The Season of Consequence: Chapter 1 - Fathers

“Sooner or later everyone sits down to a banquet of consequences.” - Robert Louis Stevenson

☠️☠️☠️☠️

…The Office of Ivan Stanislav…

…Shortly After ReVival 56…

He fixates on the entrance to Ivan Stanislav’s office, the Red Army’s de facto Leader. For the first time in his life, he alone must answer for the failings in PRIME’s tag tournament and Comrade Kenny Freeman. The back of his throat is dry as the sands of the Gobi Desert, kept so by his rising anxiety.

Nervously polishing the toe of his left boot behind his right pant leg, Max chuckles to himself.

“What’s the worst that can happen, he kills you?” Kael jokes with himself, a stressful smile smeared across his lips. His eyes dart to the side, catching Arina Timofeyevna’s gaze. He feels the Minister’s hungry growl from the dark pit of his heart, the malignant thing drawn to the earnest kindness in her. Something about those eyes compel the young girl to look downward.

He plays it off as a little bit of indigestion.

Joking, he clears his throat. “Sorry, touch of the Syrniki’s revenge.”

The pretty assistant offers a polite, wordless smile. That is until the intercom, an old analog thing from a bygone decade, buzzes once and she stands. “Starshy Praporshchik will see you now.” She says as she approaches the door and beckons Kael to enter.

The Commissar was already a pretty pale man but he somehow managed to drain more color from his flesh, taking in a deep breath. His hands latch onto the handles before he tosses himself into Ivan’s mercy.

Ivan Stanislav’s office, like the man himself, is grander and more imposing than most. A den filled with nostalgic items from decades gone by. Max enters to find The Russian Bear not sitting at his steel desk, but standing by a massive window. Despite being dressed sharply in his signature crimson uniform, Stanislav bears the wounds of his recent defeat against Nate Colton.

The man’s voice is cold and sharp as broken glass, slicing through the air with precision. “Ah… Commissar Kael,” he says, his words gliding across the room like icebergs. “How delightful to see you.” A beckoning paw. “Come, stand with me by window…”

Windows were universal killers in Russia. They were worse than bullets.

Max takes a deep, desperate gulp. Beads of sweat pimple up across his forehead, his eyes staring at the window with dread. He doesn’t see what’s beyond its transparent glass, not the beautiful view nor the promising horizon. There is only an execution method or equally likely, some horrific torture implement. Max’s own imagination is a curse, his dark nature a willing participant in his own torture.

Kael tenses as Stanislav’s massive hand lands on his shoulder, gripping with a strength that threatens to crush bone. He is forced to stand slightly in front of the imposing figure, but even then Stanislav’s presence looms large, every move reflected in the pane of glass before them. Max, who towered over most as six-foot-five, was akin to a child in his shadow.

Kael was deeply uncomfortable with the lack of power.

“We need to discuss your promise of success in Tag Team Tournament, Commissar Kael…” A slight grunt. “Or lack thereof…”

If one was to believe Ivan had more to say, he didn’t.

“It’s true, I’ve failed to achieve what I promised I would. I don’t know quite where it went wro-”

At first Max was simply crafting some kind of a sympathetic voice that might pull at Ivan’s heart strings but as his rat-like little mind played through the tournament there were flashes.

Moments.

Whoresmen.

“...the Whoresmen. Nevermind that point right now. We got outplayed and out maneuvered. I took on more than I should have, between trying to help Kenny and his family, dealing with Brandon Youngblood and my petty murder-fetish against FLAMBERGE!”

The words pour forth like a river from the toxic cavity between Kael’s ears. His hands rest on his hips with a sigh. His lip falls flat as any joyful or lively qualities are washed out in one gray name.

“The whole Colonel Ratimir thing.”

There is an offering of air quotes by the Commissar.

A pause from The Bear. “So, the failure is not Kenny Freeman’s?”

There it was. Sitting out in front of Max like a perfect little excuse, Kenny Freeman there to throw under the bus. He feels the Minister stir in his chest, egging him on, demanding he sacrifice Kenny Freeman, a delicious little sacrificial piggie.

With a smile stretching across his face, Max hisses, “Absolutely not. He performed admirably, I believe the tournament has left him a far more dangerous asset for the Red Army. Did you see his match against Daytona Diamonds? A loss... but a remarkable one.”

He blinks, the smile faltering.

What the fuck did he just say?

Another pause from The Russian Bear. Hand grips the back of Max’s neck tighter and he nods. “I am inclined to agree, Commissar Kael.” And then, the window is behind Kael, and he stares up at the grizzled, bruised features of The Russian Bear. Stanislav keeps his iron grip on Max’s shoulder.

