Author's Note: I did a little bit of research and found out that Karl Heisenberg was originally supposed to be one half of a set of twins, which I thought would be a fascinating idea to explore.
Also. We're just going to pretend that rock-paper-scissors was invented pre-1937...
Chapter Summary: In which we go back in time to 1937 and meet Ken Heisenberg (Karl's twin brother and the charismatic preacher of Miranda's congregation) as well as Marianne (the village prostitute and Karl's only friend.)
X
1937
The Church of the Black God had been built upon the ruins of an old tavern. The walls were made of clapboard wood tinged green with mold, fittingly enough.
It was derelict at best, and the inside offered no reprieve to the sore eye. But that didn't stop the followers of the God from filtering in every third night and crowding around the bar which now served as a stage for the charismatic young man's spur-of-the-moment monologs.
They were there, now: villagers of all ages jostling impatiently for elbow room in the muggy space, their eyes riveted upon the man sitting on crossed legs atop the bar table. The Prophetess sat some ways away at a table wedged into the corner of a room. Her eyes were narrowed at the expectation of what was to come, but none could see it beneath her heavy black hood.
A lone flute began to play, its low tones wafting eerily throughout the otherwise silent room. The instrument itself was foreign to the villagers, though the more worldly amongst them recognized it as a strange Middle Eastern thing that had probably been imported there by the Duke. The man had a knack for getting his chubby hands on items from halfway across the world. But, how he did it, no one knew.
A woman began to roll two cymbals between her fingers and the man atop the bar raised his head to the light. His eyes were closed and rimmed heavily in black ash - ash that had also been used to outline a long-beaked crow upon his forehead. All amongst them bore the same symbol except for two: a brown girl and a young man sitting with his boots on the table. The latter's eyes slid back and forth across the room as he watched the girl shudder and writhe in the firelight spilling from the bartop.
A faraway cry rode the wind, sending a ripple of unease throughout the congregation.
"Urias," someone whispered, and the man atop the bar opened his eyes.
"Eighteen some years ago, a woman suffered an unspeakable injustice at the hands of a heartless and cruel tyrant known as God-duh," the man said, spitting out the word God as if it was a thorn upon the tip of his tongue. The brown girl raised her quivering hands to the ceiling and then fell heavily to her knees. The congregation waited with bated breath for his next words. They had no choice. Though the man was young - no more than sixteen - he commanded respect. "He took what He had given to her in the selfish, hungry way that all insatiable beings do. And so she wandered, day in and day out, searching for answers that taunted her tormented mind until her fruitless search brought her to a cave in which she planned to end her life. Life without her daughter was no life at all."
The cry outside rose again, higher in pitch this time as if whoever - or whatever it was - was facing its final, deathly throes. The man with his boots atop the table rolled his eyes to the ceiling and listened as the sound died away.
"But was it fruitlessness that brought her to that cave or was it a calling by a higher and greater power?" The man atop the stage asked the crowd, oblivious to their discomfort. "Non-sentient but eternal…faceless but with form…ever-reaching, ever-present…crackling, fetid, and black."
This last word echoed in the silence of the congregation. Unable to help themselves, several men cast surreptitious glances at the young girl sauntering amongst them, watching her like dogs stalking their prey. The man with his feet on the table watched in amusement as she suddenly bent over and swept her body like a limp rag across a table. Someone in the room began to beat heavily upon a drum. The Prophetess leaned further back in her chair, watching him watching the girl.
Suddenly, the speaker atop the bar sprung up and thrust his hands before him. They had been blackened with ink, all the way down to his wrists. He curled his fingers into his palm but not before they all could see the faint crackling of blue light flicker along his nails.
"A Black Mold," the man said and several sighs passed through the congregation. Women began to fan themselves as he paced back and forth along the bartop, his green eyes flashing and sweaty black hair hanging stiffly upon his shoulders. "Let men of folly tell you that that which is ageless and unknowable rules mankind…let them tell you that their Lord's power lies in His omnipresence…let them laugh in your face, and then remind them there is something else that is ageless…unknowable…omnipresent….and that some-thing is the new God-duh that imbued our Mother with its powers that day in the cave."
Soft wails and mutterings echoed around the room. The fans within the women's hands flew with renewed vigor. Some of the men began to rise from their chairs and sway. The brown girl weaved around them with fluid precision, never once having to open her eyes as she danced the familiar path around the tables.
