Chapter Summary: Picking up on where we left off in the first chapter. Ethan and Karl finally meet.

2021

Karl galloped down the staircase leading to the furnaces. His heart was beating at a pace that alarmed him, and the exertion from moving so fast was making him dizzy. How old was he now? It had been all too easy for him to forget. At some point, his body had simply forgotten to age, perhaps around forty-five years. Like Rosemary, something within him had crystallized due to the integration of Miranda's mold. One thing was for sure, though: he sure in the hell wasn't immortal judging by the aches and pains along his joints. One day, he'd test this theory: take a nice, long soak in a bathtub with a pistol hanging limp from his hands. But there were things that he had to do first, and killing Miranda was high on that list. But first, he'd play her little games: draw her into a false sense of security by making her believe that he was still a loyal son. He'd bring her Ethan Winters, put on a show, and then?

He'd slip her wicked privilege right from beneath her. Blindsight her, set her wriggling upon her back, then snap her neck without an iota of regret. Then he'd die - take his rightful rest beside Marianne.

It was what he deserved.

He stopped before the grand window situated beside the staircase and simply stared back at his panting reflection. He was nervous, that much was true. Her harrowing warnings about Ethan Winters bounced around in his mind, crowding his thoughts and making him irritable. He had seen the haunted look in her eye when she had described Ethan's capabilities and unique biology. Miranda didn't scare easily. Her unease over the canting American powerhouse was telling.

And yet, part of him couldn't help but feel awed by the idea of the man. What did he look like, Karl wondered as he ran his hand through the oily strands of his hair. Most likely big, he decided, and hulking like those American sportsmen sustained off of morning steroid doses and hormone-injected slabs of steak. The imaginary Ethan in his mind had stormy dark eyes and was unused to smiling - most likely a brunette with a blocky jawline and a quick draw. Though he had never actually met an American man before, Karl imagined that Ethan spoke with that signature-clipped California vernacular that he had heard on the more modern radio forecast: was'up, how ya'doin, howsit-goin'.

Karl braced his fist against the window frame and leaned in close to his reflection. "Was'up," he tried, watching the awkward movement of his lips around the foreign accent. "Ethan Winters. Howsit-goin?"

Never before had Karl Heisenberg felt inclined to impress another man. But there was just something about the legacy shrouding Ethan that made him swipe his hands through his hair once again and adjust the flaps of his collar. If what Mother Miranda said was true, and Ethan really was a Big Deal, well…

He could use a man with balls in his crusade against Miranda. Especially an American. Lord knew Americans were just built differently, especially the men. He'd have to test him, somehow, get a feel for his spirit. If he proved to be a reliable ally then, well, Karl would use him. He had zero qualms about flip-flopping his loyalties and, to hear it told, Ethan also had good reason to hate Miranda's moldy guts.

A line of blood was rolling down his nose. Turns out, the pills that his father had pillaged from the Duke all those years really were stuffed with cocaine and not the good kind. Karl felt good - flashy and capable - but the high never lasted. Coming down from it was a bitch, and he already felt himself itching for more. But the Duke had sarcastically hinted at a bit of a hitch concerning his connections with the outside world, and the next round of coke would be long in coming. Karl didn't believe it for a second and had his suspicions that this was just another one of the Duke's many tactics to keep him hooked. The fucking pansy of an idiot was well aware that forcing Karl to abstain would keep him returning with bigger wads of cash, every time.

He pushed himself away from the window and cartwheeled his arms until he found his balance. If Ethan had survived the Lycan attack that Miranda had set upon the remaining villagers earlier that morning, then all the better. But still. He needed to be sure before bringing him in. He'd put on his own show, and cast the mysterious Ethan into yet another trial by fire. And if he survived that, too, well shit. He really was the real deal!

"Well, well. Didn't think anyone was left!" Karl said for practice, placing careful emphasis in the appropriate places. Looking at his reflection, he didn't see himself but his twin brother: the gaudy mannerism, the enunciated showmanship, the captivating stage presence. Yes - there it was. He'd put on a little show himself, intimidate the American bastard. Show him that he - Karl Heisenberg - was not to be fucked with. It'd be easier to form an alliance if the appropriate first impressions were put in place. "You must be…pretty tough."

