Season of Consequence: Guillotine

“In that atrocious second I understood that desire can attain the darkest human terror and give an actual idea of hell and its horror.” - Octave Mirbeau

☠️☠️☠️☠️

…In The Deep Subconscious…

…Half past trout on the twenty tenth…

The steady trot of Lord Farthington’s boots echo down the hall of the abandoned hospital wing. The good Lord is wearing a khaki uniform and pith helmet giving him the appearance of a 19th century Great White Hunter.

“...where have you gone, little rat?”

Farthington hisses the words as he continues his hunt through the nightmare his quarry had vanished into. The fluorescent bulbs flicker with angry intent, visually signaling Morse code to any who could see it. The emptiness of the hall somehow seems…hateful. Malicious.

A dilapidated wheelchair lays tipped on its side, one large rusted wheel spinning feebly, still trying to perform the function it was designed for but just can't quite make it.

Farthington pauses his pursuit, his eyes flickering to the wheelchair before he cocks the hammer back on his elaborate elephant gun. With the patience and care of a well practiced hunter, he slowly lowers to one knee, scanning his surroundings.

His fingertips brush the scarred linoleum before he glances up at the lighting, eyes narrowing as he translates the flickering.

 ..-. .. -. -..  .. -. 

A bushy brow peeks with skeptical curiosity as he verifies it a few more times before he speaks the translation.

“Find it….”

The bulbs flash their message one more time before the lights glow brighter with a low hiss of mercury and argon before settling to a dull but steady illumination. Slowly he stands, the quiet growing heavy with loathing as he notices a shift behind him.

He whips about on his heel, leveling his rifle, ready to decimate whatever was foolish enough to think it could ambush him. Instead of the Max he expects to see, Farthington stares down his rifle barrel into the two roiling pools of gold that are Doctor Lintilla's eyes.

The creature adjusts her black framed glasses with needle-like index and thumb before tucking the excessive appendage into the front pocket of her pristine white lab coat. After a moment, the serpentine split mouth opened and a feminine voice whispers.

“May I help you?”

“That remains to be seen,” Farthington comments humorously.

Looking over the lean woman before returning to the two pools of gold, Lord Farthington lowers his firearm.

“I’m looking for a rodent that goes by the name Max Kael. I’ve followed his tracks here and I am rather keen to find him… Miss?” the late Lord of Farthington Manor growls though his Queen’s English masks the cruel disgust behind a distinguished accent.

“Doctor.” The creature corrects with an odd air of courtesy. Her head slowly tilts off its axis in a more overt examination of this…not Max before her. She emits a low sound, somewhere between a hiss and a hum before asking, “Which one?”

Realizing the importance of specifics in this place, Farthington clears his throat with annoyance,

“The PRIME one, the pissant with gold teeth , Maximillian Wilhelm Kael.” he grunts, slinging his obnoxiously large rifle over his shoulder. “Doctor.”

Her head snaps back to its neutral position before she clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth, nodding.

“Yes, the boy was admitted recently; however, he was discharged against medical advice.”

Farthington’s chin lifts, his expression reflective of a man who had sniffed something utterly disgusting. Running his tongue across dry lips, he takes an ominous step forward.

“...Show me.”

☠️☠️☠️☠️

…The Kael Estate, Arkham…

…A few days after ReVival 59…

Clung.

Oleg Barkova finds his eyes lingering on an ancient grandfather clock that looms ominously in the corner of Wilhlem Kael’s Arkham office. It's a swaying pendulum, a constant reminder of the passage of time.

Clung.

This artifact, constructed of brass, wood and onyx, holds dominion over the entirety of the office. The dial keeps a cruel watch with a face fabricated of strange, oppressive angles. Oleg dislikes the feeling he gets when his eyes linger on it too long and so he turns his attention elsewhere.

Clung.

