Déjà Vu : When Fiction becomes Fate, can Destiny be Rewritten?

Chapter 25: Eldorado

The sun blazed overhead, casting long shadows across the dusty street of Eldorado. A weathered sign creaked in the wind, hanging precariously from a wooden post: Eldorado. In the distance, the skeleton of a cowboy town stretched out, a dusty collection of wooden buildings that seemed to mock the modern world with their outdated charm.

Chaplin, a man in his early fifties, walked beside a blonde woman, her laughter ringing out like a bell. Their fingers intertwined as they strolled through the only street in town. Chaplin tipped his black hat, a gesture as old as the town itself.

"Have a nice day, Sheriff!" he called, his voice deep with an easy charm.

"Hello, Sheriff... Have a nice day," the woman chimed in, her smile wide and genuine.

At the entrance to a dilapidated building, Ness, the sheriff of this strange town, stood, smoking a cigarette. He wore a wide-brimmed hat, a badge glinting on his chest, his face marked by the harsh winds of the desert.

"Good afternoon, respected people," he said, a nod of acknowledgement for the passing couple.

As they moved on, the street grew quieter. A small wooden building caught Chaplin's eye—it was labeled Hairdresser, and they made their way inside, the creaky door swinging behind them.

Across the street, a man was pacing in front of a humble structure marked simply Toilet. His name was Capone, and he was in no mood for civility. He gripped the doorknob tightly, shaking it in frustration.

"Who the hell is in there?!" he shouted, voice thick with irritation. He yanked at the door once more. "Get out!"

A calm voice emerged from the other side. "It's me, Capone. It's your doctor."

Capone paused, his grip loosening on the door handle. His body tensed for a moment, then he let out a low, irritated growl. With a final, resigned tug, he turned away, muttering under his breath. Still, his anger simmered just below the surface.

“Get out now, whoever you are!” he bellowed again, but this time it was more of a habit than a real threat. When no answer came, he turned on his heel and started to walk away, only to stop mid-step. A scowl crept back onto his face, and he returned to the door, his voice rising in frustration.

“Listen, you’re supposed to be a damn doctor. Get your own toilet! This is ridiculous!”

Inside, the doctor’s voice remained steady and unflustered. “Go away, Capone. And let me finish my business in peace.”

Capone muttered something else, his thick neck pulsing with irritation. After a few seconds of silent staring at the door, he threw his hands up in defeat and walked off, leaving the small building behind him, his mood soured further by the thought of his forced confinement.

In the Saloon

The low hum of country music drifted through the saloon, the steady beat creating a backdrop to the soft chatter of patrons scattered across the room. The air was thick with the smell of dust and whiskey, a comforting, familiar scent to anyone who’d spent time in a place like this. The tables were only half-filled, but the atmosphere was unmistakably one of laid-back cowboy grit. The dim light from the hanging lanterns cast long shadows on the wood floors, giving the space an old-world charm.

Behind the bar, Pamela moved with quiet grace, her black dress clinging to her curves in all the right places. The tight fabric barely covered the top of her firm, ample breasts, and though she was used to the attention, she couldn’t deny the slight twinge of irritation that buzzed in the back of her mind. She placed two cold mugs of beer on the bar, the sound of the glass meeting wood sharp in the otherwise low murmur of conversation.

"Here you go, gentlemen," she said, her voice smooth but laced with an edge. "Enjoy your beers."

At the far end of the bar, Stan—the skinny one with a nervous twitch—exchanged a look with Oliver, the round, sweating man whose belly hung over his belt. They both stood up, making their way toward the bar, their movements a little unsteady from too much drink. Pamela’s eyes flicked over them, her expression unreadable as they approached.

She slammed a crumpled piece of paper down on the counter with a decisive motion, her fingers pressing down hard, the paper crinkling under the force.

"Hey," she said, her voice suddenly sharp, a warning note threading through. "Take it easy, guys. You’re not getting your drinks until the bill’s paid."

Stan and Oliver exchanged a quick glance, a silent conversation passing between them. Then, in a rare show of coordination, they both reached for their beer mugs at the same time. Their movements were almost too quick, the effort to seem casual failing in the face of their desperation.

"Mr. Jackal will pay this," Oliver said with a grin, his words slurred, as though he hadn’t quite processed the situation.