We rise, and fall, as one. It is the very core of the collective struggle. Kenny is a faithful communist. By not blaming Kenny for your failings, you show me that my decision to bring you into our ranks was wise. We all fail at times, Max. Even I. But how do we face these challenges? Do we rise up like men or cower like dogs? Let them have their temporary victories. We will win this war. Do you understand me, son?”

Staring up at the much, much larger Russian man, Max is trying to gauge a lot of what’s going on. His own acceptance of his own responsibility in the matter, failing to betray Kenny… Ivan’s apparent mercy?

Better not to get ahead of himself, Max quickly thinks, his eyes darting back toward the window.

“..uh.. Yes! Sir. Naturally. Well, I’ve had a lot of very good mentors since I’ve arrived here in the Red Army!..”

His hands quickly grasp at his tunic, unsure what to do with themselves. Ivan lowers his chin and his expression shifts from stern to stormy. “Be that as it may, let us not have this type of colossal failure happen again. Do you understand? You have been given rare opportunity to redeem yourself. Do not compel me to… intervene… on Russia’s behalf.”

“No, no!” Max chokes, nodding his head enthusiastically.

…maybe there was something to this responsibility thing, his warped little brain begins to consider. He slowly starts to crab shuffle toward the exit of Ivan’s office, pleased as punch that he wasn’t about to get yeeted to his death out a window.

Just as he is about to pass the threshold, however, Ivan’s voice calls out again.

“The Colonel is a greedy individualist... watch yourself around him”

Freezing in place for a moment, Kael lets the words wash over his brain. He turns, saluting Ivan quickly before slinking back out of the office leaving the titanic Russian alone with his thoughts again.

☠️☠️☠️☠️

Dearest Cody.

You and I share more in common than you might expect.

I don’t know anything, not for sure. Just rumors.

That time I came to your wrestling tournament, I got a good look at you. 

How you present your best aspects of yourself. 

How you hide other things from yourself. 

I know what it’s like to have a father like Brandon Youngblood.

I’m sorry, Cody.

☠️☠️☠️☠️

…An Undisclosed Medical Facility…

…Shortly after ReVival 57…

The world bolts back from the darkness.

Max’s eyes track the growing light above him. He manages to pull himself up; however the effort causes5 the light to spin and shatter, a kaleidoscope of color shattering across his vision.

There’s a distant splashing sound, wet and warm, across the right side of his face.

He winces, tasting a low, muffled noise from the other side of the room.

“..Cecilworth?”

He’s surprised by the name that fishes its way between his teeth. Lifting his right hand, Max touches his face.

More warm splashing.

“Oh for fuck sake, he’s broken his stitches again.”

That brown note that he’d been sniffing speaks up again, only this time he understands its flavor.

Hands, two or three of them, with clinging, scrapping fingers, swarm across his body. His first reactions, naturally, are to twist and fight. Max hisses and a great anger grows deep in his chest. Throwing his arms to either side, Kael unleashes his rage!

“Cecilworth!?”

Shaking off the name again, gravity, and the hands, push him back down into the bed.

The swirling miasma of light and colors untangle themselves into a world of structure and shape. A smile starts to creep across the Commissar’s bloodied face until a plump moon eclipses his vision.

“..slabaya suka..”

He doesn’t recognize the face looking down at him but he recognizes the voice. It’s the husky, petulant voice of Colonel Ratimir Nekkhov, “You can understand me? Huh? Calm the fuck down, Max. You’re a considerable investment by the people. Comrade.”

That familiar crackling hiss of a cigarette draw fills Max’s ears before the aroma of the Colonel’s dart touches his nose.

“You disobeyed me, Max. Then you ran back here, to the United States, to hide from me. From the People of Russia.”

Oh, dear.

“Nuh-No! No, never, I would never think I could hide from the relentless Colonel Ratimir. It’s just that I’ve been really busy and, well, I’m sure heard about me getting rolled back into matches with FLAMBERGE and Youngblood! A chance for redemption! I didn’t want to bo-”

The babbling is cut off as Ratimir jabs his burning cigarette into Max’s right pectoral. There is a wet sizzle that is joined by white puff of smoke.

Max stares at Nekkhov with horrified surprise. There’s pain but he’s too shocked to register it.

“You fucking imbecile. I’m done with you, Max Kael.” the Colonel snarls, a hint of his accent to his perfect English. Nekkhov circles Max’s bed like a hungry wolf. “...but you’re right. There is a chance for redemption. My redemption. Your fuck-up at UltraViolence against the Frenchman and the American put doubt into my ability to command this modernization effort in the Red Army.”

Ratimir leans down, scowling into Max’s face. Kael does his best to ignore the aroma of cheap cologne and cigarettes.

“Can you fucking imagine, doubt in me? We just got that piece of shit Alexei Ruslan out of the picture. Ivan’s recent losses have thrown into question support for him at High Command. The Red Army is ripe for the taking and you’re fucking this all up for me, comrade Kael.”