He flung himself away from the window and hopped down the remaining steps. The men working in front of the furnaces cast him a curious glance and then quickly looked away. No doubt, they were already aware of his intentions with them. Too many village men had disappeared in his factory and, in turn, the bodies of too many failed experiments had ended up in the snow out back for all to see. The men weren't stupid, despite their humble village upbringings, and most had already made the connection. Luckily, most of them were daft enough to assume that their hard work would spare them his appraising, medical gaze. Work diligently, and maybe Lord Heisenberg won't turn you into one of his machines. A desperate assumption, but they needed the money.

He grinned and tipped his hat at them as he passed. He'd never forget that these were the sons and grandsons of the men who had borne gleeful witness to his banishment among the Lycans many years ago. He did not doubt in his heart that they, too, would be just as happy to see him burn in the furnaces that they shoveled coal into. Jealousy was richer than currency - he could see it in the twist of their lips and shifting of their eyes.

"Swell day, isn't it?" He called out to them. Several men winced in response. "Heard that it's going to be a real scorcher. Know what I'm sayin', boys?"

He laughed uproariously as he strolled out of the factory and mounted a strong horse. One curt command and he was galloping through the village at a break-neck speed. All the while, he kept his mind occupied with thoughts of Ethan: what he would say and what he would do once he finally met the vengeful American man. He didn't even notice that an hour had passed until he raised his eyes and saw the Dimitrescu castle approaching. His hands were shaking as he threw his leg over the horse's back and climbed off but why he did not know. Quickly, he lit a cigar and then wandered over to the door leading into the cellar. The Dimitrescu castle was locked up tight as a pretty maiden's chastity belt. If Ethan was anywhere, it was bound to be the disused cellar.

The same tuneless whistling was sliding between his teeth as he swung the door open and sauntered across the rotten floorboards. Every step made his heartbeat faster, and he realized that he was afraid - not of the man himself, but of disappointment. But whose? He could not tell yet. He stopped at the top of a staircase and took a deep breath in, feeling the snap and coil of the drugs still sloshing through his system. Capture Ethan, put on a show, gauge the man's abilities. There was work to be done. He could not trip and fumble over this opportunity, not when it came to killing Miranda.

There was movement in the cellar below him. He could hear rapid footsteps, then a grunt as someone tugged at the handle of one of the locked doors. The hit of burning tobacco flushed through his lungs as he exhaled and reminded himself of his mission: make an impression, keep his head on his shoulders, reel 'im in. It was too late to go back now.

For Ethan was in the cellar. He could feel the other man's presence already.

"Well, well," he called into the darkness beyond. "Didn't think anyone was left! You must be…pretty tough, huh?"

Karl tossed his cigar on the ground and smothered it with his boot. He didn't bother meeting Ethan's eye, not yet. He wanted the man to get a good look at him first.

There was a beat of silence and then a confident, scathing, "who the fuck are you?"

This nettled Karl's conscience. He had heard so much about Ethan that he had assumed that the other man must have heard about him as well. He looked up and grazed Ethan with a genuine smile. "Oh. You're not local?" He asked, just to save face. "Even better."

Time for the first test. Ethan had died already, according to Miranda, a little incapacitation wouldn't kill him again. Karl flicked his hand, and a sharpened staff slung its way right through Ethan's chest. The jarring chill began to spread along Karl's teeth as the various metal objects within the cellar rose and began to fly toward Ethan's body, completely covering him. Karl couldn't help but laugh as he watched the American's eyes widen at the sight of the metal grate hovering above his face. Still giggling, Kark stepped forward and observed Ethan's face with relish. The man was nothing like he had imagined. Whereas the Ethan of his imagination had been strong, bulky, and intimidating the real Ethan was anything but. He looked more like an automobile mechanic than a dashing warrior. Still, there was something to that vulgar tongue.