The thirty-seven year old Commander looks toward the chunk of black marble that was Wilhelm Kael’s desk. He notes that the whole structure is about two feet higher than the rest of the room and feels more like a throne.

Clung.

Then there was the man behind the desk being not all what he was expe-

“You’re a family man?” Wilhelm queries, cutting off the thought. The voice is much deeper than the Commander had anticipated..

In Russian that betrays his West-Asian heritage, Oleg replies, “[No, sir.]”

For the first time since his arrival, Barkova feels the judgmental eyes of the man sitting on the other side of the desk.

“I am empathetic to your desire to speak the tongue of one’s native soil, however here, in my presence, we will communicate in English. Understood?”

Oleg doubts very much whatever this man sitting across from him was, empathetic wasn’t one of those things. The Commander knows his place though, replying quickly, “Yes, Commissar. My apologies, sir.”

Those gray orbs turn back down toward whatever he was studying on his desk.

“Family man?”

“Yes, sir. Mariana, my wife and two sons. Anatov and Gregori, six and nine.”

“I didn’t ask for the Barkova Family roll call, Commander, yes or no will suffice. You were hand selected for this position, by myself, among a sea of far more qualified and capable candidates. Not for any nascent skill or talent but rather because I believe you to be a moral man.”

Blinking in confusion, Oleg nods, “Thank you, sir?”

“Welcome aboard, Commander Barkova. I have your first set of orders to keep you busy while I travel this week. My obligations will keep me occupied next week, you will be expected to carry out your duties as if I were here.”

Wilhelm retrieves a folder from his desk, holding it out toward Oleg. The Commander quickly darts out of his chair, intercepting the documents just as they are released.

“Orders and deadlines are to be adhered to. You’re my second in command meaning that you hold my authority when I am not present. In order to succeed here… you must succeed. Easy as that. You may go.”

Wilhelm finishes with a wordless flourish of his hand, dismissing Commander Barkova. As Oleg starts to leave he hears a small chirp and a voice with a crisp mechanical hiss alert Wilhelm of an incoming call from Ivan Stanislav.

“Yes, send it through.” Kael sighs, turning in his chair to look toward the large windows behind his desk. A few miles off, tucked into the small valley was the ancient and strange town of Arkham.

A loud, distinct voice booms over the intercom system.

“Wilhelm Kael! How is America?”

Kael scoffs, “Filthy, filled with ignorance and drug use.”

There is a growl which causes Wilhelm’s brow to twitch.

“Tell me, Wilhelm. This Multiverse business with comrade Kenny, is it real?”

Oleg’s jaw nearly hits the floor. He can’t believe what the fuck he’s hearing right now. He sees Kael turn in his chair to look back at his desk, leaning to the side resting his chin on his hand.

With a bored expression Wilhelm rolls his eyes and replies, “Oh yes. Isn’t it appalling? Why, what is the sudden interest?”

“Because I intend to destroy it.”

Wilhelm’s posture changes, his disinterested malaise burning away with invested interest. Before he can indulge himself, however, his gray eyes latch onto Oleg who continues to stand, slack jawed.

“Ivan, I’m not with present company where we can have this conversation. I will forward you all of my current files and theories on the Multiverse and we’ll workshop some ideas later. Dasvidaniya, Comrade Stanislav.”

An irritated growl that might have been mistaken as thunder from the East grumbles over the speaker, “That is Starsky Praporshchik Stans-”

Wilhelm promptly cuts the call off, his gaze lingering on a still star-struck Oleg Barkova. Sighing in annoyance, Wilhelm rises from his chair, straightening out any imperfections in his uniform before descending to stand in front of the Commander.

“You must have many questions about what you just hea-”

Before Wilhelm can finish, Oleg bursts at the seems, “Was that the Ivan Stanslav?!”

Kael’s brows furrow as he studies Oleg’s face with a look of mild disgust.

“... yes.”

“He’s my favorite wrestler, ever!... uh. Respectfully, sir.”