The man at the bar was speaking louder now, his voice vying for its place amongst the people muttering in tongues and hissing like trodden snakes. The mood had become feral, and unpredictable.
The man with his feet on the table couldn't help it. A prickle along the back of his neck made him glance back at the Prophetess. They held each other's eye for a moment before she mouthed something, her voice lost in the clamor but he knew what she had said nonetheless.
Come here, Karl.
He clenched his teeth and looked away.
"YES," the man at the bar said, pumping his arms wildly in the air as his unclasped hair swung around his face. "Yes! Rejoice! Rejoice! Our Mother was gifted with wonders beyond the realm of imagination and she, in her considerable graciousness, chose to share her blessings with us unworthy zealots and whores and bastard-sons! Yes, I am talking to y'all - y'all who reap her generosity and possess not the ability to repay her kindness! Are there any among us now who harbor doubt? You shake your head, but every apple tree holds a fruit rotten to its core…" the man's voice trailed off, and his gaze traveled slowly to the man with his boots upon the table. They stared coldly at one another before the latter raised his pinky and crooked it several times in the air.
"Anyway…" the man atop the bar said, the slowness of his words betraying the fact that he had been thrown off course. "See me now, skeptics, and let me be a reminder of the power which our Mother Miranda wields."
He reached back with one hand and pulled his shirt dramatically from his shoulders. The women's fans immediately stopped waving and quite a few men seemed to suddenly curl into themselves. The lamps were dimmed as the man stood breathing heavily above them. There were many black lines along his skin, traversing the inner paths of his veins. All fell silent except for a faint, tuneless humming coming from someone within the congregation. The man closed his eyes and clenched his fist.
"As I carry the Heisenberg family name, I will prove to you our Mother's greatness," he said quietly.
A pale glow began to radiate from his abdomen. It was so faint that one could have almost believed that it was a mere trick of the moonlight pouring in from the glassless window. Then the glow grew brighter, sharper. It began to travel along his blackened veins, lighting him from within. The congregation gave a simultaneous gasp as the light became so bright that it illuminated the space surrounding him. His hair rose and began to wriggle along his face as his palms turned crystal white. He opened his eyes with a groan - eyes that had turned glacier-white - as he raised his hands and held them before his face. There was an audible buzz as thin flickers of lighting began to flit along his fingers. Though they had seen this phenomenon many times before, they were still awestruck by what they were seeing: the man was not only conducting electricity but wielding it fearlessly.
But the man conducting electricity upon the bartop was not Karl Heisenberg.
Karl was the man sitting with his boots upon the table, watching it all unfold from the back of the room with disgust etched along every line of his barely bearded face. The man who had so enraptured them all with his electricity show was nothing more than an ever-present thorn in Karl's side, a narcissistic showman, a minstrel of blasphemy…
..and also his twin brother.
"Beware of false prophets who come to ye in sheep's clothing, but inwardly are ravenous wolves," Karl muttered before taking a sip from his mug. He hadn't meant to speak out loud but there his words suddenly were: hanging in the air and suspended for them all to hear. The blaring instruments fell quiet, and several chairs scraped back as all within the congregation turned to gaze upon Karl with distaste.
His brother's hands fell to his sides as simultaneously the mysterious glow faded from his body like a lamplight blown quickly out.
"What did you just say?" Ken Heisenberg hissed.
Karl glared at him over the rim of the mug, knowing full well that answering would prove just as futile as holding his tongue. There was simply no way to win - not when it came to Ken - and so he let the heavy 'thunk' of his mug against the tabletop speak for him.
Ken jumped off the stage and stormed towards him. Everything in Karl recoiled at the sight of his brother approaching and he hoped to God that it didn't show on his face. Moved by instinct but not intention, he leaned as far back as possible as Ken placed his arms on either side of his chair and looked him dead in the eye.
He couldn't help it. Years of being cowed by his father into speaking only scripture failed him, and he addressed his brother in a calm voice.
"I said, 'what of the zealots, whores, and bastard-sons who were turned into Lycans as a result of your Prophet's failed experiments? If they didn't bitch and moan all the time, I'm sure they'd have a lot to say about your mother's moldy little blessings."
There was a gasp, and several women grinned sheepishly amongst themselves at the sound of Karl's voice. But, in his righteous vehemence, he barely even noticed.
"Papa would beat your ass if he knew you were talking out of scripture-" Ken said.