"Mother Miranda's gonna love you," he warned before a wave of chuckling overtook him and the metal grate flew with alarming precision toward Ethan's face.

X

Mother Miranda stood upon the raised platform, the bridge of her nose pinched between her fingers

"Heisenberg," she said slowly. "Did you kill him?"

"The man's fine!" He said back, completely and totally affronted by her accusatory tone. "Look at him! He's still breathing!"

"Barely. Why was there a staff impaled in his chest?"

"Well, now, I'm a sucker for a good shish kebab, I'll admit. Nothin' like good ol' fashioned American beef! You should try it sometime!"

"I'll admit that I had not intended for the man to fall prey to your culinary experiments, despite being a fan of a dinner and a show myself."

"Ah, well," Alcina interjected. "If it is a show that you desire, then I humbly suggest that you delegate the task to a Dimitrescu. The man is of no real use to anyone else, culinary experiment or not. And my daughters do so love entertaining foreigners."

Karl rolled his eyes sky-high at this. Both Angie and Salvatore had crowded around Ethan's body and were chittering excitedly amongst themselves. There was a heavy groan and Karl cocked his head at the sound. Ethan was awake.

"Furthermore," Alcina drawled on. "I can assure you if you entrust the mortal to House Dimitrescu, my daughters and I shall deliver you the finest cups of his slaughtered blood."

Karl feared that if he rolled his eyes any harder, he'd start a small tornado in the room. Luckily, the glasses slipping slowly down his sweaty nose prevented anybody from seeing the worry etching its way along his face. He needed Ethan for his own purposes, and Alcina's snakish offer had thrown an unexpected wrench in his plan. He couldn't relinquish possession of Ethan Winters. His very vendetta hinged on taking control over the man.

"You mean-" he tried over the sound of Angie cackling. "Y-you mean - BOTH OF YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

"What…where….?" Ethan muttered as Angie scuttled back to Beneviento. Karl watched her go with a scowl all along his whiskered face. It had been over twenty years since he had murdered the Beneviento parents. His guilt had easily translated itself into a misplaced sense of rage directed at the young Beneviento. He'd never forgive himself and, in turn, would never forgive her blissful naivete over the matter. Only a few hours earlier, she had raised her veil and graced him with a smile upon his entrance into the room with Ethan in tow. The impressed glint in her bright eyes had made him want to slit his own throat

"You mean you'll screw around with him in private, 'n where's the fun in that?" He asked heatedly, not even sure who he was mad at anymore. "Give 'im to me, and I'll put on a show that everyone can enjoy-"

"Oh, so gouache!" Alcina hissed. "What do we care for bread and circuses? The manthing's suffering is assured regardless-"

"Yack, yack. If the man's dick is cut off in the castle, blah blah blah-"

Salvatore was staring at him hungrily, and giggling at his words. It was hard to believe that only eighty years ago the two of them had been thick as thieves, carrying out unholy indiscretions upon the bodies of slain factory workers in the privacy of Moreau's office. Everyone in the room had betrayed Karl in some way. But the loss of Salvatore's friendship via the succumbing of the man's madness had been the biggest betrayal of all. Somewhere, higher up on the rafters, a Lycan wailed and Karl flapped his hand at it impatiently. Trailing a group of Lycans into Miranda's sacred little hidey-hole must have been blasphemous, but Karl really didn't care at that point. The bitch would be dead soon anyway.

Ethan moaned again.

"I've heard all of your arguments. Some of you were less persuasive than others." At this, Miranda turned slightly and set a sparkling blue eye upon him. Like they were sharing some sort of secret.

You do understand, don't you, that you've always been in my favor?

In response, he stamped his hammer upon the floor and leaned forward with mock-interested.

"But I've made my decision. Heisenberg. The man's fate is in your hands."

He tipped his hat at her as simultaneously Alcina reared up from her seat. "Mother Miranda, I must protest," she growled. "Heisenberg is but a child and his devotion to you is questionable. You do remember, do you not, that only a few years back it was revealed that he was building an army with which to overthrow-"

Oh no. He would not let her go there again, not when he was so close to finally securing Ethan Winters beneath his belt. He sprung up and circled around her, subconsciously placing himself between her and Ethan

"Shut yer damn hole," he warned as his hammer flew back into his hand. "And don't be a sore loser! Go find yer food somewhere else-"

"Quiet now, child, the adults are talking-!"