You can see the sweat immediately begin to bead across his now crimson face, his fan boy moment melting beneath Wilhelm’s withering gaze.

Wilhelm turns his head, staring off into the void as he scratches at his beard thoughtfully.

“FUCK.”

☠️☠️☠️☠️

[The following promo is dubbed in French]

FLAMBERGE, 

I haven’t had a chance to thank you for the great service you did. 

Maximillian is a menace, your friend a victim in a long line of avoidable tragedies. 

Your quest for revenge opened the door for my return.

Some say with Youngblood on to face Avalon, this match has no meaning.

But we both know that’s dead wrong. 

You want more of that sweet, sweet revenge. 

I want one last opportunity to test myself.

But this match is more than even that, FLAMBERGE.

It is a celebration of what you’ve done, the dominos you’ve set into motion.

Unleashing me free so I could craft a weapon to kill Cecilworth Farthington.

I was unsure what to name it, what to christen that which took RIA’s head.. 

But as I studied you, Lizard King, 

I heard her name whispered into my ear… 

☠️☠️☠️☠️

…Somewhere In The Deep Subconscious…

…After longer than Max wanted…

“Shit-fuck Good GODDAMN!”

Max tumbles through the swirling mists while flailing his arms above his head looking like some kind of agitated lizard scampering away. He’s followed by the floating head of Max Shell, his yellow eye glowing with anxiety.

“Just tr-try to concentrate on where we need to go!” Shell squawks, his jaw wobbling back and forth as he bobs up and down behind Max.

“Yeah, I don’t know where the fuck exactly we’re supposed to be going! I just grabbed your little head jar and started kicking down doors!” the Unquestionable Kael screams while swatting at the shadowy gray smoke. “That spooky she-bitch could be right behind us, buddy!”

Max’s toe catches the black sand and he gangle-fucks himself ass-over-kettle, crashing down. Shell’s head slowly flutters overhead like some demented gadfly, his yellow eye staring down, unblinking.

“No, I think we’re clear, buddy,” the disembodied voice of Shell rings in Max’s head while the floating head's jaw continues to hang loosely.

Staring up at the head of Max Shell, the Unquestionable One takes a moment to really think about where his life has ended up.

How long has this been going on?

Was his friend, Cecilworth Farthington, already dead?

Had he actually died and this, his own personal Hell?

Dragging himself back up to his feet, dusting away the black sands that cling to his arms and legs. Scanning his surroundings he finally lets his eyes settle on the unsettling, floating head of his eGG Bandit self.

“Do you think she can find us here?”

Shell’s head shakes back and forth, “Doctor Lintilla and that entire… place back there is one of your repressed memories. That’s all you’re gonna find out here in the Deep Subconscious. Nightmares, repressed memories, ugly-unwanted truths, the unthinkable thoughts that occasionally squirm into your sick lil brain.”

“So this whole place is filled with all the worst possible things I could think up?”

The floating head grimaces in the affirmative.

“Why the fuck would the Minister send me here then!?” Max shouts in frustration, pacing in a small circle to avoid potentially stumbling into another repressed memory. “And why would it sacrifice itself for me? The Minister fucking hates me.”

“Wait, Minister sacrificed itself for you? I wonder if it also granted you some part of its power?” Shell ponders, floating along his own circular pattern.

“How would I know if I did? I don’t know how any of this fucking Kaelscape bullshit works!” Max says, throwing his arms up into the air.

“Well then it’s a good thing you came across me, isn’t it?” the floating head beams. “I’ll be here to guide you to the bitter end!”

Click.

The sound of metal clicking into place catches both Shell and Kael’s attention. They both turn to see the barrel of a massive rifle, rising through the mist a few feet away.

KAH-BOOOOM!

Fire and smoke explode from the barrel as Max stares, dumbfounded by what he’s seeing. He barely registers that entire world sliding off its axis as he finds himself once again falling into the wet, black sand.