"And he'd beat yours if he wasn't so scared of-"
Karl didn't even know that he had been hit until he opened his eyes and realized that he was lying flat on his back along the floor. It took less than a second for Ken to straddle his waist and begin pummeling him with his fists. Karl was quick to brace his forearms across his face as the people in the congregation rushed to surround them in an eager, cajoling circle. Ken's hair swung madly around his sweaty, twisted face as he aimed punch after punch at Karl's neck, chest, and stomach - anywhere that he could land a blow. Somewhere, a woman was calling Ken's name as the very wind was knocked out of Karl with every hit. He quickly curled over onto his side, but that did not stop Ken from boxing his ear in and yanking him back around. He grabbed Karl by his shoulders and began to slam him repeatedly against the cold ground.
"You dare to come into our church with your faggot Jesus bullshit?!" Spit flew from Ken's mouth as Karl's head bounced against the stone floor with enough force to send shockwaves through his body and turn his vision black. Another punch and he was seeing stars.
Karl sputtered in pain, causing a mist of blood and snot to spray across Ken's face. Ken lifted his shoulders and slammed him down again and again. Someone put their hand on Ken's shoulder, but he was quick to shrug it away.
"You like your scriptures, do you?" He grunted as he dug his fingernails into Karl's neck. "Well how about this one? If anyone says, "I love God," and hates his brother, he is a liar; for he who does not love his brother whom he has seen cannot love God whom he has not seen. And this commandment we have from him: whoever loves God must also love his brother. Say it, Karl, SAY IT!"
Karl knew exactly what he was supposed to say. They had gone through this many times before, ever since Ken learned that he was permitted to torture him at their father's behest. As Karl's cheeks began to turn blue beneath the crushing force being applied to his throat, he envisioned their father: sitting upon the kitchen chair years ago, drumming his fingers along his arm as he watched Ken attempt to 'beat the devil' out of Karl. In a last-ditch attempt to free himself, Karl slid his fingers beneath Ken's but the other man would not let go, not until his sadism was satisfied by hearing Karl admit defeat in their agreed-upon way. Karl sputtered again - hating himself, his brother, and all who bore gleeful witness to Ken's destructive display.
"Say it," Ken said in a warning growl, his fingers sinking deeper into the skin on Karl's neck.
Seeing no other option aside from death, Karl was forced to relent.
"I love you," he gargled with what felt like his last remaining breath. Ken leaned in closer, a snakish smirk rolling across his lips.
"Again."
"I love you!"
"Say it like you mean it, asshole, before I knock your fucking teeth out-"
"I said I fucking love y-"
"That is enough," a feminine voice said. Ken looked up in surprise as the Prophetess put her hand on his shoulder and pulled him back. "There is no need for violence, Heisenberg. Haven't I told you that enough times before?"
"But, Mother Miranda, he was insulting you!" Ken said in a sheepish whine as he wiped Karl's spit away from his chin. Karl curled over onto his side again and moaned, feeling every aching pulse splitting his skull as he coughed
"Mere words do not constitute an insult, child. Actions - like those of a man who disobeys his mother's orders - bear the brunt of the weight."
"Eh?" Ken said stupidly and Miranda sighed in exasperation before pointing towards the back of the building.
"The dishes in the kitchen need tending to. Go, now, make yourself useful for once."
"But-"
"Ken!"
"Alright! Boys!" Ken snapped his fingers. "Go and toss the trash where it belongs, aye?"
Several strong men surrounded Karl and hefted him up by his arms and legs. He was too weak to put up a fight, and so he lay limp in their arms as they carried him out back towards the stinking trash pile. They slung him back and forth, back and forth until his very brain seemed to rattle around in his skull until finally, they tossed him upon the heap. He lay there cursing his luck and massaging his forehead as they walked away, trailing rough laughter behind them before closing the door and leaving him in the center of the refuse pile.
He lay there for a long time. Even as the moisture of the refuge pile began to leach into his clothing, he did not move. Eventually, he lit a cigarette and blew the smoke at the star-speckled sky. There was a faint chattering beneath the backdrop of his thoughts, and the familiar chill had built up along his back teeth. But, as was his tendency at that point, he tried his best to ignore it - chalking it up to his overactive imagination.