Ratimir’s voice is heavy with his own self importance, though a healthy amount of spite is rolled into “comrade”. He retrieves a new cigarette with a sigh.

“..so I’ve decided we’re changing direction. I need someone more reliable.”

Max can’t hold back a mocking laugh. It’s filled with bile and bitterness, squelching between his clenching teeth like pre-chewed mashed potatoes.

“Who are you gonna find that’s better than me?! Hah-heh! I might not have taken down FLAMBERGE and Youngblood, but I held my own. I held my own against the Lizard King who is famous for taking necks. Not fucking MINE. I went fist for fist, throw for throw, BLOOD FOR BLOOD against Brandon Youngblood. I didn’t beat them, no... but they DIDN’T beat me either.. Heh-heh..”

Spitting a wad of phlegm in Colonel Ratimir’s general direction, Max snorts.

“Besides, who’s waiting in the shadows waiting to take my place, Ratimir? Who’s gonna be willing AND able to carry out your dumbass plan? Who the fuck are you gonna replace me with, suka? Nobody. Fucking NOBODY.”

He barely feels the needle kiss his neck, the point plunging deep. The smile on his face freezes then cracks, his eyes dilating almost immediately. His spine relaxes as an old, familiar shard of ice slices through his nerve tissue.

“Wh-whu… What. What did you… just?”

Max tries to chew through the words but there's a great, black quagmire dragging down his thoughts.

“Ketamine.”

With titanic effort, Max drags his eyes from the floor toward the grinning Colonel.

“Who the fuck am I replacing you with? Wilhelm.”

Words spill like drool over his quivering lips, “...no. He’s… He’s not what you… TH…th..”

…His objections melt to whimpers…

…his eyelids flutter desperately…

 

…and the world rolls into a deep, dark hole…

 

☠️☠️☠️☠️

…In An Afterlife Far, Far Away…

…Shortly Thereafter…

Max’s body crashes down against a stone wall collapsing it in a tremendous clattering. Groaning, the Commissar of the Red Army stands with a confused, unfocused expression.

“What the hell is going on up there?” the Minister growls.

Max tries to respond but the thirty cc’s of Ketamine have made expressing himself coherently difficult.

“The Colonel…” Kael chokes out, stumbling amidst the rubble. “...He’s after Wilhelm...”

A terrible, mind-splitting thundercrack echoes from the swirling, violent horizon of the deep-subconscious, far beyond the crumbling walls of the Black Tower. The aftershocks elicit groans and complaining from the structure as the floor psychically sunders beneath their feet.

“You need to leave this place, Max.”

“No, wait. I just.. I just need to get my legs back under me.” Max sputters before tripping to a knee. White bolts of electricity jump across his vision, stealing his focus.

Two hands grip his shoulders, the dissociative effects of the Ketamine being driven from his mind.

The Minister was always the strong one.

“How di-”

“No time. You’ve got to run.” is all the Minister growls. The two lock eyes. They both know they won’t see each other again. Before Max can say goodbye, the Distortion shakes his head.

“To the horizon. To the Deep Subconscious. He won’t follow you back there.” Part command, part plead, the Minister nods to Max before he shoves Max toward the exit.

Max wants to fight it, he wants to argue. He wants to tell the Minister that he actually cared about them, to thank him for all the times it had saved their lives.

There will be another time, he lies to himself. A chance to let the Minister know what these last few months had meant to him. The understanding that they’d found.

It’d be the first thing he told them when they saw each other again, Max promised himself as he escaped the Black Tower.

Once Max had fled the Throne Room, the Minister turned their burning red eyes skyward. Parched lips parted as rotten teeth peeked through its smile.

“Good luck, Max.. heh-heh”

The crackle and pop of lightning high above the Minister splits the sky in half with a fiery-hot bolt. Its tremendous power knocks away the remaining walls of the Dark Tower, announcing the arrival of the final Prime personality.

He’s a towering figure, barrel chested with a neat, well manicured beard. Lines run down the corners of his mouth where a permanent frown is chiseled neatly into place. Everything about him, from his posture to the way he moves, projects control.

“Wilhelm Kael. Fascist.” the Distortion sneers with contempt.

The Elder Kael’s brow arches, turning to stare down whatever had the audacity to invade his peace, “It seems the Aberration is still alive.”

The Minister prepares a retort however Wilhelm’s fist catches him in the ribs with clinical precision. Bones break, meat squelches, whatever twisted, malformed particles that were the memory of the Minister burst. Black ichor pours from the wound left by Wilhlem’s fist as he lets out a low, excited giggle.

“Subject K431 is not present. Is he hiding?”

Wilhelm’s voice is deeper, distant; devoid of any of Max’s shriller tones. He continues to dismantle the Minister with a series of direct strikes. The Distortion puts up a fight, it’s full savagery on display but it’s like watching a prize fighter take down a soccer hooligan. There is a contemptuous nature to it, each strike designed to punish rather than neutralize.