For Max Shell it was instinct, being the smartest and without a doubt, friendliest of the Max Kael fragments. Even before the barrel unleashes its deadly payload the head is moving to push the PRIME Max to safety.

The bullet turns Max Shell from a floating head into an explosion of red mist and bone in an instant. The sound reminds Max of the time he accidentally dropped a rotten watermelon on the ground.

Stepping through the mist with a literal smoking gun pointing down at Max was Lord Farthington. His mirthless, stern eyes look upon Max with no pity, a hunter having cornered his prey. After a quick inspection he realizes that the blood covering Kael is not his own and the vermin is still alive.

“... Damn. Waste of a shot.”

☠️☠️☠️☠️

…The Kael-Sinclair Corporate Office, Boston…

…Sometime before ReVival 60…

Elenore sit at her office desk cradling the small plaque that her staff had given her ten minutes earlier.

“Congratulations On 10 Years Smoke Free!”

A soft smile touches her face as she looks down at the wooden and brass token of her achievement. She hadn’t intended to make a big deal out of it, just a small victory in a road away from the person she had been before.

“Ms. Sinclair?”

Looking up she saw the round face of her receptionist poking her head through the door. Elenore’s blue eyes catch the look of discomfort in her demeanor.

Something was wrong.

“What is it, Lilian?” Sinclair asks, standing up from her desk.

“It’s your brother. Maximillian.” Lilian quietly replies. Her expression tightens before she looks back over her shoulder. “... he’s being very insistent.”

Taking a deep breath, Elenore releases it with an annoyed sigh. She looks back down at the plaque in her hand, stepping around her desk, hissing, “Send him in.”

She begins going over the different ways she could use the wooden keepsake to bludgeon him to death. They had a deal. Max could play in PRIME and do whatever idiotic, suicidal stunts he wanted. He could even work with the Russian Government if he wanted but he left her and the Kael Family business assets alone.

Upon hearing the doors to her office open she settles on a decision.

Elenore Sinclair hurls the plaque like a ninja star toward the interloper’s head. To her shock and surprise a hand snatches it out of the air.

“Max, you know you’re not supposed to be here. I’ll have my security detail drag you out of here, I don’t care about your stupid Russian connections… or… pro..f..fuh.”

For the first time, outside of her nightmares, she feels that old, familiar fear tighten around her neck. She stares into those judgmental gray eyes, a pair she’s not prepared to shield herself against.

She chokes, forgetting to breathe as the man in front of her takes several long, swift steps forward. The world cracks as she takes in a panicked breath, her lungs burning. She feels his arms catch her, cradle her to keep her from falling.

It’s surprisingly gentle.

He’s talking but she can’t hear the words, the pounding of her heart thundering in her ears. She takes in another desperate gasp of air but she feels like her chest is being constricted in a vice, crushing the life out of her.

Closing her eyes, Elenore focuses on her breathe, turning desperate gasps into calm draws. The panic fades, as does the tremendous thumping in her ears.

“... you’ve redecorated.”

His voice slices through the final layer of distraction, drawing Elenore’s eyes open. The panic subsides, she accepts he’s there and she pulls a mask she hasn’t worn in over a decade. There would be time to mourn later.

She pushes herself out of his arms, meeting his gaze with a nod, “You were dead, I thought it appropriate.”

“Well, not an issue anymore.” Wilhelm reassures Elenore, allowing her to put some space between the two of them. “I’ve already begun renovating the Kael Estate in Arkham. You should come home, I think it would be good for both of us.”

She stifles a shiver she nods, a beguiling smile crossing her face. It hurt to wear this smile, not physically but for her soul. It wasn’t her smile.

It was always for him.

“Your brother upset an emotionally immature, sociopathic young man who nearly murdered him. This opened a doorway for me to return through a genetic imprint left in his DNA and copied over when he was cloned.” Elenore crosses her arms, “Interesting story. Is it true?”