A close succession of blinking lights crossed the sky in a diagonal, their brightness rivaling the very star themselves. America, he thought to himself as his eyes traced the trajectory of the lights until they finally faded away into the distance. A wild party had started up within the church, he could hear it. But there was no use in going back in, just as there was no use in going back to the factory, or roaming the Potter's field. There was no place for him in the tiny village or, rather, none that seemed more appealing than the strangely comforting warmth emanating from the trash beneath him.
Not for the first time, he felt a sense of restlessness crowding around him. There had to be something more in store for him - something beyond the cold and careless confines of the village. But everything that he could have been - all of his potential and all of his god-given opportunities - seemed to have been stolen from him at birth, given to the man who bore his likeness and nothing more.
"Fortune favors the bold, don't it?" He mouthed before winking back at the stars. Thankfully, their inability to speak spared him from any sort of scathing response.
The door to the church suddenly flung open, and a woman stumbled out as if pushed by forceful hands. For a brief moment, the cacophony from inside spilled out before she quickly spun around and slammed her fists against the door closed in her face.
"F-festering c-cunt holes!" She screamed before giving the door a swift kick. Then, seeing Karl lying on his back in the trash, she paused and stared at him uncomprehendingly.
"K-Karl," she finally said in a grating falsetto that hurt his ears. "What are you doing in the trash?"
A small smile curled around his cigarette and he suddenly felt very tired. "I'm pontificating. Can't you tell, Marianne?"
"W-well, I'd h-hate to get between a man and his p-p-pontification. D-do you pontificate with your left or your right hand?"
He considered all options and then decided that it'd be best to ignore this. She dropped onto her hands and knees and crawled towards him. He could tell by the whiny edge behind her words that she was higher than the plane that he had seen in the sky. Still, he made room for her as she set herself gingerly down beside him and clasped her ashen hands around her legs.
"I saw you g-get your ass beat in there," she said. "I m-mean, he really handed it to you this time! I-I would've stopped him b-but…m-my ass can't handle another beating by him."
The double entendre behind her words made him wince but she didn't notice. She was too busy rocking side to side, her milky-gray irises bouncing restlessly along the skyline. His cigarette gave a defeated sizzle in the following silence as they each thought their separate thoughts in the comfort of each other's presence. After a while, she looked down at him - careful to keep from meeting his eyes - before slowly sliding down into a supine position and crooking her arm beneath her head.
"You got a cut on your cheek. S-sal says that alcohol can help clean wounds," she whispered. Something about their proximity must have comforted her, as she had finally dropped the annoying falsetto and the stutter was beginning to fade from her voice. "I could go back in, get a pitcher of brandy."
Karl twisted his lip and shook his head. "Brandy's only good for one thing."
"I'm only good for one thing, too."
The sound of this made him give an involuntary moan. He was so tired, and his body had been severely bruised by his ordeal with his brother. But there was no way in hell that he'd be able to pass up what she was offering, not with the way that she was looking at him. He looked around and, seeing no one along the darkened street, he lifted himself. The thought of doing it again with her brought upon a sick sense of shame but there was no one watching. She rose alongside him with urgency written all along her sunken cheeks.
"Make it quick?" He said, less of a question and more of a command. She bit her dry lip and nodded.
"Just like how we both like it," she said breathlessly.
"Alright. Let me see 'em."
They knelt before each other on their knees, the heat rising from their bodies and the trash pile causing them both to sweat. Simultaneously, they both held up a single hand and knocked their fists three times into their palms.
"Rock…paper…scissors."
He held out a closed fist which she quickly blanketed with her hand.
"Rock…paper…scissors!"
His turn to win. He clutched her tiny curled fingers in his and she huffed in indignation.
"Okay," she said. "Rock…paper…s-scissors!"
He held up his fist again and she covered it with her palm. Except, this time she didn't let go. He watched her face as she stared down at their hands. Her skin was dry as old parchment and bony as death, and as always he felt repulsed by the feel of her sickly touch. But he didn't pull away, couldn't bring himself to deprive her of her private little moment.
Of course, he had known what the outcome of their game would be. For years, she had always chosen paper on the first round, rock on the second, and paper on the third. And he knew why. It was an excuse for her to touch his hand. He wasn't stupid - he knew that she was shamelessly seeking out the comfort in his clutch.
And though she was a low-down, drug-addled prostitute he couldn't deny that he was seeking out something in her as well.