Stan nodded vigorously, his eyes wide, too eager. "Yeah, yeah... it’s on him!"

Without waiting for Pamela to respond, they both turned and made a quick exit, returning to their table. Across the room, Jackal sat alone, his attention absorbed by the amber liquid in his whiskey glass. He was deep in thought, the dark shadows under his eyes telling the story of too many nights spent awake, contemplating something—someone—just out of reach.

Pamela’s voice cut through the low buzz of the room, addressed to Jackal now, and it carried a subtle irritation. "Okay. Then I’ll take a drink for myself too," she called over the bar, her tone one of careful politeness masking the simmering frustration underneath. "It’s on you!"

Jackal’s eyes slowly lifted from his glass, meeting hers with a half-smile, the faintest trace of amusement in his gaze. "Of course," he said easily, his voice calm, too calm. "Go ahead. Cheers."

Before Pamela could respond, the heavy double-wing doors at the front of the saloon swung open, and Capone strode in with the force of a summer storm. His boots clacked against the wooden floor as he moved confidently toward the bar, his eyes sweeping over the room. The mood in the saloon shifted as he entered, a quiet tension creeping into the air. Schwartz, a large, broad-shouldered man who looked like he could break a table in half with his bare hands, stood up from his seat. His arms were crossed tightly across his chest, his expression hard as he watched Capone’s every move.

Capone didn’t acknowledge Schwartz, though. His focus was on the bar, and more specifically, on Pamela. Without a word, he slid into the seat opposite Jackal, throwing a glance toward the bartender as if she were an afterthought. His voice rang out with a kind of brash, careless authority that seemed to fill the room.

"Hey, babe," he called out, his tone teasing and rough. "Hey, beautiful! Bring me a glass of whiskey. Actually, no... make that tequila. No—wait, bring me a double tequila! Yeah, that’s better!"

Pamela’s back stiffened at the sound of Capone's voice, her body rigid as she clenched her fists beneath the bar. She didn’t respond immediately, taking a moment to breathe, to steady herself. Then, finally, she spoke, her voice smooth but carrying a sharp edge.

"Mr. Al," she said, her gaze fixed on him with cold precision. "I hope you know our house rules. We only serve at the bar."

Capone smirked, the expression on his face one of casual dismissal. "Okay, cut the crap!" he said, waving a hand as if the rules were a minor inconvenience. "Stan will bring it."

Pamela’s jaw tightened as she fought to maintain her composure. Her body seemed to tighten with the frustration of it all—of the men who thought they could take whatever they wanted, without so much as a thought for the people serving them. Her body language spoke volumes: stiff, coiled, like a wire ready to snap.

The tension in the saloon was palpable now, the quiet buzz of conversation and the low music no longer enough to hide the undercurrent of unease running through the room. Every glance, every word exchanged seemed to carry weight—an unsaid promise that this was only the beginning.

The Meeting of the Doctors

The doors of the ambulance building burst open, slamming against the walls as if propelled by the weight of someone’s fury. A man in a white coat stormed out, his face flushed with rage, his fists clenched at his sides. His strides were hurried, almost frantic, as he stomped across the pavement.

"I’ll kill that crazy bastard!" he bellowed, his voice echoing into the crisp evening air, his words sharp with frustration. "He’ll destroy us all! Because of him, we’ll end up as patients of our own profession!"

The venom in his tone hung in the air, lingering even as the door swung closed behind him.

Inside the ambulance office, the atmosphere was no calmer. The room was stark, functional, and filled with seven people: four women and three men, all clad in white medical uniforms. Despite the clinical order of the space, chaos simmered just beneath the surface.

One of the women, Doctor Grey, stepped forward, her movements brisk and purposeful. She approached the desk with a sharp click of her heels on the linoleum floor, her hand slamming down onto the hard surface.

"Email the authorities immediately!" she demanded, her voice cutting through the room like a blade. She turned, her eyes blazing as she addressed the others. "Frank has completely lost control! We can’t go on like this anymore."

From her seat behind the desk, the woman at the desk remained calm. That was Doctor Weber. Her voice a stark contrast to Doctor Grey’s fire. "Take it easy," she said, leaning back slightly. Her tone was measured, deliberate. "That’s the easiest thing to do right now. Let’s all calm down." Her voice hardened just slightly as she added, "Think wisely... and make the right decision."