“Doesn’t matter. It's an interesting story.” Wilhelm claps back, retrieving a silver case from his pocket.

“I have certain obligations but I can dedicate myself to the company full time. With any hope your brother, k431, will soon be permanently removed from the equation. And I’ve also got a plan to secure the future of this company, permanently.”

Opening the case, Wilhelm reveals a dozen neatly hand rolled cigarettes. He retrieves two before snapping the case back into his black uniform.

Wilhelm sticks one cigarette between his lips sighing, “One obligation I have involves that emotionally immature, sociopathic young man I mentioned earlier. A Frenchman by the name of FLAMBERGE.”

He slips the other cigarette between Elenore’s lips. She wants to say no, her entire body twisting inside at the thought of the smoke swirling in her lungs.

“I.. I don’t smoke anymore, sorry.” she finally manages to push the words from her chest. She pulls back, a hand lifts to put more obstacles between herself and her father.

“Hmm. Hmm.”

Pulling himself to his full height, he looms over Elenore with those imperious, judgmental gray eyes.

“... I am on the precipice of something that will immortalize the Kael legacy. I can’t do this without the best people, people like you, my daughter. My Elenore Kael. And I need you at your very best.”

His words crash over her, sweeping Elenore away and drowning her. She remembers that old hatred that had burnt her soul so long ago.

But he needs her.

She feels a bit of dampness on her cheek and brushes it away immediately. She accepts the cigarette with a shaky hand, lifting it to her lips.

“You always were my favorite.” Wilhelm coos through a warm and kind smile that was saved for his daughter.

Just for her.

He pulls a silver zippo lighter from the depths of his uniform, lighting both of their cigarettes. Father and daughter allow the white tendrils of smoke slither like silk down their throats and into their lungs.

She feels a small measure of the stress leave her body as her mind drank in the sweet, sweet nicotine.

“This FLAMBERGE, he could be useful. Once this business is done with him, I want a dossier brought up on this Lizard King. He may never desire to work for me but…” Kael says while stalking around Elenore's desk. “Perhaps manipulated into something useful. Anyway, enough about that.”

Easing himself into her chair, he crushes the cigarette out on her desk.

“Let's talk about my company.”

☠️☠️☠️☠️

[The following promo is dubbed in French]

C̵̡̧͙̮̣̺̟̬͚͛̂́̈́̆̈́̍͒͑̕ä̷̡̫͂̽̑̓̿̋̄̄̈͝͝͝n̶̮̺̖̻̝͓̣̎̃̀̏̾̿͘͘͝͠ͅͅ you hear the critical voice from within, FLAMBERGE?

A voice that knows your weaknesses?

Glorifies your failures? 

Honors your sorrows?

Exemplifies your pain?

Whatever it whispers, I’d call it an optimist compared to what my council would be.

Your narrative is kind compared to the story I would draft for y̸͇͕̙̺̅̉ơ̴̢̧̰͖͙͖͉̻͛̐̀̍̔̂́̃̂̈̀͘ų̷͙̣͓̙͖̂͗͐͛͂͘, Frechman.

You can triumph in the ring at 60,

But you š̶̢̜̤͚̯̾ẽ̸̹̒̽̔ẻ̸̤͔̑̓̒̓ no amou nt of effort can stop this chain of events you have put into motion.

This ends in the suffering and destruction of your friend, Cecilworth Farthington.

Bring your Marie Antoinette. 

I’ll begin formal introductions to ţ̷̨͇̣͕̎̉̏́̈̎̈́͌̄̓͗̂̏̄͐̒͆ͅh̴̡̨̢̭̗̳͖̠̹͇̙̾͐̀͐̈͜i̵̩̳͕͇̔̑̈́͆̑̋̇͝s̷̘͙̖̍́̃̑̉͐̅̈́̄̇̄̈́̕ͅ..

…Madame Guillotine…