It doesn’t take long, maybe four or five strikes, before the Minister’s bloodied body is on its knees, growling up at Max’s father.

“He’s not here, is he, Aberration? You knew I’d come to kill him first.”

His gray eyes turn toward the Horizon, to the Deep Subconscious.

“You sent him where I wouldn’t go. Smart, Aberration. Though I would have expected you to have fled from here yourself, self-preservation being your hallmark. Then again, you are just a Memory Fragment. Hmm, hmm.”

Wilhelm tuts with disappointment as the Distortion’s shape bubbles and stretches in strange, uncomfortable angles. The sane mind would know to look away but Wilhelm stares, drinking in its unknowable suffering. Unflinching. Unmoved.

“...It doesn’t really matter, does it, Aberration? I’ll just use... Him to find Max.”

Hate rages in the flickering ember eyes of the Minister. The fiery orbs smolder with hate filled defiance.

“...heh-heh..”

It spits a thick, streamy wad of bloodied saliva into the face of their tormentor.

Wilhelm’s response is measured and restrained. Placing his hand over the Distortion’s face, he fills the Minister's flesh with burning white light. Screams of agony join in chorus with the excitable sizzle of cooking putrefied flesh. As the blinding, white-hot light spills forth from the exposed opening in their flesh, the Minister is swallowed by flame.

… and then silence.

Peace brought by death.

The soft aeolian tones of the Minister’s ashes being carried away by the wind…

Wilhelm found the sound to be good.

“A new body? Forged from the DNA of both Max Kael and Cecilworth Farthington. Fascinating.” Wilhelm muses, his eyes turning toward the only remaining structure left after his arrival. A mighty throne covered in dry, dead vines. At his approach the dead foliage withers and falls away.

As the darkness retreats before the light of Wilhelm Kael, his gaze falls upon the thing that was Cecilworth’s father, held prisoner here these last few months.

“Lord Farthington, I presume.”

☠️☠️☠️☠️

Cody.

A father spends his life investing in his children. 

Loving, nurturing, and raising them to be their best self. 

High expectations are placed on a progeny of greater Sires. 

We watch our investments, heartbroken, as all that love, that time, that effort… 

Gets wasted on a loser 

Still obligated to love, though.

I understand what it is to have a child like you. 

I know how it feels to be your Father.

To be burdened with a lesser son. 

I pity Brandon Youngblood.

☠️☠️☠️☠️

…Kael’s Office in Moscow…

…October 25th, 2024…

“I require... DEMAND that Farthington be eliminated and your boy is going to be in the perfect position to do it! This isn’t a debate, Mary, I hope you understand what I mean.”

Max’s shrill voice hisses into the receiver, his words carrying a poorly veiled threat.

“My family and I have provided your church with considerable resources over the last year and a half, need I remind you?”

A pause as the woman acknowledges but continues to push back.

“What about the woman? Violent Purple?”

Now there’s a name.

“Regardless, his death would benefit me immensely. You’ve seen the booking! It could be an accident, Mary, these things happen… Now speak with your son on the matter, please.”

He can hear “Mary” growing more frustrated with his petulance.

“Mad? Heh-heh Hah-heh heh-hah ha-”

The line cuts as that chittering, gurgling little giggle ends. Sweet silence blankets the office save for the soft, consistent ticking of the clock that hangs above him.

Hard, gray eyes watching unblinking as they absorb the details of the three notepads spread out neatly before him. Diagrams of Cecilworth Farthington, FLAMBERGE, and Brandon Youngblood, hand drawn with clear notations on known injuries and recent medical history...

Nerve points, arteries and joints, all covered in unusual equations. It would all seem fairly mundane were it not for the strange, pulsing sigils inked in a putrid, quivering sable fluid. These distorting symbols appear over the hearts and heads of each diagram. It’s all a madness inducing blueprint for something… terrible. He’s designing something new. Planning something, the shape of which remains obscured in the eldritch script.

He would have three hammer strikes to forge this weapon to completion before it could be ready for the Son of Lord Farthington...

Wilhelm would temper this new weapon in the life-blood of three opponents.

Brandon Youngblood, the Good Father. He represented Cecilworth’s unyielding, unbreakable will. Pure, unfiltered athletic majesty backed by blood-soaked experience.

His second remained a mystery... Cecilworth couldn't resist a good mystery.

Finally, FLAMBERGE. Cecilworth’s Farthington Madness was dangerous, could this new chaos burning in the Frenchman could prove it’s equal? The Lizard King famously took necks, Wilhelm Kael would aim for the whole head.

A thin smile hides in the shadow of his face.

“...hmm, hmm…” 

☠️☠️☠️☠️

…The Season of Consequence: Chapter 1…