Doctor Grey turned to her, a sneer curling at her lips. "Calm down?" she scoffed, her voice dripping with contempt. "Frank needs to be calmed down, not us. He needs to be stopped—before this madness gets any worse."

In the corner, Doctor Monroe and Doctor Blunt exchanged uncertain glances. Their unease was written across their faces as they silently observed the escalating tension. Across the room, Doctor Taylor, a tall man with sharp features, rose from his chair. He adjusted his lab coat with deliberate slowness, his gaze steady.

"Take it easy," he said, his deep voice carrying an edge of authority. "Stay calm. What are you so afraid of? He’s in charge, sure, but he’s not stronger than all of us. Let’s just decide—rationally."

From an armchair near the corner, another man rose. Doctor Davison's movements languid and unhurried, his demeanor strikingly relaxed in the heated atmosphere. Doctor Davison spoke with a faint smile, as if the tension of the room amused him.

"Of course," he said, his tone smooth, almost soothing. "I agree with you." He paused for effect, his eyes flicking across the room, gauging reactions. "But let’s not forget—this occupational therapy Frank is pushing? It’s... atypical. Unorthodox. And yes, strange." He let the word hang in the air for a moment before his expression shifted, his voice lifting into an almost euphoric pitch, "But I think—no, I know—we’re looking at a new Freud here! A visionary! A Sigmund Freud for our times!"

His enthusiasm was met with a collective silence. All eyes turned to him, wide with disbelief, as if he’d just declared the Earth was flat. The room seemed to hold its breath as he pressed on, undeterred by the stares.

"That’s why we can’t understand him," he said, gesturing with his hands as though reaching for something just beyond his grasp. "His thoughts are ahead of us—his vision is beyond us. It’s not about disagreeing or agreeing. It’s about recognizing that he’s operating on a level we can’t yet reach. We might, one day, with time. But for now? We should stand with him, not against him."

Doctor Grey let out a bitter, humorless laugh. "Ha! You’re even crazier than he is," she snapped, shaking her head in disgust. Turning sharply, she strode to the door, her steps heavy with purpose. "I have nothing more to say here," she spat. "I’m leaving!" She paused briefly, muttering to herself as she opened the door. "Even if I have to walk all the way to L.A... Goodbye."

The door slammed shut behind her, the sound reverberating through the now-tense room.

Doctor Weber straightened, her calm façade finally cracking. "People," she said, her voice tinged with irritation, "what are we going to do?"

Before anyone could answer, Doctor Monroe sprang to his feet, his voice erupting with raw emotion. "I know!" he shouted, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. "We tie him up! With a rope!" His voice rose even higher, almost manic. "And then we solve the problem—or better yet, solve him!"

From his corner, Doctor Davison shook his head slowly, his disappointment evident. "We could do that," he said softly, his voice tinged with sadness. "But only if we’re crazy enough to ignore what’s right in front of us." His eyes swept across the room again, his voice gaining intensity as he continued. "That man is a genius! A revolutionary!" He spread his arms wide, his movements theatrical, "If we support him, we could change everything. There’d be no more need for drugs to treat schizophrenia! No more pills, no more side effects, no more endless battles with the same, broken system."

His gaze locked onto each of them, one by one, his eyes bright with fervor. "I’m just asking you," he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, "are you aware of what’s at stake here?"

The room fell silent again, his words hanging heavy in the air. The weight of his passion—and the magnitude of their decision—pressed down on all of them.

Whispers in the Saloon

The saloon buzzed with warmth and cheer, the steady strum of country music setting an easy rhythm to the lively conversations around the room. The patrons laughed and clinked glasses, their voices rising in harmony with the twang of guitars. At their table, Jackal leaned back in his chair, casting a sidelong glance at Capone, who sat across from him nursing an air of restless energy.

"So," Jackal began, his tone low and steady. "Do you have any idea... what we should do?"

Capone straightened, his movements quick and almost jittery. His words tumbled out in rapid succession. "Bro, can't you see he’s crazy?! The other doctors—they’re just as confused by his methods as we are. His approach, his attitude—it’s not normal. Hell, some of them are visibly boycotting him."

