Chapter Summary: A glimpse into the moments leading up to Ethan's arrival, before we go back in time to explore Karl's history starting with age sixteen.

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Part One

2021 - The Day of Ethan's Arrival

A lone horn blared: Rossini's William Tell Overture. Then the sound of thundering hoofbeats approaching, fast.

"Hi-yo, Silver!"

Six gunshots rang out around the small office as simultaneously the small blades hanging in the air started spinning madly. Near-misses, but impressive nonetheless.

"A fiery horse with the speed of light, a cloud of dust, and a hearty, 'Hi-yo, Silver!' The Lone Ranger!"

The Overture played again, signaling the oh-so-familiar start of the radio show. Karl blew across the muzzle of each colt .45, sheathed them, and then jumped onto his desk. The next part he knew by heart.

"With his faithful Indian companion, Tonto, the daring and resourceful masked rider of the plains led the fight for law and order in the early western United States," the announcer proclaimed in a grand voice. "Nowhere in the pages of history can one find a greater champion of justice. Return with us now to those thrilling days of yesteryear. From out of the past come the thundering hoofbeats of the great horse Silver! The Lone Ranger rides again!"

Click.

"-with his faithful Indian companion, Tonto, the daring and resourceful masked rider of the plains led the fight for law and order in the early western United States-"

Click.

"With his faithful Indian companion…Tonto…the daring and re-sour-ceful masked rider of the plains led the fight for law and order in the early western United States…"

Click.

"Nowhere in the pages of history can one find a greater champion of justice-"

Click.

"Nowhere in the pay-jess of history can one find…a greater…champion of justice!"

Click.

"The Lone Ranger rides again!"

"The Lone Ranger rides again!"

He leaped from his desk with a dramatic flourish of coattails and swiped up the small recorder. One last click of its square button, then it was shoved unceremoniously into his pocket where it was promptly forgotten.

Slowly, he sauntered over to the cracked mirror, watching his own reflection approaching as if it was a dog with its hackles raised. The knives were still hanging suspended around him. The effort of keeping them there was causing a cold sensation to spread along his back teeth, but he had become good at ignoring it. With one hand braced against the mirror's frame, he leaned in close until he was almost touching the glass. He held his own eye - the Devil's eyes, as they were colloquially called - with resolution, taking in the constriction of his pupils, and the pale leaf green of his irises. Constricted pupils were a sign of fear. So what was he scared of?

"With his faithful Indian companion, Tonto, the daring and resourceful masked rider of the plains led the fight for law and order in the early western United States," he said slowly, carefully, emulating the announcer's every word with deliberate precision. Smoke rose from between his fingers and circled his face, lending him an ominous air that he felt was quite impressive. "Nowhere in the pages of history can one find a greater champion of justice…return with us now to those thrilling days of yesteryear. From out of the past come the thundering hoofbeats of the great…horse…Silver! The Lone Ranger rides again!"

It was too much.

The pressure in his back teeth was building up to a near-unbearable point. He quickly stuck his cigar between his lips and sucked the smoke in deep. The heat from the cigar provided quick relief from the searing coldness along his gums. But it wasn't enough, and his inability to reel control over his own body infuriated him. Without warning, he shoved a closed fist against the mirror, splintering it for the hundredth time. His reflection gazed back at him, one part disgusted and one part alarmed. For no other reason than to quell those old thoughts crowding into his mind, he punched the mirror again and again until something small and wooden clattered to the floor.

It was a picture frame, one that he had hidden away atop the mirror many weeks ago. He knew that picking it up was stupid and that he'd be better off tossing it into the fire as he had many times before. But he was nothing if not a man of instinct, and ritual. He stooped down, picked it up, and held it as far away from his face as possible as if the image glued hastily to the cardboard backdrop would singe his cheeks. His lip curled slightly along his teeth as he stared back at the woman in the photo. As always, it seemed as if she wasn't looking at him but through and above him: one hand holding the flap of his unbuttoned shirt against her breasts, the fingers of the other pointing at the camera around a blurry cigar, her irises milky gray and lips parted in anger.