"I'm the child," he repeated in disbelief, feeling himself nearing that point of a total lack of control. Screw using Ethan, screw killing Miranda. He was about to knock the vampire bitch's head off of her very shoulders. "Yer the one arguing with Miranda's decision!"

"You wouldn't know responsibility if it was welded to that hammer-!"

"Ohhhhh, keep growing, one day yer head might actually fit your ego-!"

"Watch yourself, Karl, your backward hick accent is starting to show through again-"

"SILENCE!" Miranda thundered. Karl fell back as if any second she would use her powers to bend the black mold flowing through his veins. But she did no such thing. The back wings flared from her back as she glared down at them with the same expression that she would use on ants crawling around her bare feet.

"My decision is final," she said over the sound of Angie spurring them on to fight. "There will be no argument. Remember from whence you came." For some reason, she held his eye as she said this last part and he had no choice but to relent.

"Thank you, mother," he said, though saying so felt more like an admission of defeat than triumph. He couldn't help but think back to the days when Ken - now Sturm - used to beat his ass and then force him to say 'I love you' afterward.

This thought forced him to break eye contact and turn to face Ethan. Once again, he was struck by how run-of-the-mill Ethan looked lying there with his hands shackled in front of his chest. Maybe Ethan wouldn't be the one - maybe he'd be too weak and Karl would have to proceed as he always had. The Lone Ranger hadn't been called the Lone Ranger for nothing.

"Lycans and Gentlemen," he boomed, feeling every dagger that Alcina glared into the side of his face. "We thank you! And now…let the games begin!" He knelt on one knee, staring Ethan full in the face. Maybe it was the cocaine still coursing through his blood, maybe it was the exhilaration coming from his sudden sense of ecstatic showmanship, but he could feel Marianne as if she was standing right behind his shoulder. Let's see what you're really made of, she had once said.

Suddenly, he was no longer afraid. He was invincible, powerful, and dangerous. He could only hope to God that Ethan was, too.

"Let's see what you're really made of…Ethan Winters," he said in his lowest register. And then, "Get ready."

This was Ethan's final test.

"NO, WAIT-" Ethan cried as Karl hefted his hammer high over his shoulders and slammed it between Ethan's legs. The Lycans growled, whined, and hollered in excitement at the cacophony. Then, they swung themselves from the rafters and crowded the two men in a hungry circle.

"Ten," Karl called out. "Nine! Eight! Seven!"

Ethan glanced around in desperation before leveraging himself up and crawling towards a hole in the corner. Karl watched him calmly, knowing deep down in his heart that the man wouldn't make it.

"Six! Five! Four! Three! Two! One! SHOWTIME!"

Ethan sprung up with surprising alacrity and jumped into the hole. The Lycans did not hesitate. One by one they filtered through as if siphoned into the empty space. There was a rumbling all around him as the Lycans made their wild-eyed descent after Ethan.

Then, all was silent.

Karl threw his arms and head back, and then slowly turned himself in a circle. Once again, the feeling of complete and utter power over another man had filled him to a near-breaking point with euphoria. Finally, he understood why Miranda had granted him control over Ethan: she wanted to show him that she could still make him feel this way, that she held as much sway over his body as the drugs.

"So gauche," he heard Alcina mutter again as she wandered away from them. Karl wiped his hand over his face and peered up at Miranda. She was smiling but in a very tired way.

"We haven't won yet, son," she said as she slumped back into her chair. She was panting, slightly, and this unexpectedly turned him on. "That man is a lot like you. He is resilient and unabashed. If you two should cross paths again, don't-" she paused, and swiped a finger across the sweat pooling beneath her eyes. "Don't let him do what Marianne did to you before."

"I'm not the one to make the same mistake twice," he answered back and Miranda chuckled.

"For your sake, I should sincerely hope not, son."