment, searching for any sign of a bluff, but Christian's expression gave nothing away. Hurricane's stomach tightened as he saw how much the other man was enjoying his indecision. Finally he spoke:
"I don't believe you."
Christian raised his eyebrows as if surprised, but the sly look on his face remained. Without a word he picked up a small black remote from his desk, pointed it at the surveillance screens and clicked a button. Audio feedback was immediately restored and the office was filled with the sound of voices resonating desperation, pain and despair. Hurricane closed his eyes against the heart-wrenching echo of Molly's cries for help.
"They're all still alive, of course – I can't have you thinking any less of me, as if that were possible," Christian added with a chuckle that was inappropriately jovial. "While your hired goons seem to have flown the coop, there are several key players remaining. Trish the Dish is out cold through a noble act of self-sacrifice – convincing little actress, isn't she? Your partner Rosey and his shiny new crushed larynx is wandering the subterranean labyrinth, and even with the impressive ESP he seems to have developed it's unlikely that he'll find the way out on his own. And Molly—"
"Don't."
"Dear sweet Mighty Molly," Christian continued, spurred on by the emotion in Hurricane's interjection, "took a double dose of concentrated green mist full in the eyes. She'll probably never see again – not to mention the sheer agony she must have experienced when her retinas practically melted inside her head. Yikes.
"But now to the point! This was all done by my people following my orders and I so totally deserve to be brought to justice. Hell, you're basically obligated to pummel my ass. Take that route, however, and I lock down the mansion. You'll get your fight, but your allies will all be 're-educated' and by the time you find them, they'll be obedient, brainwashed little puppets of the Peepulation.
"On the other hand, opt to rescue them and you thereby prove to them that you won't give up on them just like they refused to give up on you. In time, Molly and Rosey will learn to adapt to their newfound handicaps-turned-strengths and use them to 'fight the good fight,' so to speak – isn't it funny how it always seems to work out like that? Heroes come so close to their own total destruction only to come out stronger in the end?" He paused a moment for the musing to effectively sink in. "The catch on option B, of course: I walk. A get-out-of-jail-free card in return for the free will of your companions.
"So which is it, Hurricane?" Christian asked gleefully. "The conquering hero?-or the valiant savior? Tough call, eh?" he folded his arms and frowned in mock sympathy.
Hurricane's eyes had gone dark asa shadow had settled over them. His fists clenched and unclenched in a rage such that he had never before felt. This was miles beyond any anger he'd experienced after the fateful attack by Kurt Angle. Then, he'd wanted to give up but was forced to act. Now, he wanted nothing more than to act but was being forced to give up. It was absolutely infuriating.
"You planned all of this."
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but Trish did mention that, did she not?" Christian scoffed. "Just because you failed to understand the definitely of 'everything' can hardly be blamed on—"
Christian never got to finish his sentence. In fact, when Hurricane's rock-hard knuckled contacted the delicate bridge of his nose, the 'on' in his sentence drew out into more of a nasal 'oh!' as blood began gushing out and thereby blocking his air passages. His hands flew to his face to stop the wave of crimson from cascading down his chin and onto the office's plush carpeting. With tiny streams of blood trickling out between his fingers, he looked up at the Hurricane (who was shaking his now-sore hand).
"That's how I roll," he said sarcastically before striding with purpose to the office's large double-doors and making a grand exit by pushing both open at the same time. Christian watched him go, genuinely stunned, before that characteristic grin spread wide across his blood-smeared face.
"Well played, Mr. Helms," he said simply. Then, without another word, he quickly gathered together odds and ends around the office (including both the list of names and the framed photograph) and silently made his escape.