No…n-no! My g-good side, god damn you, get my good side!

You don't have one, Mariane!

Well, w-whatever the fuck I got is better than what you got!

The knives in the air suddenly fell to the floor with a ringing clamor around his boots.

The iciness in his teeth evaporated but he didn't even notice. There was a weight descending along his shoulders, slowly pooling its way down to his very chest like some thick, viscous thing. It was a familiar weight, one that claimed hold of him every time he thought of her: the lying, treacherous, whore-bitch. The wooden frame around the burned edges of the photo cracked as he tightened his hold. Any second, he thought to himself, he'd throw the damn thing into the fire. Or, no - he'd stomp it beneath his boot, stomp her out, impale her visage with tiny fragments of wooden splinters like she deserved.

But, of course, he did none of those things.

He knew that he wouldn't.

Though he had tried to destroy the photo hundreds of times, he'd never been able to demolish it completely. You sentimental bastard, he thought to himself as he let the frame slip from his fingers and fall with a graceless clatter to the floor. Always had to let her win.

As if on cue, his telephone began to ring. He startled, and promptly bumped his head on the low-hanging ceiling before stumbling dizzily towards his desk. He shouldn't have been surprised. There was only one person in the village who'd dare to call him, and she was bound to do so eventually. Still, the thought of her calling at such an inconvenient moment felt less like a coincidence and more like deliberate malintent.

He sat with a huff at his desk, tapped his cigar ash onto a pile of papers, and lifted the receiver to his ear.

"Mother Miranda," he said in his most gracious voice. "What a pleasure to finally hear from you!"

"Do not try and deceive me, Heisenberg," came her quick response. There was a rustling on her end of the line, and the thought of her attention being divided whilst on the phone with him irked him. "You know better."

"Why, whatever do you mean?" He asked in a voice that came out rancidly sweet.

"There's sadness in your voice. I can hear it."

"Oh, come on now," he said. "Me? Sad? Whilst talking to you? I'd never dream of it!"

Silence. More rustling. And then, "you were thinking of her."

The cigar was sitting stiffly between his pointer and middle finger. He watched the softly glowing arc fizzle its way towards his nails, closer and closer until he could feel the heat along his skin. The way that she had said 'her' made it seem as if she was spitting something foul off of her tongue, and this made him clench his teeth. He said nothing, choosing instead to let his silence convey everything that he was too intimidated to convey. The rustling stopped, and after a while, Miranda gave an exasperated sigh.

"Everything that has been done - and will be done - is for the greater good," she finally said. The fire on the cigar reached his fingers. The smell of his flesh burning reached his nose, but he did not relinquish his hold. His fingers tightened around the browned wrapping as he imagined reaching through the phone and wringing Miranda's scrawny neck.

K-karl! Don't let her do it, p-please! I don't wanna die! Not like this!

He roused himself with a shake of the head and spoke without even thinking. "The greater good don't always feel so good…does it?"

"No, it doesn't," Miranda said as he put the cigar back in his mouth and took a long drag. "You are still familiar with your verses, aren't you, Karl? Humility is the fear of the Lord; its wages are riches and honor and life."

"Proverbs 22:4," he said automatically.

"For the Lord takes delight in his people; he crowns the humble with victory-"

"Psalm 149:4." After so many years and his final, grand disillusionment, her recital of bible verses still felt like a blasphemous slap in the face.

"Humility is not a weakness, son, it's a strength. And you are strong-"

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this call, Mother Miranda?" he asked quickly, already fed up with her stupid little mind games.

"Ethan Winters is in Alcina's castle," she said, "Go there, and bring him before the council."

"Alcina's castle, huh?" He said, his eyes roving over the picture of Mother Miranda hanging above his desk. "Wonder how he ended up there…"

"What are you implying?"