Without waiting for a reply, Capone grabbed his glass of tequila and downed it in one swift gulp. The glass hit the table with a loud clink as he slammed it down, his frustration simmering just below the surface.

Jackal held up a hand, his voice firm. "Stop it. Take it easy. I have to tell you something—"

But Capone wasn’t listening. He leaned forward, cutting Jackal off with a sharp motion. "No, you stop!" His voice edged into anger, his words quick and breathless. "I just told him almost everything about us. I don’t care about these nuts—I just want to get out of here as soon as possible. Even if he’s a lunatic, I don’t think he’ll believe what I told him." Capone gestured broadly, his exasperation spilling over. "And seriously, what kind of crazy do you have to be to stop therapy for patients and shove alcohol under their noses instead?!"

Jackal’s face remained impassive, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Since you’ve already exposed us," he said slowly, "and since you clearly don’t have a plan... I do. I have a plan. Because I don’t intend to go to jail—or stay here."

Capone snorted derisively. "Jail’s a palace compared to this crazy place."

Ignoring the jab, Jackal leaned forward, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. "Remember that radio link the guard claimed he lost?"

Capone’s curiosity was piqued, and he frowned slightly. "Yeah, I remember."

A slow, smug grin spread across Jackal’s face. "Well, he didn’t lose it," he said, his voice brimming with quiet pride. "I stole it."

Capone’s eyes widened. "Very clever," he admitted, leaning back slightly. Then his tone turned sardonic. "We could’ve been fucked for that, though."

Jackal ignored the remark, his grin only broadening. "For two months, I’ve been listening in on their conversations. And now... I know almost everything."

Capone’s expression shifted, his earlier tension giving way to intrigue. "Well, speak, then," he urged, his voice low and intense.

Jackal didn’t rush, savoring the moment. "Dr. Frank," he began, his tone almost amused, "isn’t a psychiatrist at all. Oh, he’s got the degree—graduated in psychiatry—but he’s never actually worked as one."

Capone blinked, the revelation hitting him like a slap. "How’s that?" he asked, his voice laced with disbelief.

Jackal’s smile turned sharper, the edges tinged with dark satisfaction. "He’s a war veteran. A sniper. Afghanistan. And God knows where else."

Capone’s temper flared, his voice rising. "Come on, don’t play with me, Jackal. What’s wrong with you?"

Jackal leaned back in his chair, his expression unflinching. "I’m not playing," he said evenly. "I heard everything. One of the security guards? He’s a hacker. He put Frank in the system as a top psychiatrist. That’s how this whole... therapy got started."

Capone’s brows furrowed as the pieces began to fall into place, his anger simmering just below the surface.

"And," Jackal added with a deliberate pause, "all the guards? They’re marines. Frank’s war buddies."

For a moment, Capone said nothing, his jaw tightening as he processed the implications. Around them, the sounds of laughter and clinking glasses seemed to fade, the saloon’s warm cheer no longer reaching their table.

"Marines," Capone muttered, his voice a mixture of disbelief and rising anger. "Of course. It’s always the damn marines."

Street - Wind and Suspicion

The wind groaned through the cracked hinges of the toilet door, setting it swaying ominously. Each creak echoed like a warning across the desolate street. Dr. Frank stood at its center, a statue of resolve. His boots planted firmly on the asphalt, hands perched on his hips, his gaze fixed down the length of the road.

“Something’s wrong here,” he muttered under his breath, the words almost stolen by the restless wind.

Reaching behind his belt, he unhooked his radio, pressing the button with a sharp click.

“Eldorado Two, this is Eldorado One,” he said, his tone calm but commanding.

Static crackled, followed by a reply. “I’m listening, Frank.”

“Send two patrols to scout the main road,” Frank ordered, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the horizon. “Where the wind’s coming from. And tell them to be careful.”

“Understood,” Eldorado Two acknowledged.

Frank lowered the radio, his lips curling into a grimace. The wind carried a faint, metallic tang that clung to the back of his throat.

“This wind smells like blood,” he whispered, shaking his head. “Sticky.”