There was a slow, measured clapping coming from the Church. Both she and Karl looked up in surprise to find Ken leaning in the lit doorway, surrounded by a group of grinning village folk. At Ken's side stood a fine and stately woman: Mihaela, the village horse wrangler and an older vixen who was known for her infamous taste in younger men. The sight of her with her arm looped around Ken's waist and a pitying smile upon her tan face was enough to set the coils in Karl's stomach wriggling.
"And this is what he does to get his dick hard," Ken said in a drunken slur. "Sitting around with the village whore playing patty-cake in the trash." Ken paused, bent over upon his knees, and gave a moist heave. "Marianne," he said after spitting bile at the wall. "Get your sweet ass over here. Leave the zealot alone."
Marianne stared at Ken for a long time. Slowly, her head began to tilt back as she took in all six feet of him. Karl could see his brother as if through her eyes: wayward strands of hair hanging across his chest, lamplight from the doorway creating a halo around his emaciated body, pants strung low across his narrow hips. Such an odd vessel for a charismatic character!
Marianne pushed herself up and began to walk toward him as if in a trance. Though jealousy began to well in his stomach, Karl forced himself to watch as Ken looped his arm around Marianne's shoulders and nuzzled his nose against her neck, whispering words that Karl couldn't hear. Mihaela held on tight to his other arm and, not for the first time, Karl watched as his brother held on tight to everything that Karl could have ever wanted. Marianne glanced back once, met his eyes, and then quickly turned away. It was no matter, he told himself.
She was only a low-down, drug-addled prostitute anyway.
Ken pulled back and began to guide the two women away. One by one, the men from the congregation began to follow him and Karl realized with a hopeless sense of rage that he was out of cigarettes. The only pride that he had left came from the fact that this time he was able to keep the water from brimming in his eyes. Defeated, he lifted the crinkled filter to his dry lips and attempted to relight it, but to no avail
The sound of a match flaring behind him made him turn around, and he snickered at the withered face peering back at him from the dark.
"You're a good boy," the Old Hag said with a smile upon her wrinkled face. "Yes, a very good boy. One of the best. Better than him."
She was holding a cigarette out to him. Though her rather unexpected appearance unnerved him, the smell of burning tobacco was too tempting to ignore. There was no telling where she could have gotten it, seeing as he had never seen her smoke. Nonetheless, he plucked it from her bony fingers and placed it quickly in his mouth, taking a long drag to distract himself from the nervous tension riding his brow.
"Something funny?" He asked rather abruptly as she cackled beneath her staff. Her ability to appear at random no longer surprised him but there was something to her expression that unsettled him. There was mirth in her eyes as if she had told a joke that he was too slow to understand.
Only years later would he come to understand why her unwavering gaze made him feel so vulnerable.
"I saw what you did for that black-skinned thing," she croaked as she began to walk away, her staff crunching loudly in the snow. "A good boy, yes, a very good boy. Fortune favors the bold, wisdom favors the meek. Seek out those who understand your worth."
"Huh," he said as her figure began to mesh into the surrounding darkness. "Just what the hell are you yammering on about? Hey, are you listening to me? Explain yourself!"
She cackled again, the eerie sound of it traveling along the whistling wind. The various skeletal pieces clinked along her staff as she shuffled away. "Glory to Mother Miranda," she called back. "Glory to the sweet…the humble…the kind. You do understand, Karl, that you have always been in her favor?"
The succession of lights were crossing the sky in a diagonal again. He could see them rising in a sharp ascent above her head, like celestial bodies sprouted from her grayish mane. He had never been one for mysticism, as he had been raised as a loyal Christian son. And yet there had been something so surreal about the moment. He could have almost believed that she had been the one to conjure up the mysterious lights.
A nettling draft settled into his bones as he stood there hunched over, simply letting the snow gather along his shoulders as he exhaled his last bit of smoke into the rolling mist. She was long gone, as was the rest of the Black Church's congregation. Everyone else had returned home to their children and fireplaces and cozy beddings. But he was there, alone. It was an odd moment in which he realized that nothing was waiting for him at the end of the cold night: no woman, no child, no damned cigarettes. Just the rusted innards of the factory and a father whose madness had long since eclipsed his own mind. That, or the Potter's Field. There was that chatter again at the back of his mind, like two men bantering back and forth in a creepy, staticky language that he could not decipher. Urias cried out into the night but Karl was not afraid. He'd go there, to the home of the Lycans and the fortunate dead. It didn't matter.
He'd always found pleasure in the company of the damned anyway.