"Nothing! Nothing at all! I am curious, though, as to why you'd rather me be the one to bring him in instead of the supersized bi-"

"Hold your tongue-"

"I mean the beautiful, tall lady…since he's already in her castle…"

"I understand that today represents a very…important date for you and that…little brown thing…"

I don't wanna die! Not like this!

He tore the phone away from his ear and bit his knuckle until his teeth caused crescent indents to well up along his skin. Then, he took a deep breath in and pressed the phone against his ear once again.

"-I need to know that you can do this, Karl," Miranda was saying. "We cannot afford to have you distracted by trivial matters, not now of all times! If capturing Ethan Winters is the one thing that keeps your head straight upon your shoulders, then so be it. I will have you do it."

"Alright-"

"Karl-"

"I said alright," he growled. "I'll bring you Ethan Winters."

"Good. Good, good. Not dead, Heisenberg, that'll come later."

"Sure, Mother Miranda."

"And, Karl?"

"I'm listening."

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

He grabbed the phone and threw it as hard as he could at the wall. Then, he took his hammer and proceeded to smash everything in his office. Gone was his desk, gone was his chair, gone was his stove in a fiery explosion of bent metal and cracking wood. He stood in the middle of the room, panting as he gazed upon the desolation of his office. There was nothing - absolutely nothing else - that she could have said to infuriate him more.

We cannot afford to have you distracted by trivial matters…

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

It was as if she had snuck up behind him and twisted a knife in his back again, all with a smile on her face.

He turned with a growl and searched the room for something else to destroy. There - on the floor - was the picture of Marianne Wilder.

…that…little brown thing…

He picked it up and flung it right as the door opened. Servant Number 28 stumbled back as he was hit in the head by the flying picture frame and then quickly readjusted his hold on his silver platter. Karl took one final drag off of his cigar and then smashed the stub against the mirror.

"Sorry about that," he said as the servant grinned dazedly.

"Nothing to it, sire, nothing to it," the other man answered quickly before tapping the steel plates embedded along the top of his head. "Didn't feel a thing, I didn't. I have a rather hard skull thanks to you."

"Uh-huh," Karl said. The two men stared at each other in pressingly awkward silence until Karl cleared his throat. "Well? What do you want? I'm a busy man, I don't have time to sit around and stare at your ugly mug all day."

The servant perked up immediately. "Oh. Yes. Well. I have your Earl Tea, sire," he said as he poured Heisenberg a cup and then handed it over. "Crafted 'specially by the Duke-"

"It's Bigelow again, isn't it?"

"Er, well...yes, sire...I suppose it is"

Heisenberg sucked his teeth at this. "Ugly ass swindler. Leave it to him to try and pawn off cheap American shit as some sort of specialty craft.'"

"To be fair, sire, he said that this batch includes hints of chamomile and lavender, meant to ease the stressed mind-"

"Do I look like I'm fuckin' stressed to you?" Karl asked gruffly before blowing delicately along the rim of his teacup. The servant gazed pointedly at the destruction of furniture all around the room, then the rapid rise and fall of Karl's chest, then sweat pooling around his master's eyes before giving a smile.

"Not at all. You seem quite…peachy" the man finally said and Heisenberg hissed in disgust. He'd have to kill him. He was overdue in finding Servant Number 29, anyway. The servant stooped and brushed the dust away from the photograph that had been lobbed at him. "Ah. And this must be…ah, what was her name? The village prostitu-"

Karl spun around and shot the man twice in the head. As the servant's body crumpled to the ground, Karl blew the smoke from his pistols and sheathed them once more. His thoughts felt thunderous and rollicking as he stepped over the gargling servant and made for the door. He was whistling a repetitive, toneless tune beneath his breath as his boots squelched along the servant's blood.

"The Lone Ranger rides again," he muttered to himself as he threw the door open, and then, "a greater showman than God." He chuckled. "May the Lord answer you when you are in distress; may the name of the God of Jacob protect you. Psalm 20:1 Ethan Winters, I hope you're ready."