The Hilltop Chase

Two quads tore through the dust and chaos of the city outskirts, roaring uphill toward a weathered wooden board at breakneck speed. The riders, dressed in olive overalls with helmets gleaming under the harsh sun, clutched Heckler submachine guns slung at their sides. The engines screamed as the first quad crested the hill, the second following just ten meters behind.

Then, from the ridge ahead, came the guttural roar of an engine—a beast announcing itself.

A sleek Porsche erupted from the hilltop, its tires momentarily leaving the ground. The car hung in the air for a split second, a blur of black steel and ferocity, before slamming back onto the earth with a thunderous crash.

The Porsche didn’t slow. It barreled straight toward the town.

Frank's Command

Dr. Frank’s jaw tightened as the Porsche raced into view, its yellow blinkers flashing like eyes of a predator. The wail of its siren pierced the air, cutting through the chaos.

“That’s it…” he muttered, snatching his radio. “Eldorado Two! First-degree warning! All units are to follow Protocol One immediately!”

“Yes, sir!” came the sharp reply.

The Porsche hurtled toward him, a black blur of impending destruction. Frank turned and sprinted, his boots pounding against the pavement as he dove for cover behind the bank’s stone facade.

The Ambush

The quads had nearly reached the top of the hill when the silence shattered.

A long, gleaming limousine surged over the ridge, its massive frame soaring into the air. Time seemed to slow as its front spoiler caught the first quad. The impact was brutal. Heads snapped back, helmets cracking like eggshells. Blood sprayed in an arc, painting the dry earth below.

The limousine didn’t stop. It slammed into the second quad, crushing its riders beneath its monstrous weight. The sound of shattering bones and twisted metal filled the air as the vehicle lurched violently, steadied, and continued its descent toward the town.

Eldorado Compound

Behind the hotel, the Porsche skidded to a stop, screeching across loose gravel. Michael leapt out, rifle already in hand.

“Move it!” he barked, urgency dripping from every word.

Sarah and Donna scrambled out after him, fumbling to load their weapons.

“What the hell’s happening, Michael?” Sarah demanded, her voice trembling.

“Get armed, now!” Michael snapped, shoving a magazine into his rifle. “We don’t have time for questions.”

From behind the building, the rattle of gunfire erupted. Inside the compound, snipers and gunners took positions, their rifles trained on the encroaching limousines.

The Clash

The first limousine’s co-driver door swung open, and John emerged, firing in calculated bursts. Beside him, Terry Malone ducked behind the driver's door, his face pale.

“What’s going on, John?!” Terry shouted over the cacophony. “Who the hell are we shooting at? They’ve got a goddamn machine gun!”

John didn’t flinch. Reloading his rifle with practiced ease, he grinned through blood-streaked lips. “Unforeseen circumstances, Terry! Just keep rocking!”

At his command, Louis, the sniper, lowered his visor and took aim. The world seemed to hold its breath as he squeezed the trigger.

The shot flew true, tearing through the skull of an Eldorado machine gunner. Blood and brain matter sprayed as the lifeless body slumped to the ground.

“Main target eliminated!” Louis called out.

John smirked, nodding toward Malone. “See? That’s how my men handle things.”

Raining Fire

The rooftop sniper, Eldorado Two, adjusted his position, his rifle steady as his eyes followed Louis’s next move.

“Eldorado One, come in!” he barked into his radio. “We’ve lost too many! They’re cutting us down!”

Dr. Frank’s voice came through, breathless but resolute. “Hold your position! How’s your performance?”

“Our performance sucks!” Eldorado Two hissed. “I got their sniper, but we’re bleeding out here!”

Frank’s voice softened, though urgency laced his words. “Stay calm. One grain at a time, and the bread is baked. I’ll be there soon. Hold on, brother.”

Eldorado Two let out a bitter laugh. “This time, we fight to the end.”

Explosions and Betrayal

The limousines roared forward as rockets fired from their trunks, streaking toward Eldorado’s stronghold. Explosions ripped through the compound, splintering wood and sending debris flying in all directions.

Amid the chaos, Malone emerged, his pistol pressed against Antonio’s skull.

“You’ve got two options,” Malone sneered, his grin twisted and wild. “Serve me, or I paint the ground with your brains.”

Before Antonio could respond, a sharp crack split the air—a sniper shot. Roberto’s head exploded in a crimson burst.